I have broken the seal
all the jumbled inside my
hand
bottlenecked in my trembling fingers
pours forth suddenly
and my blood ink stains
the pages black
This is the Great Flood
and the Black Death
This is the Renaissance
and the Dark Ages
That cusp of breathtaking proportions
where the long winter
is broken
and the dawn after the
longest night is come
The promise of fresh air
which does not hurt the lungs
Of warmth which pulls the sting
away from the frozen flesh
whispers through the soul
and the wait which
needs must happen
until Spring arrives
is even more agonizing
in it's first promise of arrival
than all the misery
the dark silence
ever
could
afflict.

transcending
this cocoon of flesh
all the trappings of walkway icons
gilded
like the ****** Marys of Constantinople
without the divinity of virtue
where is zen
in this jungle
of glass and steel
time in a bottle leaking out
with a faulty seal.
when will the turn of the wheel
bring happiness
instead of the wet blanket
of sorrow
following a path
down by the River of Tears
watching the Lily Maid drift by
wondering
where is my dress and veil
in the cards of the gypsy
will I ever reach
Shangra La

and i say the sun is callous
     for nothing ever shall be
so
                beautiful

as the delicate fronds splayed unerringly
before my hands. and i do place my vestige
in its thrall and as it is i am nothing compared
to the softness of its belly. so lay inlaid with
rouge splendor and indelible.

   beneath  and
under and my tongue
is the sprouted clavicles
an orchard of pleasure in verdance
     blazingly dim in the moon puddles
writhing     the    muscles of implacable sensation. go to the tiny hall


            and whisper

with Venus. she is grace and smooth and the sea muttering
with the loose wind. fashioned from naked blood.

Oh, love, why do we argue like this?
I am tired of all your pious talk.
Also, I am tired of all the dead.
They refuse to listen,
so leave them alone.
Take your foot out of the graveyard,
they are busy being dead.

Everyone was always to blame:
the last empty fifth of *****,
the rusty nails and chicken feathers
that stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,
the worms that lived under the cat's ear
and the thin-lipped preacher
who refused to call
except once on a flea-ridden day
when he came scuffing in through the yard
looking for a scapegoat.
I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag.

I refuse to remember the dead.
And the dead are bored with the whole thing.
But you -- you go ahead,
go on, go on back down
into the graveyard,
lie down where you think their faces are;
talk back to your old bad dreams.

i will never leave you
i'll be in every taste on your tongue
each breath in your lungs
i'll be everywhere you've ever been
all the places you've never seen
because we wanted to taste and feel all things together
my absence will be like a second skin
a curse on you to think of me in everything

sweet decay
everything is
rotting away
slowly
as we sway
sedated
seduced
ever unsated
life and death
eternally mated
time wished away
is oxygen wasted