i. At Eventide

Quiet awhile. Nothing, everything changes.
 Every possible way. Somewhat. I’m listening.

Trucks blare smoky noise in the traffic
 on the bridge over this quiet muddy water.
Th-thump in their passing. Lullaby, reminder.
 I’m listening.

Sitting with my hand drawn book of rhythms
 on one side. You sit tapping & tooting
your instrument on the other. Me listening.

Strange fish glide by in the muddy water.
Toads seeming to wait, not waiting.

I come to this place, literally, figuratively,
 in long remembrance, I have nothing
to offer it. Tis refuge on my way,
 from one confusion to another.

Now daylight’s last hour, the day’s clouds
 & rain passed & gone. Traffic above clears
& passes less noisy. Th-thump. Pinkish-green
 & blue-umber fill the sky’s great window.

I read these words across the water
 to you, evening breeze carrying some,
slapping some away. You strike & strum
 your instrument, meet me in the swirl,
halfway. I’m still listening.

Now dark, stars, another world begins.
 I can’t see you over there anymore.
Are you there still? Will you keep playing
 anyway? I’m still listening. I’m listening.

******

ii. Glaring

Listening. Another day. Trucks blaring
 smoky noise on the bridge overhead.
Traffic a tangled fool between here & there.

My hand-made book of rhythms is thicker
 this time, stranger, cut deeper to its
uncertainties, what better remains often
 best listens, twice listens.

You’re over there, only this muddy water
 between us, playing your instrument,
furiously, quiet, no answers, but also
 no questions. I can’t bide either.

Strange fish in my book glide by.
Toads seeming to wait, not waiting.

Voices, many voices, they remain for me.
Bodies, soft bodies, I disturb, I remember.

Daylight’s last hour, clarity, shine.
Trucks go & go & gone. The sky’s blues
 & pinks & greens & gauzy glares grade
  down to near forever. (Listening?)

Try again. I read these words across
 the water, loud, you catch a few,
smile, enough to play to, play back
 to me. You nod, desire. You nod, want.
You play till I can’t listen & breathe both,
 so I stop.

Now darkness, better lights, another world
 waits, a moment, but little more.

******

iii. Release

The barks & growls & yelps on the bridge
 above crowd close & breathe heavy,
badly. We are half-hidden to these
 sad furies, below. The muddy waters
travel by. Marsh grasses tall enough to kiss
 the wind.

My book of rhythms are now wrapped
 in more leaves. I leave more of the dirt
& the dreams in, both. Listen finer for you,
 over there, it’s more remembering. It’s sad.

You played the words my fingers made,
 across the shore, those years, knee to knee,
you play them still, beyond the waters,
 beyond the years, across the muddy water,
your ironic perch.

Strange fish, on this globe forever.
Toads, seeming, wait out the worst.

These last hours, shine gives way to shine.
Something holds, & you play it, &
 you play it, & I try to sing.

These words touch your fingertips,
 tangle in your chords, land with a sigh.
You laugh. You’re not done playing me.

Now darkness, more laughing,
 fingers long enough to hold a heart
  by the half-mile.

******

iv. Evening Tide

In the dream, they built a bridge out,
 far out into the ocean, remains incomplete,
like half-opening fist.

I hold my hand-made book of mended bark
 & dried fruit skins. I am nude & sad
& considering that bridge.

Strange fish at its far point, diving &
 playing where it ends, colors uncertain,
too dazzling by lights kissing heavy
 the far horizon.

Before dark comes, I climb to its walkway,
 feel its long years, feel it sway,
 feel it steady, begin to walk.

I read from my book, shakily,
 to your spectre, your many spectres,
to every spectre alive & remembering.

Now darkness, what this dream, this bridge
 is holding me better than I am. I keep reading
in the growls & snaps of my text, reading
 & walking. Keep singing & walking.

******

v. Isle of Mind

On this isle of mind, seas joining
 mine to yours, but no bridge,
we’ve forgot the bridge.

These pages I write to near you,
 to name you, to touch you,
to return you, to return you.

I listen. Twice listen. Are you playing
 for me as well? Do you remember
the bridge? Could you teach me new?
 What’s possible by starlight? Could you
remind me?

Remind me the bridge, from isle to isle,
 the how of touch, the why of breath,
the yes of blood & beat, how yes common
 among all, remember, we too are one,
we too are one.

I say these words as I imagine
 your ear, as I imagine your hand,
as I imagine your smile, your raised
 instrument, struck & strummed in reply.

******

vi. Eventide (ii)

Will myself deeper part of world’s song,
 every page my throat, every page
my croon & cry. I will you near me
 again, & breathe, relax. And away.

I am this book that shifts with your
 heart, croons & cries, beats & breaths,
melodies of waves & daylight bowing.

Dream me a fish to nuzzle you,
 to feed you, to keep your drown.
Dream me an answer by which your
 absence subsides.
Dream me your peculiar shaped hands,
 upon your instrument, near to grasp again.

I listen. Twice listen. OK. The darkness
 is gentle, after all, a waiting, a waiting,
many many hard sighs. I hold you,
 & you hold me, we lose our names &
knowns in this embrace. You hold me,
 whoever you are, whoever I am,
& you say. Simple. Simple. Let be.

******

vii. White Shorts

Call it want or genetics.
Tap twice, call it music. Squeeze between
 smiling thighs when you can.
I’ve tried to figure between the bars,
 & come up with my own hands,
  holding tighter.

Call it music, tap twice, want to understand
 like a good dream. There’s dancing &
hard cries tonight, your thighs wide,
 your moans blow out for me, more,
I want more.

I dream, try to understand. Dance & cry,
 it all means something. What? What.

I called it want, my music’s eating fuel,
 when I chased your fine ass, & yours,
& yours. How many asses? How much music?

Want. Genetics. The psychedelic game
 flesh plays with its infinite numbers.
Watch it dance the night. Watch it
 fuck the skies. Watch it bomb &
brutalize itself. Watch the one flesh
 of the world tear & mend & re-create
itself by the countless centuries.

Call it music, tap twice, a good dream,
 a better laugh. Try to understand,
listen. Try to understand, breathe.
 Try to understand, hmmmmmm.
Try to understand, awake & dream.
 Try to understand any, better to laugh it all.

******

viii. Away (Braiding Song)

Simple. Simple. Let be. But I wanted more.
 I dreamed to understand. Sought the secret,
the one embedded in every moment,
 in every game, every shadow.
Saw a good ass, sought a kind face.
 Saw skyfulls of stars, listened for the musics.

Simple. Simple. Let be. No answers here,
 just better & worse moves, words, reactions.
Do the wars burn themselves out, truths
 in their ashes? No. Just new wars.
I wanted more. I dreamed to understand.
 Anything at all, embedded in the moment?

Simple. Simple. Let be. I read many books,
 found many hid in them like I do,
here to expand safely, gaze the earth
 within & mull what here to grow.
I wanted more. I dreamed to understand.
 How can my musics soften the hard human world?

Simple. Simple. Let be. I got high,
 I drank & ate & chewed my mind wide,
to feel more me, feel past me, learn
 how to feel we, worst hours, hardest faces,
feel we. I wanted more. Dreamed everywhere.
 Immolated pen & paper to tell.

Simple. Simple. Let be. Embraced Beauty,
 solitary star hung upon desert of night,
embraced it all, but let nothing go.
 My old pages laugh & say jingles dangle
when you jangle up. What need to dream
 or understand more? Just jangle up.

Simple. Simple. Let be. I want more.
 I dream to feel true. What the fallen tree
tells me by its quiet passing. What the old man
 worrying about bread more needs.
What blunt & subtle consummates this world
 every hour, how my musics better harmonize.

******

ix. Obscura

Simple. Simple. Let be. This dream finds me
 running, running again, I shake, I sniff,
I sniff again. Always something tight, something
 pink in the air. Always something dead too,
loaming & loaming. Arriving, departing. Still
 running, I shake, I sniff, I sniff again.

A room, half dim, sleeping torso on a bed,
 I sniff, something tight, something pink.
Loaming & loaming. These hours taste old,
 taste sweet, I touch you through this dream.
I lay near you in bed, listen for your breathing,
 I touch your shoulder, a stir. Loaming & loaming.

Is it caress here? Is it hard want?
 A bedstand now, old song on a pink radio.
I move nearer to understand, I take
 you in some dreams, take you hard,
take you softer, which this, if any?
 The song now louder, you stir, which
dead are you? Which piece of my heart?
 I reach. A soft breast. A beautiful hand.
A long unheard voice. A remembered smile.

Simple. Simple. Let be. Good advice for
 the dying & dead. I pull you atop me,
man, woman, a beloved step, a taste.
 Sniff me, nudge me, breathe heavy
through me, fill my fingers, cock, & stars
 with new, unspent rhythms, go down
on me deep, spit me, fling me in the air,
 the woods, the moonlight, the sea.

I slow my running, slow, slow & stop.
 What you are, what I am, all of this,
remains untapped, uncracked, unhad,
 unclaimed. I roll into you, finally,
& wake in my own skin. Know nothing,
 know little, know nothing, & still try.
Hard shake of the bones, I still try.

******

x. Love is Violins, Tributes, & Ghosts

"That’s how the madness of the world
tries to colonize you: from the outside in,
forcing you to live in its reality."

--Jeff VanderMeer, Annihilation, 2014.

A breath. Resume. Close my hand-made book
 of rhythms, more pages bloodstick’d.
Wrap it thicker in leaves, green ones over
 the dried ones. Climb up to the road now.
Time to move.

From my pouch the herbs & powders set me
 into waking sleep. So to walk through the night,
seeing doubly, the visible land, the dreaming.
 Will the trees tell tonight, the stars above,
which will tell me why? Seeing doubly,
 then a push, a jerk, now singly. Ohh.

I walk between two lovers. The one shaped
 & shaded like music, the other music herself.
My hand to caress & heat, or shape
 the hot noise to pleated rhyme?
More or less my sliding eye, lashing,
 hard-cutting, or open-fistly ear,
smile-shivering tongue?

I love you both, long serve you both.
 You kneel near a fountain’s spray,
mixturing long strands of your hair,
 I watch, I listen. You are song,
there is music. Stars above us
 worshipped because hands were meant
to hold, but not given why.           

Another breath. Another. Walk on.
 Morning’s coming to the world & Dreamland
alike. My want for you enthralled in my bones,
 my sinews, my ongoing remain. Flesh pink
in the dawn, spasm, release. Open
 the hand-made book, leaves cast aside,
sing for my very life, sing it, sing it why.

******

xi. Natural Recovery

I don’t sleep tonight. It is still dark.
 No moon for why or light either.
Me to reck alone. The faces come
 unbidden, my mind unused to sleepless
hours, no defenses for their kind.
 They come, & they come.

My mother was a scholar, I’ve tried & failed
 to talk to her by books. Her office
lined to breathless ceiling but for
 one little item. A crumpled puppet,
shaped of an astronaut, made by
 my small hands, a present. The rest lost.

My father was a singer, he sold pots
 & pans by day from a cart, but at
night he moved from fire to fire,
 hut to hut, woods to field, singing,
leading, leading, songs of the moon,
 the full, fleshy round bottomed
lush lipped moon. Sang to her as
 he wished my mother to listen,
to receive.

The first girl I lived had hair so long
 it tangled between us, like it wanted
to join me in loving her, wanting her,
 entering her too, twisting into her moans,
slow to let me go, so slow, drown
 with me, drown with me, do.

My greatest teacher, leading me in hikes
 to dangerous croppings. Made me choose
among uncertain steps, choose, leap
 a little, not know, not know even more.
Since you’ve moved on, I look for the
 uncertainties, wonder where they are.

Other faces, hard, soft laughing.
 Women loving to be bitten, needing to be
bitten, bitten, kept. Keep me. Keep me.
 Love me & keep me long after I go.

Brothers, eventually uncertain my devotion,
 less with me as I go. More rain,
less moonlight. Less moonlight, more
 obsession with men as the whole of it.
I loose you each, nor let you go,
 my hand still open for each of yours.

The night’s dark hours are spent,
 here I am, in these quiet pale woods,
alone. All of you recede, as each of you
 had, & I nod, & keep breathing.
Keep breathing, only the blood & bone
 in me to compel, remember &
keep breathing, love & keep breathing,
 love you all, detritus of words &
touches & spasms, embrace myself
 like I was still a powerful young mystery,
& keep breathing.

******

xii. Memento

I read my old book: "It was departures
 as well as absences. It was faces present,
then omnipresent, then receding, then lost."
 No cover, no author. Keep as memory
of my bookish years, when I believed
 they could persuade fears, dissipate greed’s,
give men a special hope they could feed
 their hearts with.

I am letting go, letting be. Put better,
 letting else. These Woods no more fully waking
than I am. How to push it just a little more
 between us? What memories left to
let go, let be, let else?

Burn this old book too. Uncertain sky
 above, make my argument. Trees beautiful
& mostly indifferent about me. Burn it.
 Burn it with tenderness, page by
page, no hate. I give you Woods back
 these words, songs, sparks, snaps, let else.

Now the fire begun, take my clothes,
 my cloak, shirt, everything. Too many,
empires of lies by which rags upon
 the back, is her breast harnessed
for display, work, or consumption?
 Does he feed from the gardens or
their scraps, or less than this?
 The heat closer to my skin now,
loving it so. I’ve only a sack left,
 survival took so many tools.

Burns hours & hours, I lie close,
 fry a little too. Let else. Take me,
take me, take me. Not death, not quite,
 pull me in, pull me down, into dream,
into Dreamland, pull me down, pull me in.
 Invert me, me singing for you now,
invert me, my cock hard & pulling for you now,
 invert me, my breathing inside out,
my heartbeat letting else, hmmmmmm,
 letting else, burst smilingly, arrival.

******

xiii. All Flesh is Lorn

All flesh is lorn. All flesh needs love.
 Me to help make it so--

I let none but soft too near to me.
 Dressed in my frills, always new
or what my father the tinker could provide.
 I looked like my mother, his true love
years long gone, & served my needs as
 I hummed & bustled to her ghost’s song.

Let them each into my bedroom, once, let them
 see, let them sniff. Were they carrying
me to my ruffled bed, upon whose edge
 we sat? Did they pause by the window,
smell the wisps of salty sea? Not one
 a look at my books, the things on my shelves.

Twas my Aunt on those shelves, her books
 of witchly lore, her secret folded maps
between hand-made covers. Her juices
 to blind a man with rage, with lust,
or just blindness, if needed. This bed you
 would spread me upon was a prop,
a test, a boring test.

Moonlight, full moonlight, the two of us
 wet, nude, excited, singing the old songs,
ancestors from the stars, secret Islands,
 ur-tongues to speak with the trees,
the beasts, the wind, earth itself.
 Dance & jump, my small breasts but
I don’t wish, I feel our songs blow
 clear through the world, through me,
ceaseless, every fingertip, ohhh--

You grasp my hands, smile harder.
 Plea some imagined god my father
stay away an extra hour. I breathe
 too, a blue-pink powder, fill you full
& juicy, shrivel you panting dry,
 full, juicy, pant, pant, dry.
A soft whisper, your hand among
 my folds. Another, & you go.
Crawl. Remember, crawl, & go.

All flesh is lorn. All flesh needs love.
 Me to help make it so--

Something in me loosened in years.
 I didn’t want the hand to go, tell me
something true, true as your hard cock
 in my hand. Push this bed away,
paint me your want’s canvas.
 Teach you teach me the desolate path,
the humble shine from twined spasm
 to love.

That night I pushed away the bloomy powders,
 left my unwashed musk upon me,
the curtains opened, the bed its corner,
 & when you came for me, I lay me
on the map of the Island, its Tangled Gate,
 source of the world, & dared you come,
dared you come hard after me, nod & laugh,
 find me, find me, dare you find
what I am, dare you discover this new world?

******

xiv. Honey Now

My father the tinker would have me fill
 with the books he hadn’t. I would have
him brush my freshly washed hair most
 nights. His coarse, lonely hands clumsy
each time, but calm, & firelight, & me
 her young image in my upheld mirror.

He’d often stolen books for her, he’d laugh
 & redden & tell me over & over. "We had
no money, we were Travelers, but come
 to a town, a rich man’s open window."
Pause his brushings. Me not present.
 "Oh her devilish smiles & kisses those nights!"

So I filled up on books. My Aunt, the tinker’s
 witchly sister, luckily had books of
spells & potions & the secrets of trees &
 stars to keep me upon my studies.
Sometimes, though, I wished for myself
 the fate of my dear friend Honey Now.

Honey Now was blonde & blue-eyed with
 a smile to make & break hearts twice-over,
& a sweet high breast to keep even the girls
 dreaming & touching low in their beds.
Honey Now lay close in my bed &
 told only me her dark dreams.

"There is a starship buried under our
 village, deep in the earth," I brush
her long hair as the tinker had mine own.
 "The buildings have secret entrances
 to below. Our river a false bottom.
 Our beautiful park a stairway
deep down there. I’ve been all these
 places, in my dreams? I don’t know."

I would place my wet lips on her
 beautiful pink nipples, kiss her
to a soft moan, lucky down her tummy,
 draw her fingers & my tongue into
her maidenhair, make her cry out,
 long & slow. Once, my father the tinker
mistakenly came in. Not angry, not shocked,
 he nodded to me, gestured me continue,
was quickly gone.

A traveling lecturer came to our village,
 gathered his crowds to listen &
wonder at his travels & knowledge.
 "Alternative History!" he’d cry. "Doubt
 all your preachers & kings & any certain
 of the past, or future, or world at all!"

Honey Now trembled in my bedroom.
 Honey Now low-voiced urged me suck
harder, suck harder. Honey Now
 bit me hard, & came, & came again.
Honey Now, half naked, left to the
 night, I not where.

The lecturer traveled on & none
 saw Honey Now again. Some said
they went together. They didn’t know
 her like I did. I had caressed those high
breasts they hungered. I had tasted her
 every smiling juice. I knew she
would not leave the starship below.

I was quiet as the tinker brushed
 my hair. "You miss her, daughter.
You will follow her?" I nodded.
 He embraces me. He wanted to say
more. Hands me the hairbrush.
 "Now yours."

I chose the river as my route to follow.
 A good swimmer, I dove deep, it was
night & I used my fingers each time
 I reached bottom. Nothing. Rocks.
Weeds. Dive in. Again. More rocks.
 Nothing. Breathing hard.

Dive in again. There! A metal ring,
 pulling it, hard, & harder, afraid
to surface for breath, lose it again.
 Pulling, fuck! pulling! Then it came.
I pulled it open & climbed down,
 the water now following somehow.

Long dark metal steps into the earth.
 Eventually come somewhere,
like a building deeply interior to
 the world. Passageways, stairs,
more of them. Many doors, most
 leading to darkness & little else.

I don’t know how long I looked.
 Days, months? No day & night
that deep. What kind of starship
 was this? I began to tire deep down,
forget why I’d come, her taste
 on my lips, her voice in my heart.

I found Honey Now, finally. With
 the lecturer, in a bedchamber
of metals, leathers, chemicals,
 costumes, wide-eyed little beasts in cages,
found my Honey Now painted with
 snakes-blood, her hair braided with rings
& bones, her frame emaciated with hunger,
 hunger, hunger. Riding his big cock,
his face in wild pain with her rageful need.

He saw me at their door, his face
 plummeted, pain gone a moment.
Shook his head to me.

"Someday I will find a way to make
 my starship fly," she’d once said to me.
"All of us, flying the stars, free,
 forever." And kissed me. And kissed me
again. "Wouldn’t that be something? My dream!"
 Kissed me last. Fell asleep, smiling,
 against my shoulder.

******

xv. My First Boy

There was a Pensionne at the far
 end of our village, the one we settled
at for some years. While my father
 twined up his tinker’s trade, his sister
my Aunt found her work out there,
 tending its great gardens, endless lands.

Too free & full of my juices for
 my father to leave me on my own,
he sent me often to visit her as
 she labored. The gardens had long
been left to wilds, as though this best,
 as though prosperous for all.

My Aunt saw how neglect, interrupted
 by the occasional brutal scything of all,
had withered the place. She gave it
 a shaping hand, loving but hard
for awhile. Weeds welcomed to a degree,
 but no longer the bullies they’d become.
Clear the paths, prune the fruit trees.
 She worked this land from its best
energies, long sluggish & half-dormant,
 out. Romance the green. Taught me
simpler things. Like the hmmm.

Aunt eventually planted other seeds
 among the blooms, bushes, & trees.
Grew materials for her spells, potions,
 salves. Tended & tended. Hmmmmmm.
Told me of the beautiful, half-faerie
 beast who sometimes approached from afar.
"A black-striped white tiger with blue eyes,"
 she said, "A miracle in strength & kindness."

Sometimes I wandered the Pensionne
 itself, its many floors & hallways.
Travelers came there from all times
 & all lands, for rest, for sanctuary.
Sometimes their fears & fatigues undid
 themselves for a bonfire-high dance
in the Great Hall, roofless, all the stars
 too invited in. I watched bodies dance,
I watched bodies fuck. I watched
 sadness at lost or cut down loved ones.
All these passions resembled each other.

There was a boy. Did he belong to the
 owner or one of the Travelers?
He was younger than me, though still
 sniffed at what I was. But his face
wondered mine own as much, his hand
 not just to grasp & possess me, but touch,
feel me feeling with him.

He showed me places in the Pensionne
 I had not found, cloaked closets leading
to hidden rooms leading to new corridos.
 Older, these, earthen walls & floors.
Breathlessly quiet, then a pack of howls,
 vibrating ground, quiet again.

Up & down stairs less steps & more clusters
 of hard leaves, to less hallways
than branchy tunnels. We would wander
 till nightfall, I might hold his hand
  for balance, to guide, but always return
to make my father’s dinner, query his day.

He brought me to a strange clearing,
 reddish, like curtained. "Hum your songs
here," he said, reddening, confessing he’d
 heard me sing in the gardens with
my Aunt. I smiled, I looked around
 this green, growing place, the red tinge
from the leafy canopy above.

I closed my eyes & hmmmmmm’d for
 him, for him alone though I sensed
others gathered. I hmmm’d the girl
 in me for him, this is me touching you,
these are our hands grasping, this is
 my heart’s body opening to  yours.

He brought me there, again & again,
 & more shades crowded to hear.
Something in me hesitated, pulled back,
 I think he angered, wished me naked
reveal for him, before all. I would kneel,
 but for him alone. We did not return there.

Seeming resumed our wanders, him
 always knowing new places, now
grasping my hand always, urging me
 hmmmmmm when more often I felt
silence. Finally came to a chamber
 where he figured to claim my body
& perhaps lure back my heart.

A thousand candles. Stars & insects
 whirred through four walls. I did not
resist his lead to the bed, his kisses,
 too rough, too urgent, too desparate.
I would have ridden him, hard, to calm
 him, to hold him in place to just
look at me, but he wanted atop,
 he wanted drive.

It hurt. Girls know it will, & so resist,
 but curiosity too. And what when
I’ve been cleaved & bled? New pleaures?
 Power? Control? New release
when not mine own fingers at it?

He drove & drove into me & I moved
 him just a bit with my hips. His face
 so beautiful, so anguished. I must
 have you. I love you. I must have
you whole. I love you. You’re mine.
 I cum so hard inside of me we both
caterwaul with this rending. This goodbye.

Are there wet camel’s lips or a good bulge
 as I dress afterwards? He says one
things, & another, or maybe doesn’t.
 The man in him has won over the boy.
I stay apart from him thereafter, when
 I must visit my Aunt in the gardens.

Stay apart as yet I yearn his touch,
 his mouth, his sweet hard cock.
Her soft breasts, wild cries, deep
 wet cunt. Again & again in my bath
I feel a young woman’s shaped flesh,
 how it responds to touch. Yet in me
too is a bone of fire, deeper than mind,
 remembering how she smiled, how she
spread her legs to my command. How
 it felt to possess me even this hour,
this moment, a want to tame my
 starlight, that much, that failed.

******

xvi. Asoyadonna

There was war. There’s always a war,
 is it far, is it near, is it your front door?
When occupiers come, some Travelers
 fight, some travel on. My father & Aunt
divided me among them, she stayed
 with her gardens, refugees where she
led them far. My father & I left.

All humen are kind but this seems more
 a belief among most than a strategy
to survive & endure. My father sought us
 Travelers. Feared what others, anyone,
would do to me.

That last night, a cave in the mountains,
 so cold a fire risked, he told me
what of his life I could use. He’d fed me
 most of what little we caught, picked,
smiled at me so tenderly I worried.
 "What’s wrong?"

"They say daughters grow up to resemble
 their mothers, that makes their fathers
love them more dearly." His face
 in shadows, words among crackles
& snaps.

"I don’t wish you her life at all.
 Wars were even more common then.
I met her on the road, a far country
 road, I was on the run, but not her."

He laughs. "She had a knife ready for me
 when we met up that day. I told her
if she wouldn’t conscript me, I would
 defend her safety, not compromise it."

Silence. "She smiled. Then she fell into
 my arms, starving & exhausted.

"It took awhile to get her story.
 Why that road? A farm somewhere
near, relative of her fiancé."

"Did you find it?"
She nodded. Pressed closer to me,
 in the hidden grove of trees
we’d found to camp. A strange man
 to her, on the run, it had been
  that bad.

He looks me straight through our fire.
 "Women live in the very furies of men’s
souls. They will try to love you,
 they will try to hurt you, the flesh
they tend or tear is their own."

I want to hug him. I want to calm
 him for all this. My heart hurts
wildly for his story, his voice.

"She showed me her hairbrush one night.
 I fell in love with her from the moment
she’d fallen into my arms. I stopped running
 away & began looking for protection
for her." He laughs. "She practically
 had to tear my clothes off the first time
when it finally happened."

I laugh. So glad for them.

"The hairbrush. When she’d gotten
 to the farmhouse, it’s what she
most wanted. Saw it in the
 bedroom he led her to, payment
for food & shelter. It was OK till
 he hurt her. Not sex. Just a taste to
make suffer."

The silence. Snaps. Crackles. "She told me
 she got lucky, his neck snapped cleanly.
She told me if she hadn’t shifted an inch
 when he came upon her the hardest time,
it would be her dead in that farmhouse."

Now he’s sitting next to me. Holding
 my hand. Putting a small, lovely ivory
hairbrush in my hand. Some of her strands
 still in it. Smiling. So beautiful. Urging
me to sleep.

Something he arranged happened.
 I was given safety, suddenly, many new
people, feeding me, tending me
 without my mother’s paid price.

But he was gone. Travelers know what
 they can take on, as much as they can,
& still survive. That line divided between
 my father & me.

I mourned him. I didn’t leave his side.
 I listened to his words from that night,
again & again. My life’s education in
 other hours, many miles. My body’s
too complex to easily tell. My heart’s
 education in his rough tinker’s hands.
I brush my hair long & beautiful, slow, every night.

******

xvii. Don’t Bend

At first I am kept with the other children
 in the caravan, given simple things
to do, sort berries, husk nuts. I say nothing.

Then we camp outside a larger village,
 one the elders say is friendly to our
presence, there are tasks to be done,
 should we linger. Launderers, horsegrooms,
servants for the holiday parties.

I am reassessed. My breasts deemed full
 enough for a bodied to show them,
a serving girl position in the mayor’s house.
 Mansion. I’m one of many but his son
notices me. Favor for all for acquiesce.

In his too frilly & ruffled bedchamber
 he struggles to undress me, tho I willing.
Flaccid against my wide open hips. "Why don’t
 you fight back?" he hisses.

I nod, flip him to his back, a hand & mouth
 on his cock before he can know.
He is a sweet, quick suck & so grateful,
 confuses unpaid whoring for love.

Over the nights I harden his confidence
 although not enough to take me.
Yet my mouth ‘pon him pleases him,
 & so I try his ‘pon mine in thankee.

He licks, he sucks, we both struggle with this.
 "I want to do what you do to me"
his voice brokenly hoarse with confession.
 So sweet, so desperate, so lorn. I wish
to please him, to salve him, to tender him,
 so. Wish, want to please him, so.

His sucks upon me now strong, now deep,
 tongue dragging up & down my shaft
while I moan & moan again, finally
 slowly, less slowly, wildly, letting go.
Then he finds my ass to his pleasing,
 my groans harsh, suffering, sate.

We sleep twined. His hand holding my--
 gone before dawn.

I wish to say the word love as some
 romances do. I wish to say anything
but how curious dirty eyes saw our treasured
 coupling, & how I nearly hung or burned,
& how our caravan fled wildly to just
 the thought of the mayor’s son feasting my beautiful cock.

And me? The young girl ready to give
 or take it both? When the Travelers
assembled finally, days & miles from there,
 I was given a pack of food, & a knife,
allowed my hairbrush by someone’s begging,
 & turned out to the road. I was cursed
to walk alone, no family, no protection
 from the world’s raw wants, & how
it would take what offered, or not.

I had only my memory of the mayor’s son,
 beautiful mouth riding my cock apparition,
swallowing me, swallowing me, so happy
 to feel my veined hardness by his cheek
& lips, so happy to taste my seed
 ‘pon his tongue, so happy, in memory,
against all the lonely married years to come.

******

xviii. White Tiger

I’m unable to stay a place long.
 Come to villages a woman laborer,
willing to plant, to pick, to scrub
 for little, willing when a manicured
hand lifts my skirt, a few thrusts in
 me but I don’t pretend to fear or enjoy.

And always the man who sees something
 else in me, flames around a doorway
he would walk or leap or fall through, but
 not yet. I let these men bandit into
my heart, let empathy, not eros,
 lead me to their barns, their woods,
their happiness at a hard cock in them,
 or just astride their cheeks, or theirs
in me. For them I moan, remember
 my first boy, my Honey Now, feel something.

The women less often, less needful
 of me because what men will pay
to watch, women will find chambers
 to enjoy without a hundred hands
& pairs of eyes sweaty & pulling.
 Some of these men still tasting my sweet cum.

Yes, I make my way back toward my village,
 lost home, Aunt, Pensionne. It is years
but the war moves on. I return at night,
 not by the front door, but the gate,
tis still there, leads me into the garden.
 Mean to find a place to sleep,
encounter my Aunt first by calmer day.

The garden looks bigger at night,
 looks prosperous, the presence of
weed patches among the blooms & tress
 is my Aunt’s signature. She crooned
to them especially, unloved,
 remarked how their lives not unlike
Travelers, survive, endure, rarely bloom.
 With her, they tamed, they bloomed.

Did the hours to come really occur?
 I was just about to my sleep,
my blanket & clothes wrapped about me,
 a loose bush my cover, when a flash
took my glance. I stood, ready to fight
 or surrender, but standing. But away
went the figure, rapidly. Forgetting myself,
 I followed, rapidly, strangely shed
my shoes, my clothes, faster, &
 faster, now calling, me calling!

"Please! I am no danger! Who are you?
 Please! Don’t go!" Pleading, crying,
I slow, defeated, wordlessly sad of this.

He approaches. Slowly. Large, silent.
 A beast, padding nearer to me.
I don’t move. Yet don’t fear. Blue eyes,
 the color of deep sea. White fur,
long black stripes. Kindly, curious,
 afeared. I rise to a crouch, holding
out my hands. Approach. He sniffs me,
 twice, & nears. His fur remembers me
happiness, all what lost, all what lost.

I look deep into his blue eyes, &
 find past fear, curiosity, a calm,
a timeless calm, & I hug his great body
 closer as I can, & I listen, &
I twice listen, & I hear it, I hear
 the hmmmmmm I know so well,
what I’ve rare in years tried in me,
 it pulls my heart in & I croak,
I whisper, I cough. Try again. Choke a little.
 Try again. Hmm Hmmmmmm
Hmmmmmm. We meld into song,
 voice into voice, no longer girl &
beast, one song, we too are one.

Long deep hours & I sleep & I dream
 of my new friend as he carries me
back to my bush, my clothes, my things.
 Curls around me as the light
pads in, as softly, as curiously,
 as powerfully as he did.

I wake & wonder where my friend’s fur
 has gone! Where his stipes? What this
human form now? Where his own
 gorgeous one?

She waits. Knows. The White Tiger’s
 encounter is gift from other times,
his touch a magick few know.
 She gathers me up & quiet & unseen
into a chamber. Comes to see me
 often as I writhe. As his face
lays securely upon my heart even
 as my eyes release to see in
common light again.

She holds me as I cry new. "This is
 only the beginning, my child,
my sweet. He will never leave you,
 & you will find your path hereon."
Closes the door, returns to her work,
 I see your eyes, loving me. Shudder. Shudder. Miracle.

******

xix. Anomaly

In dreams, I am negotiating with a snake,
 riding slow down a parchment of paper,
a line, a purple line down its edge,
 curls & loops near the bottom, & arrives
at the bottom of the page flourishing into
 the image of the hooded purple snake.
"Sign!" I say. "Sign!" I command, to seal
 my promise that the snakes may come
again, & our strong poisons will not kill them all.

Awake strange to daylight, dry-mouthed,
 uncertain everything. Listen. No sounds
in the hall. My Aunt has hid me well.
 Wait. Wish I dreamt of White Tigers
not purple snakes. Regrets. Lonely.

She comes at night, when her many tasks
 are finished. Brings me stale bread,
fruits, nuts. Water. As though me still
 a child, she pulls my garments &
things from me & tumbles me into
 a large basin. Scrubs me good,
scrubs me with love. Learns my body
 again, tender spots, what worn, what calloused.

Instructions to lift, to bend, to hold,
 nothing else. Finally, I speak.

"What am I, Aunt?"
"What?"
"What am I?"
She pauses, looks at me. Her dark hair
 in a long thick braid down her back,
her black eyes, shrewd, fearful, kind,
 ever watching. Speaks softly at last.

"What do you think you are?"
"I’m a girl."
"Yes."
"But sometimes like a man too."
Says slowly: "Tell me."

I take her hand from sponging my shoulders
 & lead it down between my legs.
Close my eyes & think of the mayor’s son,
 his voice, his touch. Grow heated. Grow hard.

She gasps. "It’s . . . beautiful."
"What  . . . am . . . I?"
She lets me go slowly. "An experiment."
"Experiment?"
Stands me up, towels me off, a deep soft robe,
 leads me to my bed, a brush down
my long auburn hair, long, slow strokes.
 Which brush? I wonder dreamily. I trust
she will tell me what I need.

"You’re from Emandia, a place far from
 here, & now dead & cold. You came here
with many others. Your father & I
 took care of you because this is part
of what Travelers do. Why we travel.
 To nurture you & then let you make
your way. Integrate."

"Why?"
She shakes her head. Stops & starts brushing
 again. "I don’t know."
"Why am I made so?"
"They could not understand male & female.
 One or the other. Why not neither? Why not
  both?"
"Don’t they have male & female?"
"No. Their bodies form & mold by wish,
 by need, for pleasure, for purpose."
"Thus I am?"
She smiles sadly at me. "It didn’t work here.
 The chasm won’t be breached." Then she
bustles me under covers & out the light.

"Shall I stay with you, Aunt?"
"No. Your home is here but not your path."
"Where shall I go?"

A voice soft in my ear. "I don’t know
 your days to come, but I do know
where you are finally bound."

Long silence. Then: "The Tangled Gate."

******

xx. Last Night at Pensionne

Again, dreaming of the purple snake.
Always negotiating down the parchment,
 conclude with the signatures, cessation
  of the poisons. Peace.

I push a little, impatient. Wave about us
 a Woods, a skyfull of heavy stars, heavier
  moon. Cold night. Warm fire between us.

Now you. You are large, tall as me as
 you are risen up, hood wide about you
  like a sail. Dark, diamond eyes snapping
in the sparks. As knowing as me.

"This is not my dream of you."
Low, hissy, very masculine: "Nor mine of you."
"Why do we keep meeting to negotiate?
What poisons must I agree to cease?"
Quiet. Grappling for words in my tongue.

Then: "Men poison the world by their nature.
 The root amongst each other, not the earth
or the trees, the water or sky."
"I’m not a man."
"No. Perhaps why I try with you."
"What are you?"
Rising higher up before me, shading out stars
 & moon & the sky itself. "I am what
you fail to see in daylight, the beautiful
 power of this world, its fragile, its pathos!"
"What can I do? I don’t know my place
 in the world!"

Fading, fading now, morning. Have I slept
 all night in this garden? Cold, achey.
Yet a sense of the purple lingers & I see
 tis the flecks in the blue eyes of
the approaching White Tiger. My friend!

He lays himself warmly around me
 beneath the oak tree above us.
"I’m still dreaming."
No reply.
"You’ve come to say goodbye." A lean closer.
"What am I to do?"
Speaks, such a beautiful animal’s voice. "Find the others."

For awhile, both of us quiet. I am willing
 to sleep, to keep him near to me.
But then, no, a thought. "What is the Tangled Gate?"

He sings in my mind now, hmmms with pictures,
 lavishes pictures in my mind, too many
of them, I try to slow & look at just one.
 Tis a Hummingbird, like from the old stories,
first taught men to sing, & some say we will remember
 our first song again one day, & fly away.

I follow the Hummingbird through Woods,
 deep, pathless woods, & come out to behold
a monstrously tall Gate but, afraid, I shift
 my eye away, lose it, continue alone,
& now come to a great black cave where
 I feel the White Tiger would lead me but,
again, I am afraid, his hmmming shifts,
 is another’s, one I cannot see, then a
tiny twittering thing, cackling perhaps.
 Paths, possibles. I close my eyes. I do not know.

"Please, my friend, who are the others?
 How do I find them?" I feel his mercy
encompass me, his empathy. I live
 among men & women, am shaped like them,
I don’t know other ways to be.

He brings me to the road leading
 from the Pensionne into the village
& out to the world. Empty fields, woods,
 ever moving, till come to a harbor,
come to a boat, & there a man, face
 kept from me, wearing a long leather coat,
carrying a strange walking stick with
 him. Boarding his passage. "Go, my love!"

I wake in my bed. There the tea cup I’d
 drunk last night. Earth creatures of my
Aunt’s, a few spices, an herb or two.
 My things clean, packed, a second bag
I guess from her.

I wash. I dress. I trust. I go.

******

xxi. Sueños

We are among the passengers crowded
 into the Captain’s quarters. No bed,
no writing table. Buckets of water
 alter with stools across the room,
& on the walls, & on the ceiling.
 Queer magick tied to the leaping
prowess of our tiny captain, an inch
 high. A wide-eyed panda bear in
a blouse & skirt? Well, so.

["Just sueños," my Aunt would call
 this. Sleep or dreams." But her crooked
smile, more, if I liked.]

We new passengers, arrived this morning,
 were led to these quarters, arrayed
across the wall next the doorway.
 Half dozen of us, about, & the man
from my dreams among us. Face still turned.

I wait. The Captain leaps with a cackling
 cry from a stool the far end of the room,
into a bucket of water & out to the next
 stool, in & out & leap on, over & over,
until she nears the wall & cackling
 wildly lands in the bucket affixed
the wall, its water held in as though
 spelled, thence the bucket
hanging from the ceiling, splash! & then a
 long leap to the far wall’s bucket
& splash! & finally back to the landed
 buckets, now faster a circuit through,
& up, & high, & over, & back, & a third
 pass so blurring she is gone before
we know to know. Gone.

There is silence among us. The ship is
 far out from port now, this display
strange but not threatening. We file
 out like a bard has fallen his
last curtain, & each of us to his own room.

["Sueños, my sweet. This world full
 of them. Ours to embrace, to follow,
or let ourselves grow dull & old.]

I sit in my room, my old thin mattress,
 my window a porthole my fist would
hardly go through, my hours’s view of grey day
 passing over endless water. I don’t
know what I am but there is a man
 who may.

I stumble the hallway, wondering
 which closed door is his. A woman
knocking at any might as well drop
 her cloths & name her price. But his
is open. Him asleep at a table.
 A candle’s light shows the maps
& books he had studied.

But what strange than a sleeping man
 are the shades & figments about his head!
Owls, bats, flying things nameless & vile,
 silently swarm about him, fading
in & out, emerging from him somehow?
 Suddenly flee, one & all, before a bigger
thing, a great powerful Beast that
 seems to see my spying & lunges
toward me. I cry, yet somehow
 do not fall back.

["Sueños, no more, no less, but what
 are they? Would you turn away any
offered power?"]

In this chaos’d moment I find our wee
 Captain at rest & smiling in the palm
of my left hand! And the sleeping
 man looking at me curiously, standing
in his doorway.

"Ta-da!" she cries, bites my palm
 for departure to the floor, & skitters
on her way.

The man still gazing me, I redden,
 apologize. "You cried out from your
sleep." He nods, smiles. "Just sueños,
 Miss." Stands, walks over, but then
"good night" & closes the door.

Returning to my room, my bed,
 my questions. Sway & creak of this
old ship lands me slow to sleep,
 still in my woman’s clothes, even as
I feel my body shift uncertainly,
 growlingly between a want to bed that man
& maybe a deeper one to friend him,
 learn his maps & his plans, align
my own, discover how to guard
 his sueños ever against his mind’s
nighttime wilds, its frenzied fissures.

******

xxii. Aunt’s Gift, Part 1

The days pass. I do not see the dreaming man
 again. Even come the exciting hour when
  the old ship reels side to side, & all
   careen up to the deck. The mate steering us
  wildly among a forest of furious spouts
 pluming high from the sea, half as tall
as the ship itself, blocking us on all sides.

Exciting because the long unseen Captain
 appears with a wicked cackle of delight,
  orders all stop though we’d just cleared
   to safety, & she leaps from the boat into
  the nearest plume. Sucked in, shot out,
 & into the next, & the next, till she has
completed her circuit, & leaps back onto deck.

"Ta-da!" We nod, clap, cry out.

I won’t knock his door, & do not lucky
 find it open again. The endless waters
  tire me, as does the seeming futility
   of my voyage. Even the secret winks &
  happenstance caresses at table do not
rouse me. Blue as the sea. Bluer.

Then I happen into the second bag Aunt packed
 for me, in it a sewed-up side-pocket.
  Barely visible, yet stitches so thick
   my pocket blade barely cuts them.
Inside a cloth bag, & a note:

"Asoyadonna, my love: may you find
 this sack & note when your path
  has become uncertain, & despair
   nibbles at your ankles. As you recall,
    both answers & new questions will come
   of the tea. But you will be renewed,
  whichever comes, spine straighter,
 chest out, eyes bright & hands open
to what you must do next. With love, Aunt."

The well-tied sack, when opened, tells
 its secret with a sniff. Full of Aunt’s
  plumpest earth creatures, dried, &
   small metal flasks of herbs & spices.

I wait. A day. Another. I wish to be sure,
 am sure, hesitate. But he does not appear
  at table, & the Captain reveals
   no more distracting tricks.

My choice: prepare the tea of earth creatures
 or begin to consume between my thighs
  my fellow ragged, smelly, flaccid-brained
   passengers. I filch a teapot from
  the kitchen, heat its waters hours
 after dinner, when all are sea-bottom drunk
or sinking slowly to its depths, & return to my room.

******

xxiii. Aunt’s Gift, Part 2

Some candles to give my midnight chamber
 a little dance, put the shadows to
  their play. I brew a third of Aunt’s
   sack, & pour into a slender green & gold
  tinted cup from the Mayor’s mansion.
 A smiling gift from his dear son, we
naked & sated studied its intense symbology
 in the barn’s biggest moonlight shaft.
  He touched round the rim, laughing,
   made it hmmmmmm.

I greet the earth creatures in my cup,
 thank them for this night, this world,
  melding with me in this drink,
   herbs & spices smoothing its bitter,
    I sip, I smile, I think of my loves
   & travels, of Honey Now leaning against
  my shoulder, my father the tinker brushing
 my hair, telling me funny stories of playful
Creatures who only come out in dreams
 to sing & dance, of my Aunt teaching me
  to stand straight, thrust out my chest
   in pride, pull in my lip when not
    offering my invitation. Of the Captain
   of this old ship, an inch & a mile
  high in her daring & delights. Height
 of shortness, & best portrait of gaming
glee, it’s easy, it’s fun. It’s so easy.

Of the mysterious man from my dreams
 & what nightmares he must have for
  them to burst from his very skull.
   What flew about him was not playful,
  not happily of this good earth, but
 vengeful, & yet that Beast did not scare
me, I did not jump back--

I remember a beautiful pale Woods
 I once traveled, alone, yet
  it did not scare me. I remember
   stopping, completely still, in a
  clearing, stopping still. What scares me?
 these trees? No. Not knowing what I am,
what I am for, what to do, yes.
 What scares me is that my shape
  & form, my mortal time, my options,
   my ignorance, these render my fate!

I return to the shack where we are
 hiding out, upstream from our pursuers,
  the several of us. Someone talks of a ferry
   approaching us but another says:
  no, we blew it up. We have no heat
 in the shack & sleep cuddled like Creatures.
Long months of flight have grained a fear into
 our skins, an unhappy scent, together
  even more potent, & yet we huddle close.

The witches come by deep night,
 no moon, they take our leader away,
  strip him to his cock, poison him
   to harden it for their pleasure,
  threaten to cut it off if he will not
 comply, now on a dirty floor,
legs spread, each one he fucks takes
 a piece of him, till he is all scream &
  cock, I have to leave, I run,
    the air will not enter my lungs,
  I vomit black bile, again & again,
 my mouth fills with metal shards,
I puke & puke & cry out, three witches
 vaguely chase me, then five, then many--
  I cry wildly--

He’s with me, as I see double: lie vomiting
 bile on the hard ground of the Woods,
  a sword in his hand, bloody with many
   witches’ heads; lie on my back,
  soaked in my puke, not black but so
 much, gurgling, crying, words not words,
he holds me close, settles me.

He undresses me, washes me thoroughly,
 warming my shivers, changing my
  bedclothes, closer & closer, I try
   to listen, he is making sounds,
  he is hmmming close to me,
 he is smiling. He is smiling at me.
Old boat rocking in the sea, him rocking me to sleep.

******

xxiv. White Birch

"When all your bright scarlet turns slowly to blue,
will you stop & decide that it’s over?"
--Townes Van Zandt, "Sad Cinderella," 1972.

In my dream’s dream, I am walking,
 seeming again, as though quite often,
with Aunt & my dear White Tiger friend,
 somewhere beyond Aunt’s Garden, where
the Woods begin. "You’ll know these
 White Woods again, child," Aunt says,
"with other beloved ones in your company."

They hesitate to my will but I nod,
 we enter, I am nude, good to feel
this place with all I have, what
 its honesty, what its trickeries.

There are of these . . . none. It is plainly
 beautiful & now I hear its hmmmmmm
easy & true. I look at Aunt, her severe
 loving face, the White Tiger, his blue eyes
loving me, feeling me deep down. "Why
 did I fear this place? What was
I missing? What am I missing now?"

Aunt holds my hand as we walk deeper,
 no paths here to follow, the White Tiger
on my other side, close to my needful
 touch. I know into awareness that
this is vision, this is dream. They are
 with me, now, they are very far.
They love me. This how they tell.

Come to a clearing deep in these
 White Woods. One tree in its center,
several close-growing trunks. I approach,
 touch the one main glowing trunk, broken bark,
warm to it, look up, count six leaves
 among its bare branches.

I look fiercely at Aunt, at my White Tiger
 friend. "Tell me it! Tell me the it
you would give me, have me know! Please."

They speak, like one voice. "Release
 to the Gate. As much as you will
want to resist, release. Release it all."

I want to know more, to ask more,
 but I find my mind’s bones staggering
toward waking, a what? a refugee camp,
 people are strangers to each other,
how will we join? How do kin become?

I wake. Disappointed, my bed, my cabin.
 Cleaned up & tucked in, mostly as the
dreaming man had left me. Last of
 daylight through my port window.
Wishing I could have more earth creatures
 for tonight, knowing would be awhile.

A commotion outside my door, many
 on the stairs up to the deck, voices,
laughter. I follow, hoping the dreaming
 man among them.

No usual ship’s deck to be found,
 ‘tis criss-crossed with planks, atop
which in great number the buckets
 of water & little stools last seen
in the Captain’s quarters.

Her newest trick? We crowd into corners
 & free spaces to wait & watch. But
she does not appear. Wait, wonder,
 grow bored.

Then, from the clouds above, a great
 full moon appears, riding high monarch
in the dark starry skies. And then,
 perhaps of course then, we hear
a delighted cackling midst our number.

As grand & tiny as ever, her smile
 delight’s definition itself, yet the Captain
does not commence her trick. Gazes us
 one then the other, then back again,
peering, recking, mockingly fond,
 the Captain looks & looks. Then a single soft word.

"Together," she says.

Her leaping, cackling cry follows her as
 she lands in & out of the first bucket,
& onto stool, & leap & splash & again!

Good. Good. Together. Hiking myself
 onto the nearest plank, then stool,
I cry it all & into the nearest bucket
 of water, & am stuck. And climb out.
But I get up on the next stool & this
 time discover one must hit the water
already leaping toward the next stool!

Leap in the past tense! Leap having already
 leaped! Leap & splash as one, &
again, & again, until leaping & splashing
 from every bucket & stool in concert,
one, none, many. I knew not what
 it meant but I leaped like splashing,
splashed like leaping, & cackled my joy!

They join me, too, these disparate
 passengers on this strange boat.
Some more clumsy, others deft, but
 all of them cry & leap & splash
& know this each his own way but
 under that great imp’s moon
we leap & splash & laugh as one.
 Even the hatless dreaming man appears.

Come morning, the planks & buckets & stools
 stowed, the deck glistening for
departure, the Captain her smiling
 but quiet kind again. Prompted by
a sudden notion, I hold out my hand
 to her as before, let her board &
graw a time or two. Thank you.

My two bags in hand, down to land
 again, missing this boat already,
when who at my side but the dreaming
 man. A smile, an offer to take my heavier bag.
Speaks, explains as much as he ever will.

"Dreamwalker."
"Asoyadonna," I explain in reply.
He wears a long coat, but again no hat.
 I wonder if they slow his velocity
  in dreaming. Nearly ask.

The port we arrived is our boat’s
 terminus, & had not Dreamwalker
approached me, I don’t know what
 I would have done. Maybe, looking back now,
trying to remember that wondering thing I was,
 I knew we would meet.

Yet the expected advance at dinner,
 at my inn’s room door, didn’t come.
I would not bind this man to me between
 my legs.

A tropical clime, its beach long, white
 with singing sands. I walked it, little
clothed, sniffed at by bachelors, husbands,
 maidens, wives. Dreamwalker not
among them. How? What approach?
 A man’s aggression? A woman’s smiling
elusiveness?

Finally, I knocked. He answered, smiling,
 expecting. His room like what he had
on our ship. Writing table, books, &
 his bed.

Succumbing to honesty, I told him
 who & what I was.

"I don’t know how we are connected,
 what we owe each other, if aught,
but my friend led me to you."
"Do you trust him?"
"Yes. With all I am."
Pause. "I do too. And your Aunt."

I start. "You know her?"
He grimaces. "In dreams alone I have
 met her & your beautiful beast friend.
Says no more. "Tell me, sir."
Still. "Tell me! Please."

He reveals from the long sleeve of
 his coat a letter. "This she dictated
to me in several dreams. It is for
 you." He looks sad.

"Read!"
"Would you not rather have its contents
 in your solitude?"
"No. Read."

He unfolds the letter, pauses, again,
 & then reads in low slow voice:

"Asoyadonna--It cripples my heart
 to tell you that your father has died.
I don’t know many details but that
 he loved & thought of you to the last,
& caused word to travel to me.

"The man who delivers you this sad
 news you can trust with your all.
Together you will find others on your
 path. Love him as brother by my wish,
& let him keep you from your worst
 doubts & nights. Love always, Aunt."

Dreamwalker held me that night, &
 many sad others, as I learned again &
again my father the tinker was gone.
 Did love come upon us, by our embraces,
our walks, the stories I told of how
 I arrived to him, the beach singing,
the moon again so full?

Something. Something else. Sleeping together,
 dreaming together, trusting, trusting down
deep, we together walked the White Woods
 hand in hand, sometimes leaping & laughing
like our old Captain. My heart shared
 open with him. Call it whatever. Call it love.

Till the dream we came to the clearing
 I’d come before with Aunt & my beloved
White Tiger. The whitest of trees, as then.

"’Tis the White Birch, my dear heart,
 my Asoyadonna," said he, smiling.
"It betokens renewal, tolerance.
 Initiation. Our next journey together."

Points up, to the six remaining leaves.
 "We’ve others to find." Points then
to the edge of the clearing. A dark man,
 there, I start. Standing at an easel.
Intent upon us, intent upon his canvas.
 Intent most, I think, upon this tree.

******

xxv. Self-Portraits, While Painting

[But then you might be me . . . me too?
What of me I do not know, what are you?
You don’t look like me, do what I do.
Why do we connect only in dreams,
 can there be more, will there be more again?
Can there again be waking music between us,
 a song between us? Will you sing?
Will you sing to me in dreams, again,
 will you wake with me to our song?]

“Francisco, wake up, my love!”
 Eyes, some eyes, a girl’s eyes, love,
  want, fear, for a moment I am soft,
   then impatient, then stone again.
She watches me transform but does
 not cover herself from me.

“You cry out so.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ll go?” Hoping my next expression is lust.
 Why shouldn’t it be? Dark-haired, long
  & curvy, dark-eyed, a body other men
 would devise in madness to touch, to hold.

She knows to leave without fuss or
 affections. Yet will wear through her day
the dress & lace I sweated through,
 cummed on, bit, kissed.

I let her sweat & cum, her low potent scent,
 remain too on my skin as I stand nude
before my new canvas. Nude save the hat
 on my head, the long-ago gift from the
old woman you belonged to, long-ago you,
 given me after she told my fortune,
given me after she agreed to let you
 pose for me, bed you by my wish.

“She’s a beauty.” Sips her tea & stares at me.
 We sit in her ramshackle hut on wheels,
filled with scarves, & strange tools, & stranger
 scents. Half of it a shared bed, the rest a small
table, a stove, shelf of books, candles, maps.
 “But for the loss of her right foot.”

Sip in reply. “And the bloody splotch on
 her left shoulder.” She nods. Calculates
her cards & coins. Mutters her song, more
 click-clicks & cackles than words. My offer
will be taken, but the old crone will have
 her superstitious say.

You buck at lowering your blouse for me.
 Would show your pretty breasts to the street
before fully baring me your splotch.

I nod. Point to the money. “Take it.
 Go. Thank your Aunt for me.”
“She’s not my Aunt.” A bit of fire.
“Go.”

We stall until I paint you nude from a peculiar
 angle. Until I carry you to my bed but in
full darkness. Until I am licking your splotch
 over & over, you cumming on my command
to each . . . slow . . . lick.

Once trained up to candlelight, a lover
 by turns wild & quiet. Your breasts roar
by my touch, your hips shift & buck in
 wet whispers to my fingers, tongue, cock.
A virgin before my touch yet nothing
 spooks your mind or body. Scarves, oils,
cuffs, made to moan, fucked in silence.
 My wiser body gives ever more to you,
chases, surrounds, burns, buries, salves
 you, even as my fool mind eludes & wonders,
my heart burrowing for what last bit
 of you I cannot claim, so I hold a bit
back too. You are grateful, sweet. I raw for more.

Bring to my small room with its tall window
 to Woods, mountains, sea, your not-Aunt’s gift,
the strange, square, velvety green hat,
 roomy, close, soft, like wearing a calm pet.
I make you wear it the first time I roll you
 over, ass high. Words crawl to your lips, a singing,
as I drive slowly inside you. “Are we . . .
 the same? . . . Francisco, my lover? . . . Do we . . .
feel as one?” Not breathing, not seeing,
 I carve your buttermilk ass with my knife.

In a later painting I make of you,
 you are restored but for a hole in your thigh,
a piercing straight to the black cosmos
 the old woman had said I would often know
in dreams, & soon enough in my death.

I had to drive you off, your words,
 your splotch. Pay no more for pretty cripples.
I do not die soon, but often dream of
 that black cosmos, enough red wine,
enough rough nameless loving, extra
 paid for silence & scarves.

Were you me? Are you me too?
 Are we the same? You come to me
in dreams, in mirrors, in wind,
 in music. I wake up humming but will not
part my lips to let your words free.

It takes me years to find the violet tint
 at the edge of that black cosmos,
to feel how I can use this like an oil,
 lighten the cosmos (are we the same?
will you sing to me?), lighten, lighten,
 carefully, my eyelashes like a brush,
reveal a little, a little more, reveal more,
 the black cosmos, just your face, your eyes,
your voice, your shoulder, your thigh,
 your missing foot. You sing, I push the last
of the tint across my canvas, you sing
 to me, of a Beast, a Tower, a sea,
an Island, a Gate, no rest for me,
 no rest ever for me.

******

xxvi. Two Women Embracing

Four walls & a ceiling or roof, a castle or hut,
 the world will keep oncoming, slowly,
& by surprise—oncoming till you leap
 into it or let it take you. This world
takes back what you borrowed, called a life.

I give painting lessons to bored young girls,
 more eager for life’s touch & bite than
the by-turns immolating & workman moments
 of an artist’s cloister. I resist them a long time
after you are gone, their sugar smiles, half-
 lowered blouses. Getting close again would
hurt me more than any of these.

I dream of you in my small chamber
 with the tall window. Growing number
of unfinished canvases. Growing scents of
 a dozen girl students & their invitations.
Each has both feet, no splotches or holes
 in thighs to the black cosmos. Just minds,
tits, curious cunts. Hearts if I would,
 if I could again.

No, I roam my dreams for you, where
 you are, what becoming. Powders & herbs
in my teas at night. Glimpses at best.

Finally I let my students lead me.
 The young always chase the best highs
of an age. I being to smile, to admire,
 let mine eyes play amongst thine eyes,
amongst thy loose garments.

I pick the one who seems to know the most.
 Her paintings are violent, brazenly sexual.
I teach her use her lesser hand, for uncertainty,
 lighter touch, lean back from her canvas.
I will her with my vague wish for long-haired
 women, with longer dresses still, who have
something in them worth winning.

I make her crush her cherry passions
 for powder, paint with more than her body,
with a crying empathy for the suffering,
 green world, feel it, think it, be it,
make the art that salves the world.

When I tell her I love another mercilessly,
 I expect her to blood, bone, & burn me
for it.

She looks at me. Twice. A man honest
 to her? Yes. Something in her becomes
all those fool words about Art & empathy
 that I preach.

A sympathy between us. She wouldn’t
 give me the pills & leave me alone
that night. Wouldn’t let us remain
 clothed. But no more.

Holds me, my eyes closed, makes me
 listen to her breathing close, its
sound, its scent, the feel of her shaped
 flesh in my grasp, a hmmming,
mine own, hers, ours both, closer,
 closer, until I am gone. It’s her.

Wherever you touch me, wherever I look,
 wherever the sun watches us or simply shines
its day, wherever these hills empty of
 all others, save the rabbits & squirrels
at business, at chase.

Whenever you look, whenever I touch you,
 whenever we dance as we do, as we did,
whenever you smile, whenever I sing,
 your new blouse, my dress your favorite,
whenever we go from there & there
 to come here & here.

Whyever I love you, whyever you loved me
 too, why that half moon, why this one
tonight, why we were so near, why again
 now so far, why I love you, why
you loved me too, tell me twice, I said,
 one for now, one for much later, you told
me twice, laughed, still believed, & why
 & why & why?—why, Francisco?

I wild back into my eyes & mind & body
 & I’m awake. A man again. My beautiful
friend holding me, no more.

“Another’s breaking her heart after I did.”
“I’m sorry.” Already knows, grieves for me.
“I felt it. I felt her. I think she felt me too.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“I felt her limbs like they were mine,
 her heart in my breaths, her sadness
yearning me for comfort. Just comfort.”
“Yes.”
I say no more. This girl holds me,
 feeling more for me than she should
even as I wonder wildly at what this dream.

Did I ever love her enough to feel her heart
 break over me, heal by another’s touch?
Break new, salve her sadness, feel her
 lorn heart & body, empty bed, salve her
anyway, salve her anyway?

I don’t know how to leap back into it, but
 I mount my canvases again, clean my brushes.
If you’re in my blood & bones hereon, so be it.
 I’ll paint with my sure hand guiding
your prettier one, you making me feel, feel,
 more than a man & his heart & his cock,
more than a woman & her several furious needs,
 more than a fang, a talon, a leaf, a buzz, or a roar,
feel rawly, & rawly more, nod the world,
 nod, & again, till we have nothing, & nothing left.

******

xxvii. My Lunatics

“Keep the speed steady. Hold the wheel tight.
  I swear I feel every little sway.
   Our minds are the windows.
    Our bodies are screens.
     We scratch.
     We scrape.
      And we dream.”
—The Hold Steady, “Oaks,” 2014.

For a time, nothing. I teach, & sleep little.
The few new boys continue to ask me about
 God & Art. As though an either.
The many girls just ask me what I feel,
 just smile at me & ask me what
  do I remember?

I paint other people’s passions.
Waiting for you. On my knees, finally,
 what you will.

Then for a time I contain myself in
 these walls. For you, despite you. Rustled
from our cells at dawn, fed worse
 than slow starving, then the sticks
swing to herd us into the open courtyard.

Is it a screen above us to obscure
 the shine & the clouds? Some of us don’t wake
fully at all, mention familiarly the several
 witches floating above us, the bull & matador
in that corner, slaying each other by turn,
 & that goat-headed devil, laughing & laughing.

One man watches me draw, even in
 my discrete corner, hands on fat hips,
wooly head & inaudible brow, we do not speak.
 Maybe I alone see him there, behind
his bars, maybe I am not awake too.

I think of you, lost lover, in my cell, resist &
 feel you twice over, moan you,
moan louder, & others join with me,
 we moan the long night of its wants,
its wishes, our hearts clench, our bodies
 release. We sleep.

When I go, my pictures, my blanket,
 my second set of clothes, I pause
at his cage again. Him there or no.
 His eyes are dark, gorgeous, lunar,
oceanic. His tongue is cut, he holds
 his bars with eight rough fingers. There or no.

“You’re why I came. You’re why I go.”
Not a word. But we begin to breathe
 together. To moan. To hmmmmmm.

Others back in the courtyard join
 us, hmmm, shake, howl at it all.
Our noise is joined by the arrival of
 a blind fiddler, playing wildly, childly,
but stepping careful as the blind do.
 We howl. We hmmm. He plays. We hmmm.
Feeling you in it, a demon & danger to me
 again, I go.

******

xxviii. Inquisition

And if all these things do, indeed, exist?
 Her frayed sweater in that roseate light?
I begin to reck the spilled blood in the streets,
 the uniforms & tanks coming on now
with winter’s cease. Flowers still appear
 in the windows but fewer seasonal
dresses, rowdy noises of a world new blooming.

My students continue to come & so
I press their hearts’ news. The boys paint
violence & the girls paint fear. I listen
 at night to the streets where traffic
ceases at dark. I think of their young faces.

Finally I gather them to me, all my
 students, the boys jostling, the girls
blushing & comparing. Hardly older than them,
 I begin to lecture. Roam back & forth
in front of them all & lecture all I have.
 I think of her, of you, summoning &
summoning. Let me say true.

“Take his power, bind his hands.
Take her power, cage her close in darkness.
Take his power, gag his mouth.
Take her power, strip her raw.
Take his power, hang him flailing.”

They are scared of me, of these words
 worst resembling their hearts, & wait me salve.
But I have more to bite.

“Protect it, the words, its book, its truth.
It is powerful, kill its enemies.
It is noble, garrote its heretics.
It is eternal, twist their limbs.
It is universal, burn everything else down.”

I close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out,
 begin to hmmm, & again she speaks with me
the words that come: “There is in deep Woods
 a pathless place, a clearing, & in that
clearing’s center is a tree, a White Birch.”

I hmmm & raise my hands for them
 to follow me, & they do. We hmmm long
& I speak again: “The White Birch’s trunk
 seems to contain moving faces, human & not,
joyful, anguished, shifting, ever shifting,”
 & we drop back into a long hmmmmmm.

Breathe in, breathe out, we speak once more.
 “Look up, count the leaves, my students,
one for each of you, one for me. Each a token
 for your eye & touch that more to the world
than men’s swinging steel; stranger strengths,
  powers spake truest only in books written
by full moonlight in dreams. All is not
 as it seems. Wherever life, there is music.
Wherever music, there is hope.”

Finally I draw my friends together back to the humble
 room we share, to the hours of our days &
weeks to come. This time, though,
 it is they who urge me to hmmm,
the boys stronger for their open hands,
 the girls stronger for their unbidden faith.

We sleep together, clustered like a nest,
 & I feel hands on my cheek, my shoulder,
my stomach. I close my eyes & think of you,
 my lost lover, roseate light, frayed sweater,
& you smile at me, & you shake your head.
 Not tonight, Francisco. Here you are.

******

xxix. Lumen Naturae

“Verde! Stroll through life singing.”
—Dream fragment

There is no higher & there is no ground,
 we kiss. Across the abyss. And you are
mine once more. You sleep like a feather
 on sea foam, your stumped leg tucked
between my two. Best fall asleep with our
 hands twined, resting on my heart.

Eyes closed, but not clenched, I’m able
 to keep you tonight, hustle between
dream’s like veracity & my lonely heart
 the sound of your shallow breath,
the warmth of your pale-rose skin,
 the scent of your sexed body,
the taste of this room because you filled
 it, & because you left.

You talk softly, low, hesitant voice,
 but yours, you’re long gone, you talk.
“What were you as a small boy,
 Francisco?”
“As now, a painter.”
“That small?”
“My father was an architect, his eyes
 would construct & tear away everything
he saw. Listen to music, passionate orchestras,
 & make mathematical notes in his ledger.”

“And your mother?”
“When we were rich, she gave dancing
 lessons & held parties that devolved
into orgy & broken glass. When we grew
 poor, as everyone did, she danced
by herself. Eyes closed, remembering.”
“Did they kiss?”
“They fucked. I dug a hole in the wall
 to watch. Him on top, his hard thighs
smacking hers. Her on top, moaning,
 singing. Her hands in cuffs. His hard ass
burned with wax.”
She wants to laugh at all this & doesn’t.
“You painted?”
“While we were still rich, our house
 was very big, & I would hide in its
attic, amongst the trunks, boxes,
 mannequins, old map & books, weaponry.”
“You found something?”
“It was an old painting. A white birch
 in a moonlit clearing, deep in winter
woods. It was damaged. Cut, scraped.”
“What did you do?”
“I studied it for months. I dreamed
 about it. Finally, I showed it to them.
Knocked on their door one night,
 their sex-noise was quieted.”
She nods. Eyes wide. Mine closed,
 I see them. I don’t have much longer.

“They didn’t know it, claim it for a
 relative. It was the first thing I had
asked them about. They were uncertain,
 unknowing how or what to say.”

I pause, I hmmm. Please stay.
 Let us finish this.

“I told them I would fix it, finish it,
 if they bought me paints. This was a relief,
buying something for me.”
“And did you?”
“I tried. I went slow. The moon above,
 the sky, even most of the trees, were easy.”
“But the white birch?”
“Yes. No. There were faces in its trunk.”
“Faces?”
“Men. Women. Other kinds.”
“Kinds?”
“In my dreams. They moved. Swayed, shifted.
 Like a film but depthless. Endless. Some
happy, some morose, some tragic.”
“How did you render that?”
“I didn’t. In waking, the canvas’s trees
 had simply broken birch bark. No faces.”

You’re gone again. Nothing to hear,
 nothing to touch, nothing to sniff.
No stump between my legs. My room
 tastes empty.

I open my eyes. Speak. Finish our conversation.
“What became of the painting?” you ask.
“It was lost. Destroyed.”
“How?”
“A fire.”
“How?”
I smile at you, your absence. Your never-absence.

“I was younger. Even stupider with women.
 One found me with another. Face deep
between her thighs. My tongue & cock were
 wicked indeed back then.”
You laugh. Your stump pushes up between
 my legs, strokes, softly, harder at my cock.
Till I’m hard again, hopelessly hard.

I let you climb upon me, let your hips
 find their liked place between mine,
almost feel you wetly maneuver me
 in. Move my hips, sadder and sadder,
listen, no moans, listen, hear my father’s
 single pronouncement on women and love:
“You’ll never stop chasing them, wanting
 them. Ever. The rest of your time
for you to mold to worth. Do it.”

I let go my cock, unspent. Listen new,
 naked, now, tell me. Tell me.
Close my eyes. Drift. Come again to
 the old woman’s ramshackle hut on wheels,
where we negotiated over you. You were in
 my room, waiting me. She probably knew.

You are in bed with her. A great old
 comforter over you, firey crimson &
black, unknown constellations, twin moons,
 strange creatures decorate it.
You are younger, scared. Has she stolen you
 or does she protect you? Her hands
roam your body, gently but appraising,
 but gently. She begins talking,
softly, just some noises, click-clicks,
but a few words too.

“The difference between need & knowing
 may sometimes seem obscure. You’ll
confuse the two. Everyone does.”

Her fingers on your small breasts, rousing
 you, her fingers between your thighs,
wet, wetter, then she leads your own
fingers there, teaches, gently, thoroughly,
 you moan firstly & I hear all the times
I made you moan, & you tuck into
 her embrace, close, insist, soon sleep,
& what any of this but the old woman
 looks at me & says, “Do you understand
the black cosmos now, Francisco? Do you
 feel it? Would you want her still? Would you
waste your years in this wanting?”

“What else? What else but her absence
 & this wanting?”
“The white birch, Francisco. Find the white birch.
 Finish your painting of it.”

******

xxx. In the Meantime / Some Other Time

I wake amongst my students. The girls.
 The boys are gone. “We couldn’t wake you.
They came for them.” Pretty faces, fear twisted.

I gather them to me, new wanting them,
 despite all. Calming them, letting them
pleasure me for distraction. Taking my turns.
 In place of farewell.

I have to go. Three blank canvases, two for
 failed tries. My paints, my brushes.
Few clothes. Look slowly around my chamber,
 its view of woods, mountains, sea.
Am I returning?

Leaving the city isn’t something one does
 of whim. There’s tech monitoring every
moving speck of dirt, every sentient gesture.
 I’ve been nobody until now, a painter,
a teacher. A series of revolving numbers.

There are those who dwell on the edges
 of the city, half mythical, half mathematics.
They cross the border mostly unchallenged.
 I knew one of these. He’d served my parents
when I was a child but was turned away
 when we grew poor. Exiled back to these Cross Lands.

Beyond the city is what happens to a world
 destroyed over many centuries by a knowing,
complicit hand, many generations of hands.
 The greater green world come back to claim
what wrecked & abandoned, begun the gestating
 of a post-human world. From our polluting
blackness will come surer, greener. Stranger,
 looser. Men no longer to shape, to limit.

Come night, the Cross Lands less guarded,
 more fires, looser magic. Make your cross
if desperate enough, or a fool. I keep
 to the shadows, the chance to find my friend
held in my open palm, the pink stone shaped
 like a slouched heart, given me that night he left.

I was a boy, understood nothing but the love
 in a touch & the terror in departure.
His shaggy, rare smiling face had tended
 me when nobody else around.

Rarely spoke, to me or anyone, with words.
 When he did, slow, struggled. But his large
hands bathed & dressed me when I was small,
 showed me how as I grew. Walked me
among the great garden bordering our
 land, taught me the how of plants & sun,
water & seeds. Carried my snoring form
 back to my bed, hmmming me into dreams,
asking nothing of me until the day he left.

“Keep this with you always. For me,
 your friend. Come a day when you need me,
come to the Cross Lands, hold it out
 before you. When I am near, it will
glow. Very near, it will beat, sing, &
 I will come to you.”

I cried & he held me. Thrilling power
 in his grasp. I cried till I slept, or
he crooned me so. Woke to workmen
 in my room, packing & discarding
my young life.

I creep among ruins, sick trees,
 grey bushes, stone in hand, yes,
I had run away many times & looked
 for him, stopped looking, never given up.

Far into the night, the risen full moon
 exposing me & my lessing hopes. Could I cross
without him? Should I return to my
 students? Unpack my canvases before
a single fragment of tech became disquiet
 with my absence?

I sit somewhere. There was a house here.
 Broken statues, pages of leather volumes,
a random busted drawer of a girl’s lace
 intimates. Pink, red, yellow, black,
for her moods & moments. Seems a good
 place to despair, return home.

My stone glows, barely, but warms
 too in my palm! I nearly drop it
in my happiness! Walk toward a nearby
 hill, deeper into the Cross Lands.
Deeper glow, warmer, I feel him
 again, his hairy hands & face, his
low voice. Grow younger, happily.

The stony hill, once climbed, gives me view
 closer the distant Woods than
ever before not in my dreams. Beat,
 beat-beat, beat, beat-beat. There
he is, halfway down the other side.
 Slumped low, on a log. Totally alone.

I climb down slowly, ecstatic, afraid.
 He’s much larger than he had been,
more like a Beast now than ever, yet
 the servant in him rejected & dismissed.

No right words. So these: “Hello again.”
He doesn’t move.
“How are you?”
“No longer a servant. Happier for that.”
“Do you hold against me?”
A pause. “No. You’re nothing to me.” His words
 no longer a struggle. “Then or now.”

“Would you guide me across?”
“There’s nothing for men there.”
“There’s nothing for me here.”
Silence. Nothing but a single chance here.
I talk.

“I loved a girl & sent her away. I am sad
 beyond comfort. But there’s something
I have to do. I beg your help in this.”

Silence. As I am wondering how else
 to do this, he stands. Begins to lope
ahead, something like a titanic wolf.

I follow, run, lag. Stop, recover my breath.
 Quickly shed my bag of clothes, extra
canvases. Just paints, brushes, one canvas
 tied to my rucksack. One chance to get it
right will be enough. Stone’s light in my palm
 is fading. I run & run.

******

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