Saturday, January 17, 2015

1.17.15

O dear god but were you an ass.

I always had appreciated the prettiness
of donkeys since I saw the diamond
pattern down the nose of one in
Vermont when Matt and Molly married.

I came up that weekend, with a web page
idea. Black Eye Excuses dot something.
I mean, a black eye everyone assumes
immediately to be alcohol related.

But Jay got a black eye playing nightfrisbee
with us in the back yard with no lights
man and man collided
Contact broke capillaries we lost our mind
that night on applie pie 90 proofed
a feather in our capskills, which slipped
considerably that evening.

Anyway, you mentioned you found mules
and donkeys to be magnificently pretty,
just one of the myriad chance sources
of fancy footwork on that last mount stride.

1.17.15

Just Read Me (for Snoetry)


This is not I warn an attempt at getting back to it.
Rather it is despite that. WAY more pressing.
it regards poetry, and the measly fact I am writing
my best everyday currently, and always more
best than the last one pours out of me.


Please as a friend only, fuck the rest! And fuck that!
and fuck was that something, but’s passed.

It flew!

Fuck man, you are among mite few who gave
me always great, great damn,
sit and listen like trees liken to sunken still men.


But will you? And i mean read me as an artist
reads another?
 
Can you be the one with straw basket, palette, port?
I will be the ascetic monk donkey tail whip, but

cute in the underbrush.

I’ll keep from the tracks.

1.17.15

jarred like sweet pepper relish

should you balk at beauty,
quiver before white magic,
stutter before the altar
of God whose face no man
has seen, since he cannot
look when he is before Him?

you drank me, mixed with
bourbon and seagrass the color
of our painted eye tomb, without
peeling back the stone lashes
we flog ourselves with now, self-
creating a wound that wont shut.

why would you shut a heart you
yourself opened?


a heart is not a book, to be taken up
again some time during a dolldrum;
bout of illness. a heart is no cold case
forensic teams close on confirming a
hypothesis. and mine is so open yet.

i did not ask to be pawed that night
my leather boards wet from the
excited perspiration of your thumbs
when they handled me at last.
after incantations and curry spice.
before cornstalks and diamondback
caution signs blurred by our MPH.

but when you fondled my petals leant
towards light forever.

new shoots sprang like a wildcat into the night,
carried heat, so unabashed as to be careless,
disturbing tracks of coyotes we heard crying
at dusk before the evening hunt.

by the alligator water you painted my soft
swamp mud with tears you cried in relief
of knowing, that never again wld you pine
or oak one moment longer than you chose.
and you chose everything at once (me!)
undulating there in the folds of your
Greek god nose. 
we determined we would still make love
in hiding, even once you'd married, we'd
carry on, secret lovers. for the sacredness
of marriage could not touch our silly, light
sanctity. uniformed schoolchild heat.
eternal recess climbing out the sandbox
covered in the red clay buried beneath
everyones understanding.

the sun warmed the handles of the steps
leading up to the slide. our warm hands
fondled the atlas on a roadtrip to the divine.

we existed you said, merely in the playgrounds
of each other's imaginations. two-lane
highways flanked by perched hawks and
osprey feeding in private, on either side.

i could not have imagined this, what awning.
being suddenly naked before you, jarred
like her sweet pepper relish; starting
on a shelf. afraid the tears you cried into
the ripped hem of my peach linen dress,

what you moaned into my shoulders, those
not-words, you cried in relief having realized 
you'd not pine again this life so long as our thick 
forest boreal light show thinned by morning,
o and it always did. it thinned like the mass
in our stomachs like by a heat doesnt matter.

1.17.15

Aransas

at port aransas you remarked what a good team we made.
our combined karmas enabled us to conjure birds, beasts
and open eateries. no phone, a broken map but we were
filled with our ineffable silence which rang brash even
before there was such a thing as beginning.

a coyote sat tall in orange grass eking its way from 
the black canyon humus. you noted my kestrel kept
up with our Four Runner, arriving on electric lines
moments before us every several. that afternoon we
saw roseate spoonbills in flight as well as a small
family of them, washing in the rivulets and dining.

whoopers at great distances danced in order to
strengthen their relationship. the vultures on the
viewing deck allowed us utter privacy with which 
to view the cranes people travel great distances,
and still not glimpse. wheres the fuckin crane?! 
you did your impression of an angry camper. 
you made us laugh until it positively hurt; we 
went exactly nowhere without seeing them.

at dagger island a serpentine monster uttered 
his red longing petrified neighbors took to 
be dream. you handed me a bone crucifix
to hold while you tended to your camera,
i palmed it in cooled prayer of thanks for what
was us in sage walkways, us again in
silent grove of silver trees bent motte of us
driving home whatever sticks is what stays.

thank goodness you walked ahead of me.
a wild boar screamed calamity, charging 
from the wood smelled so eucalypti, 
i begged, no, commanded you to put 
your face in it. he bolted to the wood opposite. 
i did not move. i didnt turn to watch his mad 
exodus. my smile held me in a steel tank you 
excavated like a bell from the muscle blade 
of our conjoined shoulders 

that night i could not move and you did not 
stop speaking excited magic 
spells out what could only be taken 
as good, and right.


1.17.15



Polished Brass Joyousness

wait with me here until the rain stops.
i think but do not say lichen faces melt
into real ones. they wont look at us,
they allow us first turn to speak.

the sky played games with us.
from dark to light it went, as morning ought.
there was even a vague horizon; a longhorn
dismounted fog. moments later even the
charcoalest of grays were undistinguished
again from the utter dark
you persist driving in.

my song you protected
between your teeth like a sheath, held,
under the ID in your wallet, like saints relic.
what the soil offers as reason is kept too,
only the cold colorless sky recognizes
my tune travels the nethers of me
drinking in the earth,
sweet taste my joyousness
would fit into a plot with the beets
and winter cabbages.

new green growth i will name after you
and what my roots whisper about this i cannot
hear, it is that bass. stars so low tonight, yet back
brightly at me like the polished brass winged
instrument eyes you have always
laughed at me with,

before this burnished horizon where churns now
the poplar tulip before me, butter on mashed,
in the headlights, ripped off is its broad shoulder.
 
whats left hangs patient as a crag enmeshed
in the ridge your knuckles make on my sloping
plains like at the bottom of Texas, where they pull
to the wrong side to let a stranger pass,
were he in a hurry.