Early morning amorous birds poke
the wet spring air.
Dogs bark toward each other for reassurance.
******
ii.
Blossoms etched among tree-branches &
unnameable constellations—
Spring like the tide's playful skirt,
approaching, receding, arriving this
year like every in many ways unnoticed.
******
iii.
Is it the wind forlorn tonight
or something else?
Some call it spring.
Some call it April.
The flakes fell awhile on tree & road.
Things still kept rising & withering.
Some saw disturbance, anomaly.
The weeds, robbers, rebels, benign, knew better.
Longing for a touch, but only books on hand,
led me to a buzz,
to a buzz, & thoughts of you.
Thoughts of you, & care for all,
& thus greater care for the night.
News of a different kind, signal best caught
when avoiding eyes tell nothing true,
when the need for touch sucks hungry on the wind.
Thoughts of you while sitting wildly in my trainseat,
news I now have for you to be told another time,
ecstasy like a lonely dog's morning call to a friend,
wisdom & bliss of no daylight use, but I think I'll dream better tonight.
******
iv. The Fens, Boston, MA.
Marshgrass taller than a soldier,
taller than a summer's afternoon,
& geese blare from wet shadows,
the trees still bare, not summer yet,
barely spring, snow a few days back—
nature tells everything sooner or later—
The figures in the darkness scare me,
do not return my hello, & later in the
streetlamps even worse, I see their
blankness pass by my blankness—
but tonight I offered more—
we make Art because we have forgotten
how to tell the truth.
There was no sudden blade, the threat
never embodied. Or the threat I carried
with me all the while. My blankness. Your blankness.
******
v. (for Leni)
Love the aching puzzle, maybe the
supreme endless rule, a stream of
flicking diamonds, a ceaseless smoke,
a flu—
A puff of buzzing, the bumblebee awaits
me each day, to tremble my fears,
to remind me, as I retreat, of this
life's beginning in a watery sack of dreams—
Of reality's floorless foundation, of music's
invisible creating hand, of my beloved's
faraway nights of slow shuddering change,
of this life's stop in a buried gourd of bones—
I speak to you now, my beloved,
across miles of unconfessed wounds
atop years of pretty sister & smiling
parents:
Love the aching mystery crackles in the
veins, love the supreme noise rhythms
deeper the heart, love the pool of flicking
maybes, love the curing smoke, love the birthing pyre.
******
vi.
Moons & blooms & the windy wild
on a festive night—
the spring crackling with sap—
this electrical universe with its
weightless mysteries, depthless
puzzles, heightless frivolities—
I love all from the one heart which
bears me though I do not own—
one heart to love, one heart to honor,
one heart to serve, & one to abide
my pain & yours, to carry what
seems impossible, to weep more often
with the years, & thus keep slick &
moving, tonight, all which is pouring
into this moment, all which this moment
is releasing, heed the siren & the bullet
but press hands with that which is
vulnerable, notice patterns in the blooms
no accountable hand did wrought, when
matters of despair & direction
plague the day heed the softness
which insists & stays, note the bark
& the chirp which greet the day
fair or foul, the moon its constant
clear pronouncement, peer back into
dreams, their heart-swifting terrors
& gauzy ecstasies alike—
cry out, even softly, til something,
somewhere, responds.
******
vii.
The white shells of spring lie upon the grass,
she watches them closely, curious blue eyes,
I remark the spirits around us, she nods,
the shells are damp, the day's breath still
dewy, like this girl, potent things not quite
awake, dismayed & reassured by daylight & dream
alike. The white shells lie near an old stone
marker, his name was Obadiah, been here
nearly 300 years, she nods as I explain this
white rose was gift to me from a kind-faced
man, a token of appreciation from his chessboard
to my courtyard table leafed in pens. She curls
into my lap, trusting, smiling, wanting, but
also at peace. The trees above still fringed
with stars. Her hand strokes the white shells
til she sleeps. In her dream I come to her
not as a man but as a white rose, then a
white moon. Then a stilled reflection. Then a healing heart.
******
viii.
Spring blossoms, happiness, drift near,
nearer, & away, & some watch
steadily for carwrecks & ruined thighs—
This chalice of night offers, ecstasy,
offers more, for survivors of
daylight's drooling buzz, its shifty
promises, sign this, but in here please.
A bed. A breast. Bread. A box for
that embarrassment at the end.
Don't say no. Don't align with the night.
No binding pledges tattooed on cock
or clit. None. Just freedom. What the
barks & birdsong are all about. Music
for your wounds. A wise hand too.
Perhaps not. Spring blossoms, happiness,
near, nearer, & away. Did you ever
believe in these things? News of kings &
carwrecks, whatever. Happiness here. Still. Nearing.
******
ix.
We own less than the trees who
live in cradle, sunshine, & grave,
less than the birds who partner & play
with the air, less than the stars
who do not name themselves nor seek
a simple order.
A damp raven's feather drifting 'round an oak's rivened trunk.
A brittley starfall cascades a predawn snowdrift.
The rap-rap of icicles melting from a roof.
The art which eludes the clutching man.
The truth which eludes the clutching race.
Wordless emerge from the watery sack of dreams.
Wrapped with tears within the buried gourd of bones.
Droning cries in between for response. Someone. Anything.
Greatest mine in release, orgasm without
tag, reaching touch without
pulling grasp, the flood of healing light
into the life newly unknown,
the way music now stirs the feathers within,
& one's smile, now free, uncurls for miles & miles & days.
******
x. All glory passeth
The power raised, tonight, the mortal tyrant
within crushed, the eye roams over
pink cheeks, over any slip of flesh
revealed, the smoke of a smile, the blind
of a finger, the thrill of the power raised,
watching that which twitches & dances to
the power strummed, the tumult
in power stroked through oil, canvas
her body as she awaits her costume
tonight, her pleasure to conduit power
wildly, a split mattress, a splintered bush,
a fucked taboo, fuck me harder,
approach the trees themselves for
notice see if this power raised
is rain or shine or breeze or more
mewing from a race unfit to bear
its dreams, a few of them architects,
a handful musicians but shred so
easily by the power they raise a thousand
for one to briefly stroke—
But again tonight the power is raised,
the bastards about give way, nature
will tell everything if we cease to ask,
cease to ignore, the trees are ready,
the kittens, piranhas, typhoons, all ready,
power raised, again, tonight, no answers,
no puzzles, cherry blossoms, no walls,
spit in your hands & be ready to clobber
cosmos or facemask, the blood to equal,
to better one's dreams, to follow the lick
steadily from breast to belly, bush to back,
to give over to her tongue or his
tongue or their several touches, to release
to the deeper danger which hardly murmurs
at dusk—
fuck him fuck her fuck them when
the moon roars up from the horizon,
begin with tears, begin with flail,
the power is raised, the trees won't
notice the grind but for the sparks—
The trees know we call it love,
that we have a thousand languages
to shroud & queen just one word,
the sky is smacked with our love
frenzies & loss, the birds approach us,
instruct us to wait, to listen, to learn
how to give, how to receive, how identity
merges within the flock & coalesces
into the egg, dogs won't abandon
us, remembering love still—
the power raised perhaps even a
notice tonight by this electrical
universe, love the aching puzzle, no
puzzles, no questions, love a steam
of flicking diamonds, an endless smoke,
a flu, love the pool of flitful maybes,
love the curing smoke, love the birthing
pyre, love restraint, confusion, liberty,
the power raised tonight while all
awaits us—
Your blue eyes far tonight, as the trees
await, as I'm told ascend but do not yet,
something remains here, in the strews & the
beams, something remains, no puzzles, no
answers, neither tattered nor invincible—
Something remains, some string of notes
blue-eyed & blonde, something to
explain the gleam & the pitch, something
the trees & sky & dimensions many will
allow me, something important, a steam, a
smoke, a flu, the power raised,
tonight, the power stroked, the power
strummed, the mortal tyrant within again
crushed, no answers, no puzzles, &
my eventual swoop into you, & a greater music, & a greater silence.
******
xi. For Leni, with hope
Several days ago, on gleaming sands, you'd
lain, a numb frosting of heat, an idle
smiling mind, a book of beauty, a palm
of green, a rag of poems from a friend.
A child again, winged, jeweled,
smirked with hope.
Leaving this feeling called home, you
returned toward the unloved place filled
with your dresses, keys, & candles, still hearing
the ocean's creamy buzzing. Skin still murmuring with freedom.
A child's shadow again, turbulence, vodka,
the amnesia of a wide plastic seat.
You now hold a dazed pigeon in your hands,
wings able, mind crooked, a mending
you'll see to, a process you know, despair
the within preacher of a tattered world.
The child & her shadow beset with unbeaten urge
to warm & be warmed, release, near the hidden gold.
Creature will care for creature tonight,
healing begins as confession of need,
heats mingle, fingers stroke feathers,
each raising the where, how, & why of home.
******
xii.
My blankness. Your blankness. The
company of men & women a cacophony
of arguments, how to live, how to live,
how to live, & why. Life a beautiful fizzle
between this blankness & that
blankness. A lick. A taste. A squeal.
No more. Perhaps again life an endless
stroke along arousing veins & flesh,
a set of she-lips opening wider & wider
because the need to be taken understood
as the need to be shared. Our beat
our blood our cum in my mouth as I
kiss you & you taste me tasting you.
Life maybe a scripture to be
puzzled, what figure sums two pine & a shell?
A finger dabbed in red runs her lips
to lips, paints nether & further
she wants to bite it, she wants it
to continue, yes a scripture, sins &
footnotes equated with starlight
& fancy. The animals are merely our
rides. Dinner. Fun. Or a war. Principles
aligned with cannons. So many babies
& square feet per victory. My blankness.
Your blankness. The crooked chimes
& the stray pigeons' nest on the old
porch with shattered windows.
Something to puff slow. Mellow slow, man.
Count the beats. Muse on the blood.
It's all good. Let it flow.
Hunger but always beautifully.
Puppies to feed. Find the drums.
Slackass cosmic mysticism. Grow the
bud & smile. Or power. Moonlight.
Orgasm. Water. Blood & land.
Art more fierce than any other
thought. Art the thought of Godd
& the thought of no-Godd. Art
til she trembles, til she stills, til
she understands "just fucking pose" as all
the scripture & governance she will
ever need. Til she understands that
the reward is reciprocation. Symbiosis.
Worship it but do not touch until you
understand. It is yours. Ours. Say it.
Til she understands nude play in green
fields is worship. Til she remembers.
Art not the object it appears. Art
the release. Art the pyre. Art
the last drop never quite swallowed.
Art the hardest nipple. Art the
brave book of blank pages. Wear this.
Just fucking pose. My blankness.
Your blankness. Wear this too.
Just fucking pose. My turn next.
Our turn last. How to live, how to
live. How to live & why.
Her hair red in every dream I've ever
had. Blue eyes of flaming stone.
Knows how to pose. Knows what she tastes
like to me. Knows. Every poem a poke
in her pretty. Wants it rougher.
Always wants it rougher. Make me
cry & I will stay. My blankness. Your
blankness. Make me beg. Make me
fizzle. Scratch my fur. Raw my leaves.
Claw my starlight. Listen to the
music that trickles out. Blankness.
Blankness. Mark me with your
nonsense, your artist's need to name
& know. You'll never get deep enough.
You will never get the last drop.
******
xiii.
Unto the master who makes butterflies
from fire, his blue eyes of flaring
stone urge leap the gap!
"Become the gap! Let the power atwist
thine hands leap thee!"
One emerges. A trembly dream. Now two,
neither confirming the other. Then
six, breaching the mind's moats.
"Let it go! Let it all go!" he cries,
flicking them out like a heavy cloud its wet prize.
Butterflies from flame fill the sky,
bidding me come, let it go, bring
nothing, especially her. Nothing.
"You've become dark & dry!" the master
shouts. "Deformed! Unable to love!"
Butterflies of every color, coaxing, urging
me. The beginning of a new freedom.
Shed sinews & blue fancies.
"This universe piss! Blight! A shill
by stars! Hustling flatulence!"
Tick-ticking of the day. Beat-beating
of the night. Dogs bark madly as
my fingers rise up.
I look back at her where she waits.
She nods. She smiles. She turns away.
The master is gone, his butterflies
now dawn. Beat. Tick. Beat. Tick.
She remains. My music. My choice.
******
xiv. For Leni, Nine Months Known
I looked back at her where she waited,
the midnight a mulling blue, furred fingers
of cloud, weeds & leaves still tapping
from a rain. She nodded. She smiled.
We knew each other already in dreams
& silence. A beat. A beat. Now three.
She turned away. Still, thoughts of her. For her
news tonight, has her healing begun?
A release, a scream, crazy blood?
Crazy blood, my love, breathing again
the coarse, clean air? Thoughts of
you, beggings of mind for your news,
for your beauty I feel like a remembered
breeze, love you enough to let go,
love you enough to hold on?
Touch me with beauty again, I'll tap you
with balance anew. Beat. Beat. A third.
Many. Love stretches tonight from readiness to regret.
******
xv. Letting Go, Holding On
A beat. A beat. Now three. Blonde music
& beating Art. The finest song raised
from love the supreme noise. Lillies
in my muse's hair, sunshine trailing her
fair clean skin. Lillies. Daisies. Kisses
& ghosts & hopes of kisses. What art thee?
My music. My choice. What art thee?
A channel. A chance. What art thee?
Chalice & change. Letting go, holding on.
A beat. A beat. Now many. Blonde music,
ragged night, beauty the supreme noise,
finest song for my muse twined of ocean
dusk & kisses & ghosts of hope. Letting go,
holding on. What art thee? The supreme
noise, crown of knowing, milk of mystery.
A beat. Again. So many. Smiling, burn
this paper flower to ash.
******
xvi.
I make Art because I have forgotten
how to tell the truth. Truth of a
remembered memory of a hand, feeling
what an emotion's emotion of a face is
like, how hell & sunsets are adjectivally
potent, lingual strategies, a murk shilled
as matrix, a twinge called dream, damp
hot air hustled as rain, basis for
music, the lies of any color summoned,
the words cock & cunt & fuck used
like ideas, you have no breasts
to inspire me, nothing, I'd gain more
from stripping a tree, my beloved trees,
& burning down the ancient cemetery
where I confess little to nobody,
I make Art because I have forgotten
how to tell the truth. Confessions &
damnation. Meaning culled from lifeless bones.
******
xvii.
I don't believe in the god.
I don't believe in the goddess.
There is no truth that does not give
way to another, no love with neither
beginning nor end, no pain that reigns
& then diminishes, no gesture of an open
hand that, once offered, can be retrieved.
******
xviii.
Only that which is lost will never
truly leave.
Scars of smiles. Armies of fantasies
of brown days atwist with she-bitch
or he-bitch or they-bitch.
Bones of groans. The secret to know,
young sparkling artists many, is
that the uglier music feels truer,
thighs are meant to be throttled, minds
to be straightened. Hearts do not heal.