Thursday, December 22, 2011
Violet belly song baby.
Violet belly song baby.
Some baby.
Some body.
Worldview in baby blues.
Baby Constellations.
baby stars baby wars
Baby love.
My baby love.
Baby Echoes in the baby chambers of our baby hearts.
step soft,
our dream lies here.
Baby grandpas up above,
Us below.
Watch us grow.
I see the moon
and the moon sees me.
Maybe baby moon baby
Maybe moon foxing on it
moon manning in it.
Maybe baby. Maybe.
Maybe not.
Maybe self-important flower petal
some planet flower spinning
on some flowered planet
all its own, all alone
Or amongst us wildest ones
wrestling endless fields of sun
of common, dirty, earth trash ones.
pepper in the edible and pink up the cities
all the pink moments in all the pink mouths
all the longest nights of all the newest years,
all the longest kisses
all the longest bombs gone out the longest windows
all blown out of baby darkness into baby light
Out the spinning earth clock in the baby belly,
Spits the Violet belly of the song baby out.
and he lay down in the grass and cried.
.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
.
marco gets mentioned about his dancing,
ecstatic trembler approaching edge of sound barrier
the event horizon has
tea parties underwater
under where
there was the unremembered conversation (oral tradition),
swallowed by centuries
of
opaque circling,
pennies swirled in spinning cups
taste same
a tin or copper
I think something’s between us,
the fog on my glasses, the rain mist on my lenses
like water leaking up through the soles of my shoes,
sss got nothing to do with you.
ten hours broken into two sets of five,
you gotta try
can’t let it bring down.
You.
Look so beautiful today.
It is so good to see again.
I’ll call about that Hungarian,
still have number,
were wrong about the Finish film, was two in the kitchen,
melancholia of the black sun,
Really,
Just so beautiful.
.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Disimular
I wanted to move without saying anything
no solo es sospechoso
but I was white and I was marble and I was writing on the wall
and I wandered with my hand upon a surface and I pressed
the purple sandals in the sand.
Leaning out for
Night shade
hiding on the island of the other
On the island run from
the ghost of
Run run the island and the waves.
white face of
One with the eyes open and unopen at random run some width of skin
It is sand
Counted in eyes open and unopen
In the water aunque no le salia lagrimas
Or hunted hunting spirits in the sea
whipped by the salt water light
As the breeze
None and a dinning room, the table cloth, the linens, and the folds
Underwater
The white wet sheet
Island of an island wave
Wave the island from the shore body of the sea
sea bodies On the flame of the tide
On the underside
on undead skin
Some spirit whipped tremble
On tide, on red tide and on taste of water
on city under water
Lost like thought comes to edge.
Sometimes the spirit runs off in another
Some spirit runs on
Away on a wave
On the underwater roof
Of an underwater
ancient search
for Heroes in seaweed
Spirit greens
little toy boat toy cars and toy water colors bleed
And dilute
And drift away
.
I tried to hold still as I contemplated the magnitude of the poem
And I had to tell it to myself and it felt far away but it had to come.
Even with the red wine in the cursing cursing in the vein in the river of the djurdja straights
Would I go
Hamamitsu
Where are you? What is it there?
And what when speaking in tongues to understand
I believed in the current underneath the skin connecting all of us to everyone and to eachother and the repetition of souls and he asked me about the specificity of life and when I really like him
Today all today while the other one spoke to me and I wanted to pop his ego and I didn’t want his help anymore in any way at all because they are all just so egotistical and everything is about making them feel like they know it more.
I could be a small thing in a small space in a small world but god put me in this body and when I am drowning in the metro in Tokyo and the ants are rushing all around me ready to carry my body away
My body is away anyway
And I am a small
Invisible
But yellow mark on the wall,
My body is tall.
When he speaks to me in tongues and I see some of my thought on his mind
And can sense a relation
What then?
What of it then?
The one in the small body was loud and I thought of j. cassid and I really really like her and her work and everything she represented in the possibilities of the worlds before me, and max and his subjectivities and I wonder if you remember when you held up my face and you pressed it into yours and you stood there kissing me in one kiss for minutes like you were calling me from where I’d been before and you wondered where I’d been
And I wondered too because obviously, I repeat, obviously, in a glaring blaze before my brain and my mind which I know to be what I have and I hold true to it and sometimes you just have to let yourself go but not this time because obviously I was a drift and a float and free free from the form that was around me and you tried to pull me down and the soft blueness of the way you pulled me down lay like a shadow and will lie like one too for years to come because everything, even the way you skipped yourself like a stone and you opened my mouth and I breathed into yours and I ate the chocolate shape of your mouth eaten by mine
And you let go
And the separation
Is the beginning of an apple bit into pieces impossible to puzzle into one.
Someday when you are old enough to note the variation in the wood and the rondure of the world,
the ocean that is an abyss becomes a connection
And I sailed and I watched her sailing
And how she fired up those eggs
and it was a dream
and it was all in a dream
and it was all in a dream I'd forgotten
even as we asked about it
and knew
in a sensitive way
that it was there and it would always be there
always all along.
.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
maybe, don't you know that it is true,
they will throw you to the lions if you haven't got a clue
maybe, don't you know that you are free
from the shackles you've been locked in
and the land of make believe
pretty little lullaby
maybe, when the end is drawing near,
we can paint a pretty picture of that special kind of fear
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Teethless christinas.
I was in an elevator shooting through the roof
to the great glass and it was the
Universe there
Spinning itself below
Breath fog
Where
There is no there there,
When I tried to think.
And what about that foggy glass,
Which is like a skin between realities
That you can peel into a thousand different coats
Oh foamy foamy foamy love
Of thee
I bathe while there in the clear field of
The blue light of nothing
Of magic waters
of Felicia , my magic queen,
And crazy love
Is crazy crazy love
And we are mal de amor
Hiding in fountains
to stop from throwing rocks
At Galatea and
her lovers
And the green nypmhs
And their glass eyes that beckon us to kiss
Our own reflections in the rivers
Are the seaweeds of our
Tresses,
Mine mingle
In the wind,
I am a vamp
And a fetish
And you would have to skin me
Before I’d give up
The sun
Felismena la bucolica, idyllic, sick of shepard quibbling,
abysmal self-indulgent
Swan kisses
Knocks off her own socks and
Walks to the city.
.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
I was in the morning.
.
I was in the morning
And I think that parts of you were there, too,
Sometimes I could feel you.
And we touched
Some times.
I was in the morning and I was,
Like almost always,
Strewn about, my eyes
Too big for my stomach.
In the morning
Before the light of day
Before the dawn.
Some of us,
From our dreams,
We ask ourselves.
We have to put a limit
On attachment
And dress our selves
In the suits
Of the day.
And others will tell us
What is up
sometimes
And we will have to bow our heads
And get it
And grow.
Some of us are full of potential
But we leak
Like water
From cupped
Hands.
Think of the shimmering
Flash of light
Shining out from behind the filigree,
From the watermarks,
From our birthmarks,
From underneath our skin,
And you can deal
In an honest way
Sometimes
With other people in the morning,
Sometimes
With your self,
And sometimes even
With the combination of the two,
overlapping in each other.
In the slaughterhouse
They will wake you
And juxtapose an image
On your face
And you will be read
And you will say something
And what you meant to say
Will be like the little white bird,
You filled her with water
And that holy water
poured from her breast,
From the ruptures in her wings,
spilling meaning
like watermelon seeds and stickiness and
pink juice
and in the morning it flew
and you could see it,
like a golden bird,
going.
.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Tue, 25 Oct 2011 15:23:05 -0500
Subject: luisa at the umbral of the mountain
"mare"
to race
myself
we bet ourselves about my gallop
thighs
the breadth of my quarters
their haunch
the wind capacity of their exhausted
heaving,
lapped, tracked,
clinked glass
grated pant
collapsing.
you
Hand flutter
the hooves away,
brush opaque salt
off forgotten manes,
lip
for sugar.
Skip. Skip.
Skip stone skips
my short leap
of wanting
of one bridge
another
stone and beads
to link
drop
hop tranquil
whip
a rein
to separate
my island skins my arching
garland spine a
bomb
colored petal difference
because de noche soy
because
De noche soy
the mermaid at the mast,
a monster of a song called
shipwrecked flotsam jetsam
your water colored tumbling from
the mountain .
geographical rips in hide
of ancient delusion
How to tiptoe on the moccasin sky?
Threshold soy
tu streak
of coral lightning
my dividing
cielo mare
of
wound
of limb bolt wants around
to know my spirit limbs
I kick your heels
I spur your tuck until
I run
your lock
and soy
my own
opacity
eclipse me
into mare
of night
of self
de noche
soy
myself
to race
me.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
dancing in my head.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Dream Train Runaway
.
Dream train
and the dark atlantic sea
shell.
It smells like dry fish.
And dead fish.
And drift wood.
Wood drift in bird shape.
With drift writing on sand wall
palm stutterings before paintings
before pictographings,
avant la lettre
sand scratch.
I tried to write you from the dream train.
I stood on the platform
hurried machine as it sped
swimming my signals
I tried to reach you
the ripples
of my water legs
kicking petals and beams
of outer space indigo light
I sail through the black night
and bed down
where soft down
softly lays
my head and spirit aches.
Dream train
You are a runaway.
Catch me, please,
if you can, in my own arms,
if they can,
catch me please.
.