xxxi. Flight

There are places yet this world that
 do not dream & wake as two.
Some of them like pockets of perfection,
 clear globules falling a long long ever
from sky to world.

Yet what of one when falls & strikes?
 What is the fallout from smashed
globular perfection? The Boy I found
 in The Tangled Gate was one.

He had not lived in the perfection
 but was more clumsily contrived from
a later dream. Given the flesh
 of old sad memories over his clear frail bones

He was hungry when I found him, terrified
 of me, neither quite Beast nor Boy really.
I fed him from my Blue Suitcse, what
 I carried these long perambles through the
Gate, when maps & dream studies wold
 leave me growling drily for meat.

He studied the Suitcase’s color, calmed,
 his eyes a like color of the sky’s, though
I thought him half-blind. I fed him &
 he followed me, a scrawny touch-starved
mongrel. Touch how we talked eventually,
 or hmmming when he felt brave.

His terrors not of me, nor the Gate
 we traveled, but the voices, distant
voices, not words, more clicks & noises.
 He let us listen together, & they smoothed,
they too now hmmm’d. First language
 of the world, made its first songs. A balm
to all, a conduit, we listened, then
 smiled & understood.

They had brought me to him, & now
 I would take him. Give him more
than distant memories of the smash
 to know & love. He would go with me
but leave the Island too. This world
 perhaps. It wasn’t his home.

I taught him the human tongue.
 He lived with me in the Tower, &
I schooled him, how to release those
 old voices, but also how to keep them
in moments too, steer by through
 many worlds. Many Gates.

A day came when the King arrayed
 all on the Island to take the Mainland.
A threat he could no longer abide, no matter
 the distance. He commanded every boy
& man clapped in steel. I would not
 sacrifice this boy of frail bones &
sad flesh-dreams.

I let him forget his nature to live
 by earth, below sky, apart from Sea.
Let him forget what he was not as
 we needed a special entrance to the
Gate, unknown by King, best unknown
 by him.

I let him return to that lost
 globule of perfection, of which him
a wistful echo, return there, no
 waking, no dream; no land, no sky;
no earth,  no Sea; all welcome
 everywhere; we flew many places
that day. Borderless worlds of
 trees & mountains, many & one
Sea. Many faces, many loves, &
 one Sea.

When the sun approached its fiercest
 hour, I signalled him rise & rise
to its light, rise & rise, remember
 & forget, love & let go, love & let go.

He burst as though feathers
 blowing wide from wax, a forever
moment, burning, beautiful. He touched
 my mind & said goodbye. I dreamed,
for years, of his final plunge,
 perfect sexless body.

All I had taught him, what
 he would learn, like a boy, like a son.
But no, I am a man from the stars,
 not this world’s beautiful Sea.
I am alone. I build. I am alone.

* * * * * *

xxxii. Rags & Flower Vases

Mind & world is collaboration, I learned
 this so long ago I forget it was taught me.
I forget I was once a luckless young man
 from nowhere special.

I am alone. I build. I am alone.

But ’t’weren’t always so. Once, friendless,
 on a far world of men from this one,
I attended university & learned nothing.
 Knew I was marked for ritual ending.

There were no helpless runts, no sodden workmen,
 no rich parasites. One distinguished
by a certain age a talent, a gift, a special
 contribution, or one was done. It didn’t
hurt. It wasn’t negotiable.

Once our men & women too grew from
 spasm & spit, awkward twist of toros,
fevered collide of breast & pelvis, the prick
 a catalytic bomb, suddenly, the cunt
its sought for & resisted & sought for
 planting ground.

How did we finally stop? Was it
 the wisdom desperation contrives
with a conceding cry? Then & there,
 as now & here, I sought the oldest
books, the frailest rememberers.

It was hunger, broken air, blackened
 water, sickness. It was purge & pogrom.
Science, autocracy. Rejection of kings
 & blood power. Of coin as world’s river.
Tribe over state. Race over kin.
 Gift, talent, skill over any birthright.

I had nothing. Tall but not strong.
 Crooked voice, clumsy, shy. Well meaning.
Neither the freshest plumb of a girl
 nor the shiniest slice of a sex artist,
nor two, nor several, nor binds,
 nor blood, nor whispers or screams,
could make me cum but a dribble.

Book-read but not wise, little able
 to interpret nor compose, play,
paint. Without the violence nor brilliance
 in my heart to insist upon myself.
I would be melt back for limbs &
 flesh, a few pieces studied for lessons.

Why they came to me, I do not know.
 Why they ignited my sleep, fired
its skies with dreams, re-constructed
 me from my dullest depths, I do
not know. Maybe I was one of
 many. Maybe they found so little
I was clear land to build upon.

I began to dream. As never before,
 & I became someone else. They needed
me to build, to learn to build
 by my own world’s best lights.
To read its oldest books on building,
 walk slow & humble by its longest
rememberers. At university I
 learned to build structures great
& small. Till I felt glad & familiar
 with molecule, temple, volcano,
supernova. I began to build in dreams.

I built them Gates in dreams,
 & planted these Gates far & wide
in the reaches of space. Beacons,
 for refuges. Built them till one day
I left them, left my world, flung
 myself whole through dreaming
to the farthest point on one of those world.

For a long while my mind was wounded,
 much of it in shadows, & I found
myself wanting to help this strange
 world I had come to.

I learned of you, Princess, in ways
 I cannot recall, & came back
through time & space to where you
 first dwelled. On an Island.
Near the Tangled Gate. Beloved
 daughter of a King. Not of this
world’s people. Sent her by my
 old Dream-masters.

Kept to your chambers, singing
 to rags & flower vases, dreaming
of the Gate before you ever see it.
 I watch you, Princess, let the King
your father choose me as your teacher.
 Your brother dead by the King’s
blood locutions with a far enemy,
 you are delivered to me to protect,
 to teach.

I will become the answer to a question
 you didn’t have, it will consume us both.
Across stars & centuries, we will ask this question.

* * * * * *

xxxiii. My Gate

I built the Gate of many layers,
 inscrutable to others. I wanted
a powerful thing to endure out
 the passing kings & rulers & slavers
of men. I wished it to last until
 the men of many worlds resolved
enduring peace among them or
 let their power fade for something
else, something better.

In its marrow the blood of dreams,
 their powerful, perpetual soft clay.
Its bones the roots of ancient trees
 which hold creation up from far below.
Its muscle that of interstellar travel
 by a thought’s intent.

Then I built in to it . . . something else.
 I was a young, lonely man, & let
my lorn heart & hard cock contrive
 a canker in the Tangled Gate.

Her hand on mine to open & close
 its first & last time.
A dream of love, a dream of perfection.
 How Emandia thought to live
forever, when the worlds ran out.

I would chase you through worlds
 like these, find myself a man
again, having to walk through years &
 sweat. Each world its own experiment,
its own possibility of perfection.

And mine to suss you out across
 centuries & lands. Find what you
might be this time. Not knowing
 your role in the world, what I
contrived for you. You would choose
 our way, on or out, each time.

But, still, this first time, you a
 Princess, your father the King
& a war he has lost. A retreat to
 an Island, yet not a retreat.
Your numbers a few hundred,
 many more lost, & now amicably
allowed an old boat to Sea?

A hard & handsome man, you tasked
 me to build you an Island Kingdom,
or at least the appearance of one.
 What mattered you was not
your Castle, nor the Tower you
 insisted I needed.

It was the Gate! My Tangled Gate
 on this world. It was thus
I learned how we three—Architect,
 Princess, Gate—would ever draw near
to each other over centuries & miles.

And your father the King, his
 steel grey eyes upon me. Nearing shore.

“Find out how to wield it.
Find a way to recover her.”

* * * * * *

xxxiv. Twice Believe

The world settles in the bones.
Dissonance becomes rhythm.
Flow shifts. Flow others.

I find myself in one world,
 among the colors of its men’s movements.
The contents sort out so, & so.

Island. Castle. Tower. Gate.
Architect. Princess. King.

This playful, curious, musical game
 of yours. Knowing, not knowing.

I always convince myself it’s something
 more, something else, something
other. You are smiling lure.

Yes, I am the Architect.
Yes, I architect by dreams.
Yes, you are not a dream.
Yes, I chase you perpetuall.

I reck beyond recking,
 look beyond seeing,
 listen to what I can’t hear,
 reach, induce, reach, induce.

You ever want me to say me & why.
You ever want a note, an image, a word.

I first appear to you in the Gate as
 an invitation to believe. Your dreams
of this place are still new, a game
 you half-remember by morning,
seeing as you’ve been trained to see.

There is no hole in your bedchamber’s wall.
There is. I invite you to accept
two truths about one thing.

But, better to say me & why—
But, better some note, image, words—

A thing that hmmms in place.
Hmmms to steady. Hmmms to flow.

However this world causes such a
 thing to be, this hummingbird,
tis note, tis image, tis words.

Your picture book thus tells the ancient
 story many worlds tell of.
The hummingbird gave men music
 & taught them to sing.

You memorize the words, the whys,
 the promise of remembering a lost song
& flying away. You breathe this book
 through many days, memorize its
pages & story like your own eyes & skin.

I am the Architect.
I architect by dreams.
You are not a dream.

One spring day, you return to your
 paints & large sheets, your persistence
to Princess girl’s form, & discover to be
 no Hummingbird on your page, as
 though never made. Waking next morning,
you discover it flitting upon your
 chamber well, as though always.

Still later, moved again, the Queen’s
 half-wild garden.

You & this world, Princess, contrive
 between you that which may be.

An invitation to believe, twice
 believe, there is a hole through
your bedchamber wall, but only
 in your dreams.

A Princess girl kind of game.
Tis there. Tisn’t. You ask your friends
 behind the wall too, but
they do not know what a Hummingbird
 is; strangely, do not care to try.

I let you but one. World settling
 in the bones. Dissonance, rhythm.
How what brightens the eye, greens
 the leap, caps the peak, blues
the sky, cleans, clears, calms.

You walking the path in
 the Tangled Gate to a place
you call the Carnival Room.
 Cosmic Princess games.

You are again singing the Hummingbird’s song,
 how one day mankind will remember
its first song, & fly away.

As you make the last turn,
 I appear before you, set upon the air.

You gasp. You look. I am my question
 to you. This is your test.

You hold out your finger to me,
 half-smiling. Forgetting worlds
I haven’t made, will now never
 know, I accept. You walk along now,
just the potent of touch, no note,
 no image, no word.

I am hmmming to you, as we wake,
 as we continue in our separate
bedchambers, mine dark with
 dream’s weird depths, yours plush
 with new playful light. We each now know.
We both now twice believe.

* * * * * *

xxxv. Say Me, & Why

I want you to remember some things.
Think me deep discovered, unfolded more
than my baffling lectures, endless scholarly
 mutterings. I let you solitary hours in my
Tower office while I tend to the boy’s lessons
 in his room below.

My record of the time beyond time, its cloaked
 text unlocked in chosen fragments for your curious sneakings.
Your touch on the pages make them glow
to mine eyes alone.

You found, you read: “The storms became constant,
 vengefully violent. The daily life of men
& markets, ideologies more partners in power
 than combatants, churches & temples
vaguely explaining their fences & roofs to
 the cattle within, new seers smiling fresh
with hoary ancient visions of men waking
 to their common blood, mortality, & fanged
need for love, was over.”

So much I architected about your Island
 home than just the Tangled Gate.
Your father the King I thought hobbled
 by my promise I could harness the Gate
to recover his lost Queen Deirdre. Just time
 to smack & crack open this magick device,
& the need to fend off those that would
 contrive to take it from him.

You read: “What remained for most was
 the leash & a stingy bowl at nightfall.
Hope was a little more light in the day’s
 grey sky, less snaggling wind at night.
Where possibility still lay, at least for a few,
 was far below ground, in the great darkened
halls of the Sleepers, thousands of them,
 fed by tubes & awake few or no hours at all.

I assured your youth’s solitude, your need for me,
 by a travel your father the King never
knew. A peaceful Island Kingdom. My visit
 to threaten my King’s invasion if their
King’s unringed daughter not offered as
 tribute. As slave. My King then compelled to marry
her like a peace treaty with an enemy
 he’d never met. Safeguard the Gate.

You read: “The men of science, magick, &
 spirit had joined with the men of Art
to contrive a solution. What remained unfouled
  of the Sea & mountains & Woods had been
blended into this work, not to save the world
 but to undo it, find the place beyond
the Dreaming, by scavenging through history
 for the clue all believed was there,
the thread out of time.

You danced for your father the King
 because of the Book of Patterns I’d given
him, the one I told him could help me
 smack & crack the Gate. Convinced him
that studying this book with you by night,
 saturating your mind with cloaked gnatterings,
recording the messages your frenzied
 dancing’s next morning would produce,
would help us in our urgent work.

You read: “If this all sounds lunatic, or a beautiful
 plan but far too late, or you dubious
wonder that such diverse men were able
 to work together even at the end, you are
right, you have read well. The minds of men
 did not contrive this plan, but others
whose own world had been lost. They had tried
  & failed to convince, to help, for centuries,
& it wasn’t working now. More Sleepers would
wake up dead, or simply disappear.”

I simply disappeared, through the
 Dreaming, where I later summoned you back
to the Island, to me, to remember
 some things, to decide this world’s open
or closed arc.

All those years I forbid you waking
 traverse of the Gate, caused your King
believe a book of locked click-clicks & noise-
 noises interpreted by dream dancing’s,
slaved a girl to his unwelcoming bed
 that he would be hobbled by his unhappy
unsatings, were my great fool’s strategem
 to both harden & soften you heart
 for our decision.

It’s time to remember some things,
 this how I will say me, & why.
We are both in the Tangled Gate now,
 & nearing. I can sniff you true
a thousand light years away, & yet
 you now merely a few turns away from me

* * * * * *

xxxvi. The Dreamers

The Dreamers at the end of history
 could not travel beyond the Dreaming
as I did. The best of them could vividly
 visit places & times past, travel history
like shadows unseen at night.
 They would drink the foul potions,
 climb into their Capsules, scatter
  through centuries & lands, report
back the hidden details, reasons
 for decisions hidden behind locked
doors, coded into pronouncemnts by
 kings, presidents, popes, caesars.

More Dreamers joined the early few,
 & their potions grew stronger, &
a kind of messianic ethic took grip
 of their work. They slept more
hours of each day, surrendered
 loves & lives for this obsession.
Forgotten, eventually, by those above
 who had sent them. Powerful &
desperate men building greater edifices
 over dead soil, ranging greater armies
against each other, queering mortal terrors
 into frenzied faiths.

I walked above, under constant grey
 skies, through prison camps &
electronic virtual paradises. I looked
 for hope. I found none. I found
that men had never built their
 great civilizations or religions or
 shiniest metropolises on hope,
but a savage fear of their short
 hard trail from nothing to nothing.

Where hope lay in tending
 every injured soul, mending
every damaged body,
 becoming humble scholar in
the ways of the green, of dreams,
 of music braiding mine to yours
to everyone’s, someone with a weapon
 or a fist or a remembered slight
would slam down, & hard, & again,
 until faith in the world rooted
not in what that open door might
 goodly yield, but how to barricade
it against all but a cherished few.

No morass or pattern but a kind
 of willful suffering, explained
at length, justified in blood,
 molded into life as a passage
through a test to somewhere
 finer, not built by men; a somewhere
else where a cosmic paternal hand
 could solely wield justice &
reward; or a cycle of simply being
 alive & mortal could be broken;
or a box in the ground, & a cease
 to all the unanswered questions.

We are approaching each other
 now, Princess, & I see you
carry the Blue Suitcase I gave you,
 & I see you never change through
all the centuries from then
 back to now. It’s time for us to
meet again, to decide.

I shudder as you pause & kick the green
 & golden leaves at your feet, as
your breathing now quicks to me close,
 as does my breathing now does too,
as we finally meet again.

* * * * * *

xxxvii. The Queen Wakes

When stolen from my father, the King’s
 Palace in the Sun, I was child enough
to know nothing, & woman enough
 to raise the notice of the strange man
who called himself the Architect, &
 demanded me as trade for continue
peace with an Island Kingdome none
 of us had known of before.

Presented at my father’s court upon
 his arrival, his eyes took me in with
one half glance but something else.
 He sniffed me as we shook hands in
reception. A mere brief flare of old &
 whiskered nostrils, but a light in his eyes,
a greedy approval. He knew I craved
 my silken underthings close to my slim
frame, knew how I slowly touched secret
 places when in bed & in bath. Knew.

We walked together alone, in the
 great gardens. The King my father
nodded my agreement. Did he think
 this strange would take me first &
approved on one of its grassy lawns?
 I knew only to obey. I knew only
my own heated curiosity for another’s
 touch more dangerous than my own.

Nothing. Hardly conversation. More
 a series of instructions.
“You will be wed to my King.”
“Wed?”
“You may bring servants of your own.”
“Sir?”
Silence. I waited.

“You will learn to please him best
 you are able.”
Silence.
“Expect little. Unless you can adopt
 the guise of someone lost to him.”

We left without delay or ceremony.
My father the King, who had lost
 his Queen long ago, seemed to live
on since by habit, by duty, hugged
 me briefly. Please him best you are
able. For those you remember here.”

I was kept in a small cabin all
 the trip. Brought by night time
to a tall Castle, empty of faces
 to meet me.

A bedroom. Silky night-clothes. Sexier
 than any in my old bedroom.

I waited. Days, it felt like. Unseen
 hands left trays of food. I waited.

When this Island’s King came,
 it was suddenly. A hard knock
& twas him & not my daily dinner.

His eyes upon me brief & thorough.
 Again, a sniff. Is this what men are?
Handsome, powerfully handsome.
 Me to be his Queen, satisfy
his bed?

Unsmiling, but not unfriendly, took
 my hand, & me in my night-clothes,
to his great Throne Room. The Architect
 waiting. The ceremony brief &
in a tongue I did not know. I was
 not asked to nod or agree. Given
no crown. The Architect silently took
 me back to my bedchamber.

Another passage of time. I waited.

Then a knock & not my new husband
 or the Architect. Three old women
I’d hardly known from my home.
 Sisters of the wild magick, a gift
from my father to my new rule.

They spoke little I understood but
 undressed me. Pressed, pinched,
cupped like a mathematic sought my
 high young breasts. Fingered between
my legs, smacked my bottom. I’d
 already been slaved; what more was
there to do with me?

Lights doused, me spread wide on
 my bed, wondering if they’d
conjure a cock or more between
 them to break my maidenhead.

Words, cackles, gnatterings.
Candle wax high & low.
Kneadings, pressings.
Sparks, tuneless songs somehow
 erotic, rousing me everywhere.

Passed out, awaked, still dreaming,
 led darkened corridors to a
much greater bedchamber. A big
 man in a big bed. His eyes
sparkling with spell. Me delivered
 nude to his grasp & us left
alone. Was this real? Was I
 finally ready to be claimed?

Him mezmered, me doused deep
 in a waking dream, he took me
slow & deep & hard & long, his grasp
 aggressive & familiar like he knew
me well, how to strum & stroke my
 body for well-pleasing music,
like I knew well his demands &
 pleasure.

My body’s unpent furies moaning blind
 with want of him any way he willed,
my fingernail happened to scratch
 lightly down his hard cock roughing
between my thighs & his returning moan
 was long, breathless, chasm.

One bare word: “Deirdres.”

He rent me rough & wide.
Teeth. Tongue. Cum. Again.
I passed out caterwauling the name
 with him.

Work in my bed another self.
 The crones now magick runts to
my will or returned to their starving
 homes.

Yet only one command: “Make me Deirdre
 in his bed.”

It happened so rarely. Though I worshipped
 the bites & bruises & cum & blood of
those nights.

Time passed & the jagged hunger
 in my heart & body did not calm.
I took to wandering the White Woods
 late at night farther & farther
from the Castle. Senses their magick,
 beyond my grasp, beyond my rein.

Brought my runts out there on
 full moon nights, frenzied their
fears that I would order them
 drowned by my displeasure or
ground for evening meal.

“Make him want me like her.”

But a fooled heart does not want or love
 the same. Loves from deepest despair
not deepest light. When a strange
 pretty thing took his nose & cock
from me, I had nothing. The White
 Woods where I yowled with my runts.

Till the night the King’s son, little
 seen by me, snapped his silent
spyings on a twig, & the runts ordered
 to catch & release him to me.

Did not look like my King. Slender,
 pretty, a strange limp. Shy of me
but one. A small sniff.

The runts bound my hands around
 a tree trunk, gave the boy a
long spiked switch to complain
 on my tight back side. The runts
magicked up his reluctant young cock
 to what I commanded. The runts
heard my anguish split the night
 & cackled merrily.

Did he love me, truly want me?
Why could I not cum anymore?
Why didn’t I care when he left for
 the Mainland, for peace-making,
for games? Why did I wish him well?

It was then the runts finally did
 right by me, if only to preserve their
dying carcasses. They led me
 one night not to the White Woods,
where no young man awaited anymore.

They led me to the shore of the
 Wide Wide Sea, what I had not
seen since the night brought like
 a sack of coins. Told me wait &
were gone. The Sea before me
 roiled & sang, surf furied & foamed.

I heard terrified animal cries far
 down the shore. Approached to find
a dozen weeping cows chained, like
 a strange sacrifice? to a large
outcropping quite close to the
 water’s edge.

Crying in fear & hunger for their starry fields,
 instead seeming lures for powers from the Sea,
victims of men’s beliefs that blood’s only choice
 is spending or spilling. Wild horror at
what galloped from the waves.

Enormous & strange & beautiful & wondrous.
 I thought to watch him consume them in a few
great bites at most when instead he snapped
 their links & roared them away. I watched
him, feeling something light & powerfully
 gleaming running through my blood & bones,
feeling as he turned to me that I was
 no longer faux Deirdre, nor would be again.

He approached me, huffing & snarling.
 Reached deep in me, crumpled the mask
I had worn for two unloving Kings. Led me
 far deeper in the White Woods than ever
my runts & I had gone. Lay with me as
 more than man, the Beast men have
mucked over deep within, till a war or
 an unresponsive woman bursts him
sloppily, blindly to the fore.

He showed me unfurled power that
 night, sang for me scraps of the
first songs, drew me beat by beat,
 breath by breath, from that shore,
from the Castle I prisoned, from my
 long gone nights of secret silken
underthings & nought but my own touch.

Far from men’s worship of the celestial
 ferment above, what they mold to riddles
told to herd the many wide-eyed
 with ignorance.

He sniffed. I sniffed. We laughed & sniffed
 together. We twined & fused the lonelinesses
of our worlds together, him lighting my
 every crevice with knowin, with a hmmming
that buzzed me awake & open & glad
 wanting, loosened the long-time harness of men
around my heart, revealed the better stars
 of the many worlds, their fenceless limits.

He taught me each time we met
 of the forces in the may worlds
that no man controls. Tap, harness,
 to slave others awhile, but never control.

Mankind, a living thing, roots from
 these forces, in its fist’s desire to tame
& own, the plays & persecutions of its history
 bide within these forces’ grasp. Men
will study, ignore, reject their roots deep,
 skinning these roots of their merest riddles,
& gnatterings & questions.

Him not quite a man, we contrived
 a sex-box that would better bear our coupling,
& then a myth that something darkling
 made in me.

I was no longer the unloved daughter of one King
 or helpless bride of another. My boundaries
breached, my chains snapped, I could
 only advise the King’s blooming Princess
daughter to sniff when men neared
 her, to hope that something
in her too would measure her links,
 their tautness & strength, & find
her own aid in making for the fences.

* * * * * *

xxxviii. Maw

I am Beast. I am bird. I am buzz.
I am berry. I am Man. I am Beast.

There is a maw at the heart of the world,
 & from it I emerged. I what sang
men & their prisons come this world.

I what they sniffed through the chasm
 between worlds, what chose them come
hither, what fell them upon this earth.

Life seeks life, or its little flicker.
The light in things, where beat & breath
 may come, blow, burst, bloom, be.

Before men, the salt upon the wind.
Before men, leafs softly cracking boulder.
Before men, what was before waiting’s hope.

A million loose chemicals & unsparked
 processes. Hungers resided without
knowing of sate, thirst of quench.

The Gates were built to sniff me out
 from countless inert worlds,
rouse me when I neither waked
 nor dreamed. Make me yearn,
call it music, give me time’s
 coming & going, the blessing of other,
the curses of then & hence.

Men became other from me,
 warred weirdly over then & hence.
Explained now what had needed none.
Contrived shrines to their explainers
Warped the world to resemble their
 answers, throttled it like hardened
  clay. I tried to understand. I let.

When first I bodied, it was very far
 from men. I kept close to trunk,
to root, to leaf. The glow, the hmmm.
 I was chewed as root & nut,
I was shat & pissed out. I was mud.
 I was stream. High, of cloud.
Heating lava. Floating cold berg.

Peaceful mornings, near my best-known
 white birches. Thinking about where
I’ve been, where I am now. I am nearing
 men, disquiet, trembling. Later, there
is feeding all around me, a sharper-
 tongued wind, the beautiful violence
of mating. I know now there is an edge
 to things, near, far, one, another.

I close my still-new eyes & I let
 more, let myself body up a man,
reach through men’s time & space
 for one to dwell & know.

I become the nearly-blind man,
 my remaining sight still fluttering
with lilac & lily, moving my firm hand
 by their scented light, scratching up
a spark on a great canvas by glint
 & petal, my rendered silhouettes
shaped like a man’s yearned God-thing.

Now open my eyes & I am the scrawny
 prick-hard singer, finding my music
beneath the night’s sweeping skirts,
 insisting the oldest idols of men
totter forward & people my lyrics.
 Grind bloodless hips new with
the next hour’s unspent seed, its high
 crackling juice.

Close again & now the tall professor,
 behold my sepia-washed pictures,
their hard press at your jaw & shoulders
 to trouble your own sanity’s clay,
cackle & resist this year-long
 failing game of men.

Open again to fierce lights & now
 the dark man kneeling with
my horn & shredding time—but most
 men not like this, hacking at the edge
to things, looking for the maw at
 the heart of the world. Most relent
quickly & worry their few or fewer
 stones in the ever-crowded shades.

I retreat to my mornings &
 the white birches I know lessly
because I yearn them, I love them,
 & I cannot forget the furies of men,
how they loving ferment the world’s destruction.

I am less bird. I am less buzz.
I am less berry. I am more Man.

What can I become but warning to
 this world, my world, of this rankle
come upon it? What can I do but move
 painfully among the herds of men
to find one here & there to warn,
 to point to the far edges, there
is where the power you seek,
 the beauty you yearn, the meaning
you hunger, lies!

Where you can freely taste the salt
 upon the wind! Where you can
reck the world’s glow, its ever hmmm!
 Beyond other, then, & hence!

I find a distant faith that there are a
 few who might seek me, might come
with me to the edge. I retreat
 near fully within the Gate & tune
myself to its alien glow & hmmm.
 I braid me with its paths of walled
roots & vines. I contain me nearly
 all in a Cave, that I now
let pulse with all I am. This Cave
 becomes the maw at the heart
of the world. I wait, I glow,
 I hmmm. No longer know who
will come or when.

I wait. I glow. I hmmm.

* * * * * *

xxxix. No Final Thing to Know

Did you emerge from me, or because
 of me, or like me from the nearness
of men, the temptations & mysteries
 of their bodies?

There wasn’t you. Then there was you.
 Once there was you, there never had
been a before, a wasn’t. You’d always been.
 We met, new, perpetually in that courtyard.

I made it be long after it no longer was.
 You came again & again. We were man
& woman, we weren’t. Like a heavy costume
 we each wore. The wants & ways of
men & women would shape this world.
 Body up as them, & know.

While new, before dancing, if there was,
 we would tell our travels. You showed
me winter lights on a long boulevard,
 a hidden shade of cool salmon ove
low hills. I showed you battlefields,
 on moonlit nights. Close to the dying.

The courtyard of many round black
 metal tables, four young White Birches,
& full moonlight upon it & the many
 ancient buildings nearby. Where men
debated how men could salvate men,
 & the world rustled up for its materials
& survival tactics. The world a stage,
 men the only important players.

Sometimes gone from each other,
 far from courtyard & men,
trees so great, like it was their
 world instead, or too, as trees think.

Moving bodies swathed in sweat & smoke
 & drums, we both yearned & returned
to these nameless ancient times when
 little was yet settled in the world.

We find each other, even these heres-less
 heres & nows-less nows, & others
like whatever we are? Flesh & bone
 not a sure thing, little separating one
from another. Yet I still chase you,
nearly cohere, wish to know. Your eyes
 crackle with fear of want, not mine
but your own. Your touch my beard as
though a pet. I tangle your hair with my fingers.

I bring you to their wars, in every
 land, every century, every language,
every God-thing, fought by stone
 & by knife & by rifle & by cannon &
by missile & by spaceship & electronic
 mindfields. Always, always, a pile
of corpses. We lay still among them.
 A sigh. I hush him as though a night bird,
the wind.

We still danced the courtyard but
 you urged us to our travels more
often, a hungering canker in you to
 visit their great gardens, their silent
cemeteries, how their garbage ever more
 filled the land, the Sea, the skies
above. We danced but you thrashed
 in my arms. More often you evaporated
back to the One Woods, deep lost
 hours of forming, of formlessness.

You found less & less in their couplings,
 their music, their tries at peace-
making among their own kind. You needed
 to forget them as I needed to reck
them, harness them, find among them
 I could teach.

The last time, the courtyard, our
 dance, the battlefield, that boulevard.
Those trees, your last smiles, & how
 it lingered.

Whatever left of us that remains,
 still together, tonight, still looking on,
still looking back. You are gone now,
 save what throbs in my mind,
& hmmms in my heart. For life,
 for love, for loss, there is no final thing to know.

* * * * * *

xl. An Edge to Things

Now we only walk the One Woods
 together in my dreams,
the bizarre mind toys I learn from men,
 where their wishes & lusts & regrets
body up form in sleep, where they graze
 the wider world, beyond their cradle
of knowing & feeling, & usually dismiss what
 they cannot easily reck as unworthy to know.

My dreams, too, press my loss & regret but
 more my chasm from what I was, how like
men I’ve become. Yet I know dreams not a
 separate or lesser land, simple a strange
& far one. Travel it often, with purpose, &
 its exotica becomes knowable, familiar.

Yet still mind toys because our bodies no
 longer near, dance as we did, the magick
of dream’s softer clay undone by waking
 alone, again, in a dawn’s sweat, hands
grasping my cave’s close, empty air.

We walk the One Woods & now you speak
 a strange tongue, its click-clicks &
noise-noises, the way red & blue & yellow
 & green & orange & violet & sometimes
indigo would burst from the trunks &
 bushes around us, these like notes
played by you in songs you made to be.

Always dusk, too, in these walks, when
 light blurs & lingers, when but a
few stars peep out in the sky. No
 full moon’s raw alien power nor
dawn’s thrust of day upon the land.

Then I wake again, the close empty
 darkness. And you are far from me,
& I am silent again. Signs of your songs
 as I mutter through these One Woods, spears
of your many colors struck into fallen
 logs. I don’t ask how but read them
as they melt, sigils none other see
 or would know.

You believe their world must end,
 that men will consume & destroy all,
feed on the world till all is maw.
 You would escape, would somehow take
me too, & but one way this possible.

“A girl who is not a girl approaches.
She comes from the stars, & could
 lead men away with her again.”

You would sacrifice this girl to the maw
 at the heart of the world. You would
sacrifice her to me. You would have me
 compel her choice.

“We will transform what they would
 destroy.” Yet I wonder if she is
a different way. I wonder if nobody
 has to die. I wonder why I must choose.
I find your many colored songs in more
 & more clearings, yet dream of our walks
less & less often.

I stand now where we first met deep
 in the Tangled Gate, but this is
neither waking nor a dream. I am come
 from the shore, sharing the agonies
of a good woman who also cannot have
 what she yearns.

I stand here to call down the stars
 from the sky, & to find among them a truth
to hold & pursue. I gesture with my
 wild paws, grasp & swap out handfuls
of light, looking for the path I seek,
 crush & gold & block the heat of those
faraway worlds which sent men here,
 roar my relentless need with full throated
lungs. Reach finite hands from my finite
 torso futilely toward places & truths
ever far away from me. You, my love,
 ever far away from me, you are
the maw at the heart of me. I will
 let the girl choose. If it has to be,
I will yearn you ever & let you go.

* * * * * *

xli. Our Game

The Tangled Gate neither waking nor
 dreaming, like old, my refuge from men
& loss & a world become too complex
 for me to know or protect. I still walk
on two legs most times but looser, less
 lonely distinct from the rest.

A retreat, yes, whatever I am less diffuse
 upon the world, but nothing lost yet,
no more than storms come & go, colors
 on the dusk, fallen leaves & bare fields
in winter. Time little passed, little really changed,
 & then one morning you came.

You first came in lilies & soft earl light.
You first came in the mind toys men
 called dreams.
You came with time & change.

I sniffed you, twice, but did not know if
 to call you friend. You saw me &
you jerked a bit, sniffed me a little too.

And you smiled. And yet you were careful.
And yet I knew careful had not been
 in your nature till you saw me.

A girl who was not quite a girl. Fallen
 from the stars, drawn inexorably to me,
yet you look me unknowing, curiously,
 like I was a kind of Hummingbird
or some untried fruit.

I turned away & retreated back along
 the path I’d come, a pace neither
inviting nor flight. You followed, wonder
 without guile, until I led us to
a break in the path, an open green field.

I sat on a half-buried log next to you,
 & tried to look like a man, & tried to speak
like a man, but you shook your head no,
 no bother, in this Gate there is truth.

We played a game that morning. Tap the air
 & loose its notes, collect the notes &
shape a thing. Gently blow & lure its six
 or seven colors. Nod, exchange.

We made fish that swam the air
 & birds that soared the earth.
You showed me your Hummingbird &
 its wings of buzzing stars, & I gave you
cackling sparkles of laughter. We pressed
  for a third friend to join us, & something
emerged great-winged & green-scaled
 shiny, paused a lingering breath & away.

Last round you conjured a small White
 Bunny, pink nose, mesmering eyes, tranquil
but intent expression. I held her, felt her hmmm.

You shook your head when I made to clap
 hands, give the Creature back to the air,
as was our usual play. Your smile bid me keep.

How were you come to me? From the stars
 to dreams to this Gate. You woke back in
the world. Should I follow? We never spoke
 aloud. Should I discover the right words?
Could you lead men away from war &
 carnage on the green?

It seemed we met several times, could not
 be planned or provoked. Our White Bunny
friend would join us, a twinkling for you,
   a studying look over me.

Then less often, & you were less present,
 like you were drawn away, even in your
dreams, the wants & cares of men more a
 tangle around your heart then this Gate.

Then all I had of you was the White Bunny,
 who would sniff twice & be gone for days.
Then only soft morning sunlight trying
 to remember where the field we’d met
& played our game. Where I did not need
 to disguise my mind as a man’s to please your company.

You did not return in dreams again &
 I’ve shaped ever less like men. I’ve long not
played the air for games.

I wonder what you would find if you
 happened on me now like our first morning.
I wonder if men would listen if you
 chose to lead, held the chaos in their hearts
in your hands, bid them breath, relax,
 bid them let the green back in.

I wonder if she is right & there is no path
 but away, for men or the world.
Will you ever return to the Gate,
 will you smile & nod & bind this maw?

* * * * * *

xlii. The Carnival Room

The White Bunny returns to my White Birch,
 sniffs twices, & settles in my lap, as though
I am man, as though I am a rare &
 trusted man. Her long airs rest on
my arms, as though I have arms.

We still together, we watch soft early light
 unfold the day, like a springtime lily,
or the hands I now hold her with.
 I am Beast, bird, buzzy, berry, but
right now I am man, like unto one,
 what she wishes.

I remember old. I remember new.
I am a fist of men at Sea, huddled over a map.
I am caught in nets, cages, the seeming
 wrong color of my skin, words on my tongue.
Shake my head to pull apart from these
 & become paintings hung in castles & hid in closets.
Shake again & I am a volcano burying all.
Again,& hunted for a laugh, mounted like a prize.
Shake, groan, not everything, but too much.

The White Bunny nudges me return,
 calms my spasms with her raised pink nose & mesmering eyes,
her deep hmmm through my shifting bones.
 I calm. We sleep. We dream together.

I am like a man & yet, always & yet.
 She’s from my lap & now leading me,
hopping faster than any man’s legs, & yet
 I follow apace. Holding a . . . white thread?
Through white birches brilliant in this
 soft early light, on & on, into places
dark & unfinished in the Tangled Gate.

I chase her through worlds, it seems,
 white thread steadying me, hmmming
me to this strange flow. Eventually slow
 to walking but no longer like a man’s form.
A girl’s slender carriage, wispy torso.

She is waiting me near a hole in the earth.
 Even though I am too large yet we crawl
through. A long long scrabble in the dark.
 My thread had given out yet I follow.
I am no more girl than man & yet
 an ease in this form, less half-panicked
light within.

We come to an ancient structure, burst
 through a half-fallen wall, stand within.
A girl’s voice in my head says, “The Carnival
 Room is near.”

Now remember old. Remember new.
You’ve come to me again in this strange
 mind toy, caused me follow the Creature
we made together so long ago? Which
 words to say after so long?

I am afraid. I am not afraid. Which
 is truer? One room a chaos of reflections.
I see yours, the many shifts of mine,
 others not of this world. The mirrors
shift & move past me in speeding patches,
 seem to fling ancient scraps of song
at me to catch, a magickal food in
 my starving jaws.

The White Bunny nudges me back to her
 & hops quickly away, ears flashing,
& I follow on my girl’s light legs,
 through endless rooms of detritus & decay,
chasing worlds through, until as last
 to a room where we stop.

She looks at me, raises pink nose,
 & again, & I enter deeper its seeming
murk. I hear cacophony, song. Then doors
 mounted on walls, beckoning. Now a tunnel
into darkness aboard a longwheeled carriage.
 Turn & see two yellow-skinned brothers
watching me, plucking stringless instruments,
 barking songs of laughter.

Now at my feet a tiny creature, black & white,
 gnattering at me in . . . click-clicks &
noise-noises? I am delighted.

But I wish to go. But the White Bunny is gone.
Yet a black thread in my hand, from her?

Leaving now as though being sucked
 back to dry land, following the thread
& feeling the girl in me recede, feeling
 now larger & more helpless, faster & faster
like falling horizontally, suddenly burst
 choking & restless out of the earth.

The return is swift. There is no adventure
 left. I follow the black thread back to
my White Birch, & rest with it in my hand,
 alone. Now awake & no thread in my hand,
black or white. No White Bunny.

I am Beast. I am bird. I am buzz.
I am berry. I am Man. I am Beast.
Something would have me forget none
 of these, strain my bonds to remember
better old, remember better new.

Something would have me save what
 those around me would destroy.

******

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