tin can twisting.
crystalline tears.
to tell fools gold from true gold
stick a pin deep inside.
crumbling or breaking
are each a bad sign.
tin can twisting.
crystalline tears
August 25, 2011
rich temptation
a chamber cupped the
stolen reason, stolen
seeded seductive bloom
of ripened luscious, reclining plump
mortal apples that swooned,
and shone. fleshy curves
and swollen pome:
whispered rainfall
exposed rouge
the sonants of desire.
versed encounters.
scent, fingers tongue
opened to sweetness and
substance and
the inner forms ran juice
spoken with pillowed, spellbound sounds.
spun around the edges of fondness
betrayal and fidelity were
double hunger. double thirst.
together composing the undersong
refrain: bite in bite in to rich temptation.
stolen reason, stolen
seeded seductive bloom
of ripened luscious, reclining plump
mortal apples that swooned,
and shone. fleshy curves
and swollen pome:
whispered rainfall
exposed rouge
the sonants of desire.
versed encounters.
scent, fingers tongue
opened to sweetness and
substance and
the inner forms ran juice
spoken with pillowed, spellbound sounds.
spun around the edges of fondness
betrayal and fidelity were
double hunger. double thirst.
together composing the undersong
refrain: bite in bite in to rich temptation.
August 20, 2011
nighttime swimming
soft water at twilight
then black ink pooled.
pitch brushes wave brushes submerge.
soft water talking alone to the shore.
soft water talking alone to the shore. split
bonds feel bodied in cool. be weightless.
howl razors and slash open the night:
cause the turbid sky to clear. too
the moon falling stars. too those
grieving trees cant, their tips bleeding
sticky weeping thickly. sorrowing a
rapturous flow
soft water talking alone to the shore. alone
to small pebbles dry dirt. beam bright
midnight evolving dawn calling birds
and the blazing sun fervor hot day.
melt leavings. melt spurn and dive
into sluice under surge
rushing swells
soft water talking alone to the shore.
freeze fresh and blue lips and blue hands. feet.
fire dwindled red died rusted relics inside
ember and finally. ash. leftways abandon
and leftways just, bare and crackling.
and quiet
then black ink pooled.
pitch brushes wave brushes submerge.
soft water talking alone to the shore.
soft water talking alone to the shore. split
bonds feel bodied in cool. be weightless.
howl razors and slash open the night:
cause the turbid sky to clear. too
the moon falling stars. too those
grieving trees cant, their tips bleeding
sticky weeping thickly. sorrowing a
rapturous flow
soft water talking alone to the shore. alone
to small pebbles dry dirt. beam bright
midnight evolving dawn calling birds
and the blazing sun fervor hot day.
melt leavings. melt spurn and dive
into sluice under surge
rushing swells
soft water talking alone to the shore.
freeze fresh and blue lips and blue hands. feet.
fire dwindled red died rusted relics inside
ember and finally. ash. leftways abandon
and leftways just, bare and crackling.
and quiet
August 18, 2011
golden and blush
it is knowing golden and blush. those.
earthy touch and tender
storms and drifts and
petaled weather and
in the attic feel the quiver of
lush
blossoms unfolding inside.
earthy touch and tender
storms and drifts and
petaled weather and
in the attic feel the quiver of
lush
blossoms unfolding inside.
turn yourself toward me
turn yourself toward me
with palms open
and exposed
we will weave our fingers
together
make intricate tapestries
we will hold
forever
in deep shade we
remember
with palms open
and exposed
we will weave our fingers
together
make intricate tapestries
we will hold
forever
in deep shade we
remember
August 15, 2011
sultry tymbals calling
in her darkest dress
of pressed ache and fever,
she clung she embraced the willow
with naked aspect and
faded inflorescence.
blind but
emerged. from the dirt. exited with nothing,
leaving a yellowed space behind, and
the sap she had nursed from cracked cups.
the tunneling to next had been with small tired
claws and tarnished spoons.
pale and dedicated
she ground toward the singing
and the click, and ground toward the chorus,
the madly swirling chorus,
the deafening orchestral play delivered of
the male, the male
made musical, enchantment
resonating from the airy space of his guts.
identify the song, wingflick and follow.
he sang. she moved her wings. sing wing sing wing.
closer and closer. sing sing wing. wing
the surge the waves of uncomplex.
match mate up and down
a sauntering
a jauntering
a mechanized
mystery,
clocklike connection
ununderstood.
after the seduction
there are larvaed nests and
completion. under the white willow
there is the braided shadow and beam
and she fastens to something bigger.
this is the brutalest cadence.
of pressed ache and fever,
she clung she embraced the willow
with naked aspect and
faded inflorescence.
blind but
emerged. from the dirt. exited with nothing,
leaving a yellowed space behind, and
the sap she had nursed from cracked cups.
the tunneling to next had been with small tired
claws and tarnished spoons.
pale and dedicated
she ground toward the singing
and the click, and ground toward the chorus,
the madly swirling chorus,
the deafening orchestral play delivered of
the male, the male
made musical, enchantment
resonating from the airy space of his guts.
identify the song, wingflick and follow.
he sang. she moved her wings. sing wing sing wing.
closer and closer. sing sing wing. wing
the surge the waves of uncomplex.
match mate up and down
a sauntering
a jauntering
a mechanized
mystery,
clocklike connection
ununderstood.
after the seduction
there are larvaed nests and
completion. under the white willow
there is the braided shadow and beam
and she fastens to something bigger.
this is the brutalest cadence.
...and the greatest of these is love.
on a recent flight to germany i was seated next to someone whom i overheard saying, into a cell phone as we were waiting to take off, that no, cocktails had not yet been proffered, followed by a sigh of disgust. i knew at that moment we would be friends.
we wound up partaking of many cocktails, and staying up all night talking. finally the flight attendants were just handing the drinks to us as we approached the galley, so they could sleep on and not have to deal with the credit card machine. which was handy, because these teeny tiny little drinks ran 7 bucks each. anyway, often laughing hysterically, and between repeated tipsy attempts to name all seven dwarfs ("lumpy?") we hit upon many subjects of great import, including defining "the great love" of a lifetime. naturally, in discussing this paramount topic deeply and profoundly, if not wetly, we elaborated with our personal histories, from our thoughts on our tender or disastrous first loves, to our older, wiser understanding of love today: and of what constitutes the love of one's life. (naming the kids as the great love didn't count--that's a cheater's way out.)
wonderful they are, confessions. it was like being in the 5th grade again, lying in a circle in leah carter's back yard, playing truth and dare in our sleeping bags under the stars. i have always loved the thrilling charm of that, but this time it was dare-to-tell-the-truth-every-time, which is probably the adult version of the game. not a lot of room to dance like a chicken in a plane, and everyone flying had probably already seen a naked body dashing about; bolder it is to truly reveal innermost selves. sometimes revealing the truth is the riskiest tact. (of course: not so much when the witness is also fairly anonymous and is someone one will most likely--if one does not correspond and eventually go together to that jazz club downtown--never see or hear from again.) so now, weeks later, i have not written to continue the conversation, but have been relaughing the night, and rethinking the subject.
should the love of our lives be our first love? the person with whom we experienced our first kiss? (no way on the kiss thing). the first person with whom we felt that the "we" could last forever, except it didn't? the person one marries? first marries? marries last? the person who sets one free?
i have my ideas on this but since i am not sitting in a darkened plane next to a heretofore complete stranger, confessing, i hesitate to elaborate. ply me with gin and tonics and call me the queen of arlington, in the realm of virginia, and i may change my mind, of course. (it's been done before.) but, the question remains, and is a pretty one, for me. if you have some insight as to the nature of what constitutes the greatest love of a lifetime, you can help inform the ruminations by sharing, completely anonymously, right here. i like the memories that come to mind as i consider past/present lovers, and the ways they have influenced my life for the better. or not (which person/people would not be in the running for greatest love of life or whatever we will call it--though, even if bitterer, there is value to be had from those cads, too.)
just that thought. for now.
we wound up partaking of many cocktails, and staying up all night talking. finally the flight attendants were just handing the drinks to us as we approached the galley, so they could sleep on and not have to deal with the credit card machine. which was handy, because these teeny tiny little drinks ran 7 bucks each. anyway, often laughing hysterically, and between repeated tipsy attempts to name all seven dwarfs ("lumpy?") we hit upon many subjects of great import, including defining "the great love" of a lifetime. naturally, in discussing this paramount topic deeply and profoundly, if not wetly, we elaborated with our personal histories, from our thoughts on our tender or disastrous first loves, to our older, wiser understanding of love today: and of what constitutes the love of one's life. (naming the kids as the great love didn't count--that's a cheater's way out.)
wonderful they are, confessions. it was like being in the 5th grade again, lying in a circle in leah carter's back yard, playing truth and dare in our sleeping bags under the stars. i have always loved the thrilling charm of that, but this time it was dare-to-tell-the-truth-every-time, which is probably the adult version of the game. not a lot of room to dance like a chicken in a plane, and everyone flying had probably already seen a naked body dashing about; bolder it is to truly reveal innermost selves. sometimes revealing the truth is the riskiest tact. (of course: not so much when the witness is also fairly anonymous and is someone one will most likely--if one does not correspond and eventually go together to that jazz club downtown--never see or hear from again.) so now, weeks later, i have not written to continue the conversation, but have been relaughing the night, and rethinking the subject.
should the love of our lives be our first love? the person with whom we experienced our first kiss? (no way on the kiss thing). the first person with whom we felt that the "we" could last forever, except it didn't? the person one marries? first marries? marries last? the person who sets one free?
i have my ideas on this but since i am not sitting in a darkened plane next to a heretofore complete stranger, confessing, i hesitate to elaborate. ply me with gin and tonics and call me the queen of arlington, in the realm of virginia, and i may change my mind, of course. (it's been done before.) but, the question remains, and is a pretty one, for me. if you have some insight as to the nature of what constitutes the greatest love of a lifetime, you can help inform the ruminations by sharing, completely anonymously, right here. i like the memories that come to mind as i consider past/present lovers, and the ways they have influenced my life for the better. or not (which person/people would not be in the running for greatest love of life or whatever we will call it--though, even if bitterer, there is value to be had from those cads, too.)
just that thought. for now.
prufrock's--or my--confession
a friend wrote this in closing:
sii sempre grande
and the trouble with my rusty italian or maybe my love of words or maybe just with me but here i go
is that in this case grande could mean "great", or it could mean "big". now, these things are similar
but they are also different and each meaning could have appropriate and useful bearing, could be a secret message, synchronous and prophetic, a symbolic subtitle to help me make sense of the story of life right now, that i could recognize. and treasure.
but, which grande. should i write back and ask? "did you mean big or did you mean great?" and that is ridiculous and not just because either definition would be wholly satisfying. so i should just choose. but because each is equally satisfying as the other, and so there is no clear cut choice which should be made, i am left debating not only which meaning to embrace, but now whether or not i should write and ask, and in the end i realize through the insane focus on word meaning and forced fortunes that what i am really asking is:
do i dare to eat a peach?
and this is the crux of it. as usual.
sii sempre grande
and the trouble with my rusty italian or maybe my love of words or maybe just with me but here i go
is that in this case grande could mean "great", or it could mean "big". now, these things are similar
but they are also different and each meaning could have appropriate and useful bearing, could be a secret message, synchronous and prophetic, a symbolic subtitle to help me make sense of the story of life right now, that i could recognize. and treasure.
but, which grande. should i write back and ask? "did you mean big or did you mean great?" and that is ridiculous and not just because either definition would be wholly satisfying. so i should just choose. but because each is equally satisfying as the other, and so there is no clear cut choice which should be made, i am left debating not only which meaning to embrace, but now whether or not i should write and ask, and in the end i realize through the insane focus on word meaning and forced fortunes that what i am really asking is:
do i dare to eat a peach?
and this is the crux of it. as usual.
August 14, 2011
instar
jostled, i thought: well.
fall then stand and it's
all cyclical. round around and round.
so push again. see clear
i coax and uncover me.
evolve improbably:
shoulders broad. arms of every war.
of a universe and
entire generation of it so
past that lurid, climb. crawl
to the white willows
ablution and ablution and ablution. then
listen: there is a sky
at the end and at the start.
June 13, 2011
dream it
we were in austria
on the crest of something so high
and we looked out over mountain tops.
we saw: our skirts were cascades
they were alps, and olympics.
there was a ma rainey sky
and those virgins' veils below.
snow and edelweiss and bitter cherry
and old streets i know.
brick, and black. dream it.
time and maps blend, overlap.
we see the same things.
we feel the same way.
on the crest of something so high
and we looked out over mountain tops.
we saw: our skirts were cascades
they were alps, and olympics.
there was a ma rainey sky
and those virgins' veils below.
snow and edelweiss and bitter cherry
and old streets i know.
brick, and black. dream it.
time and maps blend, overlap.
we see the same things.
we feel the same way.
June 3, 2011
the act of removal
that letter post has been deleted by me.
but on my mind is still the same: what are the artifacts of love? what do we abandon, when we fall in love, and what do we retain, when it all falls apart? what is left. when. what evidence is there of any of it.
and: in that indescribable, in either fall, what do we gain.
this was not an autobiography, or at least not one autobiography. this was the expression of that humanhuman twist--ever around the finest of dynamic rods running between the additive and subtractive; between the acts of robbing and giving. between the acts of holding on, and simple unfastening.
and this post has been deleted. by me. it's still a story, if you can read it.
but on my mind is still the same: what are the artifacts of love? what do we abandon, when we fall in love, and what do we retain, when it all falls apart? what is left. when. what evidence is there of any of it.
and: in that indescribable, in either fall, what do we gain.
this was not an autobiography, or at least not one autobiography. this was the expression of that humanhuman twist--ever around the finest of dynamic rods running between the additive and subtractive; between the acts of robbing and giving. between the acts of holding on, and simple unfastening.
and this post has been deleted. by me. it's still a story, if you can read it.
May 8, 2011
the rule of 15s
tiny teeth, pink tongue
tasting dirty snow.
trying out dirty snow
and the savoring of inside out rain.
the soft and cooling spikes,
the torrential seared mist:
feed on it. try it out.
tiny teeth, pink tongue
grind and swallow
from the far edge of belief
the jumbled jumble of matter
embedded.
try it out. fifteen times,
try it out.
tasting dirty snow.
trying out dirty snow
and the savoring of inside out rain.
the soft and cooling spikes,
the torrential seared mist:
feed on it. try it out.
tiny teeth, pink tongue
grind and swallow
from the far edge of belief
the jumbled jumble of matter
embedded.
try it out. fifteen times,
try it out.
April 30, 2011
an open letter to readers in the distant, distant future
this post has been deleted by me.
but on my mind is still the same: what are the artifacts of love? what do we abandon, when we fall in love, and what do we retain, when it all falls apart? what is left. when. what evidence is there of any of it.
and: in that indescribable, in either fall, what do we gain.
this was not an autobiography, or at least not one autobiography. this was the expression of that humanhuman twist--ever around the finest of dynamic rods running between the additive and subtractive; between the acts of robbing and giving. between the acts of holding on, and simple unfastening.
and this post has been deleted. by me. it's still a story, if you can read it.
April 25, 2011
and then came abberation
stale bread scowls.
the taste of brackish water. push push
repeat. breathe in breathe out. brack gasp
repeat.
salt drops somersaults.
freckles magnified. drink.
breathe in breathe out. push brack. blink.
stale bread scowls.
cut the crust. feel brackish water.
push push
repeat.
sip dry liquid. sip wet air. sip summer without grass.
jaw hurtling body making
not stopping tears.
damp gaze turn away. turn away
repeat. cut the crust off. the stale.
jumpeye trace a separate tide.
map a separate
dilution
the taste of brackish water. push push
repeat. breathe in breathe out. brack gasp
repeat.
salt drops somersaults.
freckles magnified. drink.
breathe in breathe out. push brack. blink.
stale bread scowls.
cut the crust. feel brackish water.
push push
repeat.
sip dry liquid. sip wet air. sip summer without grass.
jaw hurtling body making
not stopping tears.
damp gaze turn away. turn away
repeat. cut the crust off. the stale.
jumpeye trace a separate tide.
map a separate
dilution
April 21, 2011
she gave golden lilies
there were
two years of forgetting.
between forgetting and forgetting again.
mama soaks and strokes
those baby feet. coo baby. coo.
and tender touch. sigh, tender sigh.
mama lines up a row
of ten soldiers.
four will fall. the smallest.
they will fall. this day
snap. and cry.
who cries. slim determined hands
twist. wrench. break.
beyond the wicker frame
break.
tiny arches. tiny toes.
folded.
ten feet of warm water or animal blood soaked
bandages. to stunt growth. decompose recompose.
blot the stink.
a decade of unwrap. wrap again. wrap again.
delicate things: power, beauty.
totter. perch.
two years of forgetting.
between forgetting and forgetting again.
think: once, were they tickled? kiss kiss bitten?
those baby feet. coo baby. coo.
and tender touch. sigh, tender sigh.
mama lines up a row
of ten soldiers.
four will fall. the smallest.
they will fall. this day
snap. and cry.
who cries. slim determined hands
twist. wrench. break.
beyond the wicker frame
break.
tiny arches. tiny toes.
think: these are pliable bones.
think: fold back to the dice and under and wrap.
tightly.
bandages. to stunt growth. decompose recompose.
blot the stink.
focus: tight.
focus think: old agonies are just
our stories.
a decade of unwrap. wrap again. wrap again.
do the toenails curl, and cut? hope those toes fall off.
are you septic.
focus.
think: focus:
there are 48 documented sexual pleasures
these doll feet will experience. or satisfy.
these will be rare. erotic hooves. ecstasy.
focus: in embroidered silk slippers, golden lilies.
focus: four inches of broken made from nerve and
sweat. and determined sacrifice.
totter. perch.
think: she will dance
upon a lotus shaped platform.
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