Say you, Sir?
Say you, sir
you find a goddess
whose dance on gold
and whose aura
showers jubilant peace
like the spring rains
of an abstract art
and say you,
held her hand
and thought of disasters
occur through-out the land:
more people find meaning
than the ones who die
when her kiss meets yours.
Well, a man told me a story
of a village that fell
to a nearby volcano,
of a man who saw
an angel in the smoke,
how she held his face
with her long hand...
and he became numb and
warm, before anything else.
Say you, sir?
You're drunk and
your cheeks are berry.
Your eyes are like
the Eternal Spring,
and I find you quite merry.
~
Under the Cement Block
I lifted one side of a
big cement block
and hoped for bugs,
the rare ones or the
ones that scurry away
from the light.
And there they are,
the medium sized ones
burrowed quickly.
And the smaller ones
searched the block as it lifted
and "oh no, my hands."
I set the block down to the side
and picked up the only worm
and set it on my finger.
I watched it as it wiggled
befuddled for a while,
and brought it back to the ground
where it leapt off my finger
knowingly.
~
Love
Little puddle of orange
on the ladybug's back,
wiggles like the ocean
from this view of Earth.
Like how I saw your eyes
fill with that orange liquid
and you were numb,
but your smile.
And how the sun bled
it's wax of health
in destiny's meadow
where our children played
at the last age of truth.
"Oh, the dark skies
are sweeping again, dear"
(And how I remember
that puddle of orange.)
~
Oh, Brilliance
Oh, brilliance
Not everything is brilliant.
The old cave
crumbles at each giant's step
the stalactites distintigrate
and the luminous puddle
becomes one full murky.
The old grass is short
and stringy, the land is
hard as rock,
and is not.
The wind sucks it out
with one cold sweep,
and onto the next...
The old tree
is a brittle shell
of its former grandeur -
the top fell off.
The sun reaches
into its core
randomly.
Wind passes through
holes of decay -
the soul is ready for dust.
Oh, brilliance
Not everything is brilliant.
The Earth is dying.
~
Braindead
The poet sat in front of
his flaming barrel
at night, by the forest
and the pits of oil,
unexpected chasms
filled of long falls
scattered the ground
like cancer:
pondering, what else to feed
to the wild shaman of flames
who, with eyes on his heart
wants to devour his odes,
odes to death
and to fear.
But what else left after
lightning charred his chest
to the last edge of metal...
To sift through his armor
a sharper stance of words,
or have brain cremated
funneled out the helmet's
holes for eyes, or
armor remained
as the most durable wear
against dragons of violet,
though cursed,
by the rotted dreams of gold...
The sharper stance stood up
as the poet sat down,
head towards the ground.
The fire crackled
and the forest breathed
with the passing winds,
the night drooped and
became taut, again
and again.
His ghost stood up,
knees slightly bent.
and with cool forehead
spoke a magic spell:
... Oh,
The flame danced up
like cursive,
as beautiful
as her letters to him.
The flame danced up,
the flame danced up.
~
Passed out
I hit the top
with my helmet,
I'm digging ore.
And digging ore,
and digging ore.
Couldn't escape,
couldn't breathe
another breath of
that dusty swine
of Earth.
Yet, the oxygen found me
and I struck again
those metal sparks
of fleeting dreams
gliding 'cross my eyes.
Gliding 'cross my eyes.
Oxygen put her
hand on my shoulder
and I felt so clean
Oh, the dreams of metal sparks,
waterfalls, and angels.
I hit the top
with my helmet
and passed out.
And oxygen found me
with her white eyes
and I cried in joy.
In joy, in joy.
~
Big Factory
Big factory, space taker
takes my breath and my
Fox forest soul-
I want to dig a hole
where the smoke won't go
Big factory, space taker
takes my breath away
I can't live here
I must leave.
~
Forgotten
I recall my childhood
as the ground sinks
beneath my feet
and the trees of pink
sparkle at me.
It rains like grey darkness
and the trees of pink
are ever bouyant,
I feel strange.
The weather says "recall"
as the land absorbs the rain.
The trees of Spring
come upon erotic, they
mingle of sex, they
mingle of memory;
swirling auras of leaden rainbows and
bobbing collections of mystical dusts
lay upon our animal brains
the wonderful "gifts of seasons".
The weather says "recall"
as the land absorbs the rain.
The aroma is thick
as it comes to open space.
I don't remember,
I don't quite remember.
~
My Casino Poem
Took a dive into the casino,
the water was warm.
The lights gave my brain
a back massage, and whispered
"I love you," like a cloud.
"Take me to my creator,"
they chanted, they filled
the machines with joy.
The machines gave it back
in a foreign currency,
made them think of Life.
I saw an older man
with a cowboy hat
and a grimace.
I saw a grieving Grandmother
depict her death in the blur
of those spinning reels.
I couldn't see my reflection
as it vanished away from me.
I couldn't hear my voice
in the lo-fidelity fanfare.
We sink into the floor
like water, and we are
clean when we die,
so weak.
Took a dive into the casino,
the water was warm.
The lights gave my brain
a back massage, and whispered
"I love you," like a cloud.
~
Werewolf attack
Broken fence, a wreck
Rubbled bricks, momentos, mirrors.
Mom's cabinet with tricks spilled out,
Thick carpet of blood,
What should her eyes say?
Dislodged as they are,
The stars are more red
On awakening, werewolf attack
Broken fence, a wreck
Grandma fell off the deck
Was disheveled like a grindery
And how her hat fell on a branch,
Barely skipping in the new wind.
Children, all my dear children
Torn to shreds, your teeth still glimmer
To me, and they do, and they do.
A feast of bones
Collects up like a bonfire.
Werewolf attack
Broken fence, a wreck
Extra guts and barbed wire
Toiled down, toiled and
Boiled down for tonight.
Oh, God.
~
Temperature Change
The clouds are down and grey
lamenting about people and the War,
What else?
And the pine trees of my neighborhood
are a dark green of verdancy,
life goes on.
Humid then horribly refreshing
an odd wind of cold passes through
and I feel like I've been found
within some miracalous bubble.
Oh and where I go
in a cooler wind:
Somewhere the ice melts continuously
as sprinkles of snow still fall.
Where pink spirits bless and caress each failing glacier
and the horribly blue sky drips so realistically.
And well the glaciers are the biceps of some God
if not multiple Gods, the god of Science
as they float around for years,
merging and unmerging and melting and becoming,
prophesizing and philosophizing and smiling.
Loungin' 'round with the Sun and the Moon,
recalling past ages and stories of bewilderment.
I am also buried comfortably in the ground
in a cold layer of moist clay
from the pungent scent of flowers
at their ending phase of puberty,
I went.
Temperature change,
you surprise me,
and your messenger, the Wind,
delights me.
~
The Falling Liquid Promises Life
Gnats breed up from the ground.
Expected orgasm of insect life
sprouts forth like naievety:
the grass has shed on
a horde of winged life.
Oh, the brush of purple weeds
freshly scented and rare
those delicate leaves
and their magical carvings
of youth and natural things,
innocent marveling,
the unraveling of Spring
and the haze of rain
reminding napes of love,
or cold grapefruit
melting on the tongues.
Gnats breed up and flourish.
They dance and they loll
as the falling liquid
promises their life.
~
Untitled
Newly sprouted grass
still fits through my skin,
so thin and subtle
it grows by some twilight color
that I've heard before in song.
Sad song rejoices new life
like an arm around a new recruit,
"Get in line!"
His arm is nervous and cold
like fresh grass and her partner soil
worrying on weight and sharp things
aimed to tear them apart-
the worms sing.
I cup the special scent
from that spot and drink
from my palm like tea,
my body is filled with
it's pleasant aroma and
I declare the sun my friend
while he splashes off my hand
so affectionate.
~
Fandorin
So the land rakes itself in
And sucks up all the stray beams.
The mountains need to be sharpened,
the oceans to be fed.
The lakes to be crystalized,
the grass to be happy.
The sky is a rotting quilt,
darkened orange and damp.
The sun is feeling drunk.
Little boys and girls are crying
behind their windows that are shut.
The demons get their chance to come out.
Flowers are blooming like
heroic soldiers dying.
The cycle speeds up.
The mountains need to be sharpened,
the oceans to be fed.
The mountains need to be sharpened,
the oceans to be fed.
~
Getting to Feel Eachother
We'd connect like we wished
about surfing our orbit
our planet's greenish rings
as we had not told any soul
how we felt existence,
as if we had never had
heart to heart
about the wave of a forest
or of a breeze
as if it (the breeze) floated our spirits
'round the air like unspoken intercourse
I wouldn't know:
for in words I longed to touch you
and hear you respond to my call,
in instinct and wide eyes
see you walk away as if
this time mattered.
And that of which I could
hold on to my heart
and long for you again.
We wish about it secretly
when we're average,
and we wish about it deeply
in phantasmagoria:
the trenches of the ocean.
~
Methods
Should a phrase be destined only
to the propensity of itself,
rather than the breaching points
that rays of moon may pierce
or that a song may imagine?
(the strings of a sad shore
vibrating like rainbows round'
your skull)
Oh, what breaching points
would set a comforting hand
on top of your shoulder
and then lull you by the nose
into the amber spiderweb
of a lunar heaven?
Is such a piece of art
that bends theme
to every genre you've clung to
and puts you into the eyes of another
close at breath (warm and moist,)
whirling round the sphere
of certain love?
Well, I'd lie to say
that I collapsed on
a lengthy snowfield.
And again to recall
my tears in an
underground chamber,
where I had fallen
and lost my ground.
Oh, but it rushed through me
as a fantasy many times
in my grey home.
Anything was possible
after I closed my eyes to sleep:
I found jewels in my bed
and scars on my legs,
how everything glimmered.
I'm afraid that
I can't bottle my soul
so easily to quench a thirst,
that one method of approach
could ever accomplish
the birth and death of ideas.
So now I'm looking for my paint brush.
~
Untitled
From you, affectionate piano,
at the shore with clear waters
I put my toes into the warm sand.
Oh, as clear as you make me
out of myself and with the land
the sun beams through my soul.
I'm gone, yeah
I'm gone, yeah.
~
A Shard of View
About words:
the sun cuts through a mass of clouds,
and even pours through by the breeze-
the whole feeling changes,
did that dark colony always exist
or the mist of many pollens still sift?
Music is about dynamics,
crescendos and diminuendos,
all those spiraling amplitudes
tugging at your heart,
emulating just as much.
Of course, the sun sings
with or without all the sediment
and clogging vapors.
Harmonys always pre-exist
in some fashion... like how
you hold a chunk of the sad sky
so thick and dangerous and
you dare to consume it:
the gruel of an eerie God,
the poetic spirit.
Well,
Do you speak to your lover
as dearly as you speak
of your art?
Or does your art do all
the speaking, and do you
blindly fly free?
~
Night Walk
Dark outside,
your hand holds a core
to something special.
Turn on red light palm-display,
things get smothered out of view.
Checking circuits and calibrations,
you think that you're fine.
Shut it and dark again
like a liquid body, the wind
has been kissing the ocean,
you feel delighted.
And so do the swaying trees
that replicate a sea shore sound...
you feel like you float
on a boat of energy and
time is calm.
(do not include)
You've been sick at home
in your single room
without a window.
(do not include)
You've been sick of treading
in the solidity of your shelter,
so the night sky is fresh as ever
and distance of vision is welcomed
like someone's cavernous gaze:
you love something comfortable
(ne'r desperate on being lost)
in exploratory wonder.
~
Artist to Artist
Commander in line,
she pulls the strings of life.
The reins of her life are
under her orders,
young discipline.
The ice in her eyes
twinkles a silence,
people are dying
and she has got
a real attractiveness.
I really find myself
rein'd in by young girls
who are seriously
laughing at everything
and take a skull
to shape it into
something better.
I really find myself
a bull straightened out
to be slaughtered,
can she hear me?
~
Half-night at Dawn
Half-night at dawn,
a shadowed man is
nourishing his garden,
a long bruised cloud
is like the specter of
a young girl's arm
who passed away
much too early.
The thin sliver of
of the orange moon
is a scar in her
sorrowed eye.
It is the beginning
of Summer.
~
Her Solemn Smile For You
Double rainbow,
but dark the streets are moaning
old majestic buildings
the governor fell down his stairs
Rain's reflection courses the ideas of magic
where outside the gates
a dangerous wind
fused by the breath
of risen monsters
stirs
Ignorance reign, not now
"don't go outside," the doors barred
men and lonely men with weapons
roam on fear around
still compassionate mirrors
and smiles
Ill spells and better ones
paths to healthy fevers
over spiny mountain's ledge
The spirit corks tassled
first near the place of sealing
by wrecked eyebrows
and unbridled flames
the souls of power go.
But could not forget the festival of fire
song and dance, celebratory things to
remaining life, twirling scent plumes
and her solemn smile for you.
~
Lighter From The City
I found a low fuel lighter
on a trashcan in the city.
Later on a hermaphrodite my age
came to me for a light.
He stumbled towards me at the
sitting rocks by the library,
he had small breasts,
frizzy, long brown hair
and a cute little butt.
Oh, this gritty world
of sexual acceptance,
as gritty as the snap
of the lighter I found.