the cloth under a woman’s feet
smitten by night,
be not a darkened window
to housekeepers trembling & bowed
Here is the soil,
the salient, untraceable beginnings
where worship rises within the riddles
and bulbs defy the cold dark.
Of course the inn is full.
No one believed You had eloped,
and You dare not tell the truth.
You are not sure You believe Yourself anymore.
How full of grace the child-self thus becomes, for it is in feeling—a biological reality that predominates youth—that one experiences "Power" as a force "toward wholeness." With practice (an alignment with aging?) we are capable of balancing the "Power" of collection with the "power" of individuation. Or such is my hope, and the art of the poets to whom I look for guidance. Poetry as an act of faith.Read More
The baking blackness,
electric separation, finding
same holiday greeting card
lines no matter placing truth,
a blistered confession to be made,
of axel wobble sentiments.
each night has its particular music.
state of mind is fluid.
landscapes are multivisional.
you have eyes in the back of your many heads.
something like the train ride. talismanic.
proffered you to Fez.
Where there are a few people gathered together
to form a ventricle,
a partial mission evolves, the familiar
is made partisan, approaching
the divine undressing of
the surrender to a riddle.
Before she was a gangster she was a cop. Before she was a cop she was a bee tamer. And before she was a bee tamer she was a mini Bernhardt in a gray fedora. She cross-dressed and crossed-over, stuck her hand into a world and kept her mouth shut.Read More
It's so fragile
It only takes a syllable
There is a flag on fire and amazing grace
I love you rage
I hate you face
"Just as an explorer penetrates deeply into new and unknown lands, one makes discoveries in the everyday life, and the erstwhile mute surroundings begin to speak a language which becomes increasingly clear. In this way, the lifeless signs turn into living symbols and the dead is revived."Read More
Rapture is our native tongue.
Words, the rungs we climb
from the cleft of our longings
to the free fall of innocence.
We are the walking memories of the earth
its broken beauties,
the ghostly songs of
forgotten fathers in the
unmentionable folds of purple,
of mingled blood and piss and tears.