feathers and wax mythical ambition to conquer the skies

.

I was flying across the burning desert.


.

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.

.

...


me identifico.


.

.

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.

.

.






Stones Throw From Heaven





.

.


in the belly of the whale.


on the street of wasted steps.


.

.


uf.



.

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

silver shards of splinter sunlight

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.

.

ひらりひらり 花びら舞い 止め処ない時のひとひらごと

.

あなたがもし　いなくなれば　私寂しいからね

.

.

.... . . . .

. . . :

:":

;;,,.,.,.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

88********((())))));;;;;...>>>>>,,,<<<<<<

///......kkkkknmn,/./.=[][][][[]][][][][][][][][][][][][][';';';';';';;.;.,;,.;.:>:>:>">"<"<>?

.

.


dark side of the moon


.

.




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

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.

.

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.

.

---------- 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.

ALL I NEED NOW IS THE STARS, SHINING STARS DISTANT SUNS AND MOONS AFAR WONDER, WONDER WHERE YOU ARE

we are all antípodas.


.

.

dancing in my head.

.

“I could hear clouds emptying themselves of their contents landing on an indifferent earth; and I could hear the silence and I could hear the dark night gobbling it up, and it in turn being gobbled up by the light of yet another day”

the void

.

.


pide un deseo.






.

.



Let the wind carry me.



.

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.

.