Sometimes I wake up to
spatial tension
and awkward sting,
where there are fractions of
unwanted proteins and
dripping enzymes.
Sometimes I wake up to
obsidian corpuscles
of unknown origin
and encounters with
sentiment-shakers,
dream-eaters,
and rafter-rattlers.
Sometimes it is as simple as
dripping beige,
intangible amber,
and cold, cold, blue.
Sometimes I wake up
to nothing, too.

You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep---

White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?

Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.

The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,

Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?

Is it for this the air motes depart?
They rae not air motes, they are corpuscles.

Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily

Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.

I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,

Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,

The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.

Where are you going
That you **** breath like mileage?

Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself

Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.

The blood that runs is dark fruit---
An effect, a cosmetic.

You smile.
No, it is not fatal.

Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.

That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.

Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.

THE Government--I heard about the Government and
I went out to find it. I said I would look closely at
it when I saw it.
Then I saw a policeman dragging a drunken man to
the callaboose. It was the Government in action.
I saw a ward alderman slip into an office one morning
and talk with a judge. Later in the day the judge
dismissed a case against a pickpocket who was a
live ward worker for the alderman. Again I saw
this was the Government, doing things.
I saw militiamen level their rifles at a crowd of work-
ingmen who were trying to get other workingmen
to stay away from a shop where there was a strike
on. Government in action.

Everywhere I saw that Government is a thing made of
men, that Government has blood and bones, it is
many mouths whispering into many ears, sending
telegrams, aiming rifles, writing orders, saying
"yes" and "no."

Government dies as the men who form it die and are laid
away in their graves and the new Government that
comes after is human, made of heartbeats of blood,
ambitions, lusts, and money running through it all,
money paid and money taken, and money covered
up and spoken of with hushed voices.
A Government is just as secret and mysterious and sensi-
tive as any human sinner carrying a load of germs,
traditions and corpuscles handed down from
fathers and mothers away back.

What will you do when the clocks no longer tell?
After you smash to pieces Cronos' clock
And you slip into the stillpoint as the Eye opens
In the palm of your hand; after you cross
The Threshold and return to offer up your Boon
To man.
When the ego falls away and you begin your
Gift of servitude.
When the trees drip light, and each child you
See has around their head a circle of light.
Light surging up and over,
Bleeding from eyes and hands;
Oceans of light illuminating beaches;
Lovers enveloped in a cocoon of light;
The crow blasting through photons,
Climbing currents into the face of the sun
To erupt in all-consuming flame;
Like William Blake driving Apollo's
Chariot into a supernova;
Walt Whitman pulling from the River
Why a fish erupting and igniting his
Beard, showering him in corpuscles of light;
Like a Devish whirling, shooting off sparks
And laughing like a madman dancing and
Burning in the Dragon's jaws.
And Vincent, in your dreams, deep in a
Sea of sunflowers looking up at you
With the wondrous eyes of a child
And waving his arms like a Sorcerer
Conjuring and you see what he sees:

Heaven in a wildflower.

Pocketbook

Transformational intercepts,
messages to the brain.

Time babe, it's time,
to take a next step.
change the bulb
to a higher power.

100 watts insufficient to light
the forward motion of a
Great Leap Forward,
like in a prior writ, when,
limitation awareness
was a borderline crossed.

Like learning to walk without tottering;
We probably don't know we passed a line,
invisible to ourselves,
but all clear to everybody else,
on that special day, one,
that just came and went:
when you could no longer leave home
without a pocketbook

We were accessorized with body parts
most useful to make our way thru life,
but our exterior-designer
neglected to provide pockets knowing
full well that fashion acessorizing
was more that just a way to carry tools;

Individuation, maturation, needed,
a way to communicate I've arrived

Ain't no child no more,
double negatives
a thing of the past,
cause once you leave the
comfort of the abode with
handbag corpuscles inhaled,
from that day onwards,
you could no longer:

Walk these feminine streets,
leave home,
without a pocketbook,

Judgement day becomes
Every day, nowadays, so,
when from the cave you emerge,
and face the world:

Gonna need what ya gonna need,
to negotiate the way through,
don't matter what's
inside your handbag
or your head,  
if you are eight or
eighty eight,
you know,
you believe, you need
in handbags,
as much as you believe in god

I am incomplete,
my body undressed for all to observe
If I walk down the street
after that day,
that came and went,  
when you could no longer
leave home without a pocketbook

Amusing ditty,
nah that's not my speed,
this is a treatise on
serious matters,
when changes in our lives occur,
when we earn a stripe on our sleeves

Pilgrim progress to
a feeling of vive la difference!
who I am is not who I was,
awoken from a previous dream,  
marks on my body will come,
some wanted,
some unwanted,
some happily dismissed
like the curse of braces

Free at last,
free at last to forget
a painful child's past,
sometime it's losing,
sometimes it's adding on,
but for sure, the day I changed,
was the day,
when you could
no longer leave home
without a pocketbook

Oh boys,
don't think you are excluded
from this rite de passage,
I'm one of you and I know
what we kept secreted
in our over stuffed wallets.

Ain't referring to our student org. card
or the emergency folded twenty
Dad gave you in case,
somehow you got
on the wrong bus and
ended up on the
wrong side of town
where bad things
could be found,
somewhat more easily.

Like the comic book store,
next door to the tattoo parlor,
next to where the
Nice Jewish Boys
where never supposed to go,
and the Stars of David and crosses
were removed discreetly prior to arrival,
like Portnoy foretold in
Technicolor detail.

I know you well recall
that bar mitzvah party, school dance,
When the bottles fell to the floor
unbroken, spinning, pointing to you,
When you realized it was that day,
When you could no longer
leave home without a wallet

Times they don't change
all that much,
and pocketbooks now called
Handbags I am told,
and year old babies play
with iPads like they were
born knowing how!

but I ain't impressed that much,
cause I know that it may  
come sooner as the world changes,
there still,  always be,
a day of  painful,
transformational,
generational passing,
when indelible, invisible
birthmarks somehow
became both visible and erased.

Though they may
come different ways than they use to,
in case new parents need guidance,
**It is still that day when
their little girl,
can no longer leave home
without a pocketbook

There is no dusk in this city
penetrated by the raging Potomac,
Night just crams itself in and
rapes the day dry -
lays her flat against the horizon.
Mothers and children run for covers
and put each other to sleep;
in a few hours
harlots and nighthawks will do the same.

Sweet Siren
You are this city
Petticoated and pretty,
Cunning and stunning
Winking and blinking
Red
Yellow
Green
eyes popping open like sunken headlights,
Ready for the night.

I hear your wailing
red-flashed and flaming
like an open heart,
piercing the black with it's plea.
I feel your pulse-pumping red corpuscles
thrusting me deep into
lusting for things forbidden and hidden
Somewhere inside this neon wonderland.

Sweet Siren,
Sing your teasing tunes for me
Deliver me from your shelters and streets,
Where infidels and angels
Fall at your feet.
Sweet Siren,
Deliver me to the
Trembling shelter of your sheets.

Liars and their lies
roam this concrete jungle
begging for love and razors
and other disposable items.
You go screaming passed them though,
determined to save at least one numb drunk ***
in some rain cleansed back alley of vices;
only to fool your own conscience
with the lithium laced smile of charity.

Sweet Siren
Quiet your angry shrill to a hush
The tarmac and taxis are tired of us
And your princes and saviors have fled this town.
Sweet Siren,
It's time for us to burn this city down
And leave the ashes
For the thieves and the clowns.

yesterday may have been my birthday.

you need two hands, two feet,
a multiplication table
an abacus to count my years,
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, perhaps, a century.

birthdays.

a point of inflection,
a point of opportunity,
a present presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody else created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
when asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you have tasted grief?

have you not but
a singular pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake made, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be faked,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then this day,
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les délicieuses friandises to sweeten life,
please keep theologians, logicians,
philosophers on retainer,
even historians, those future fortune tellers,
if needed, unnecessary explanations -
or just satisfactory rationalizations.

none know,
or can provide,
still and yet,
a year round
a priestly sacred chord,
to grant relief,
absolution,
songs of hallelujah,
erasers of the ache of
perpetuity worry.

those ancient pains,
grow fresh daily,
the loss of one element
of my body,
prevents my primal knot
reasonably to be untied,
everything should be permitted
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse,
and asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

though the bones creak,
snap, crackle and pop,
the body they carry, the heart
eccentric~centric: tire shop patched,
yom kippur white resurrected this day,
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers,
and the last one special,
spoken standing.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers likely refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....
so I ask myself

what if the poetry ceases?

be assured, I am told
scientists hard at work,
on the forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint,
trap and tap some words,
into your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat, scented waters,
provide aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived,
the muses, the Devils
all herein, feted, and sated

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

yet, I cannot help but ask

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm.

could it be
Morrow?

bath drains,
rosemary and mint odors dismissed,
the Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all dispatched,
didn't they have birthdays too?
didn't you know,
Hey Michelangelo!
the Renaissance come
and gone,
nobody tole ya?

t'is the day
my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
seven or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries, some blackbirds,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem~song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

yet, but,
always one thought recycles:

**what if the poetry ceases,
how will I breathe?

My trajectory
But for the lot of Gravity
Upon branches as corpuscles divinely drawing
The blood work into ORGANS:(n)
1) those unsteady agreements of chemistry warring
Seeping into the lea of each moment
We wince
As sunlight finds its way in

This twilight sky
Is like an indigo-orange symphony,
In which the light is absorbed
To be decomposed in corpuscles.
It may be ours until we die.
I may be your tree-woman ,a Ginkgo,
That Ginkgo having a stony trunk
And pure violet spiritual eyes
To look at you,
While the leaves are trembling
Their green sound.
Slowly, you may become my tree-lover-man,
While a star in the universe is dying for our love.
I may feel that force aspiring the quanta of light
Near you.
Come and be my black infinity,
While this earth is cracking its crust
From time to time
And especially now
As at any end of the time.
Wind is your embrace,
Next to this field of Nepal poppies trembling their hypnotic
Red melodious shadow
And near this ripe wheat field
Loudly shaking  its tired yellow.
The wind is crazily singing and dancing around.
I seemingly hear some astral blue songs.
It's like a jazz blues chord progression.
Our leaves cling to its long hair.
I feel the rainbow of sounds,
I feel this love.

Analog, anabasis… trip, short, burn the bug to carbon dust…

Seeking in my treasury of books, pared down to ones with personal attachments,
- I sought a Welsh-English pocket dictionary, gifted me
- by a taller and older, by experience, Overmeyer… Bob,
- but he was one of a few in the corp, band of brothers,
- who sang along with me, when he heard me humm,
- he knew the words, worth-ship fixing words, yes,
- we shall gather at the river that flows by the throne of truth. Mmmmhmm, so we shall see, so we shall see,
Oldman river, you know,
you wait, and wait, fishin' wishin' cogitations got from *** go,
known good, known evil, and evil comes for effect, not cause,
clean up, aisle five
hell, in a target store. And a Walmart, #26.
-- I recognized the anti particle, passing through either or,
becoming here, from there, your thinking my thinking,

wall of text, in your current context, this wall has hat

hooks to insights marked pertinent someday, in the wide ocean
at the end of any river mind me and error master,
as awareness, meandering as all fluids do.
Aligning in honed most saline crystaline form, as
current opinions shapened from dust and ash originally,
then spit the idea out as a word,
imagine
matter… mater, really, bottom first bit, was realized after
paterialization falled to manifest self reproduction…
patterned thought, fabrication, plane geometry… which we
as a team, a man and his tools, gunslinger, plus accoutrements.

Yep. Adam, did not work alone. The egg was first. He named eggs.
And chickens, full of eggs, no, hope, and chaos, nada mas…
- morals from old stories, we had lost all hold on those…
Stepmothers after The Hundred Years war, like as not was
first slave, with only obey believed enforce,
as far as
holy vows spoke allowed, but in a whisper…
hear us,
old folk, we scatterbrained old rockers by the fireplace
listen, this is living, right.
Pursue haps as haps occur, in thinking one thing or this other,

Our kind, fixed position ears perpindicularly augmenting per-
iferal vision, if, just, if. Immeasuarable meanings, justice, yes,

we settled at that point. All the Promises - in any living faith,
even dying proves life is a chance, we all go through it, and some leave marks, while others leave a heart felt
oxitocin, not cotin, red on yellow, **** a fellow, -tocin. Oxitocin,

Rush!- Kettle DRUM after a cello up run, or an old familiar rif,
Goin' up country, ' bought a map for a dime,
from a time lain aside in book, as I was seeking that Welsh word for these experience in side, feeling inside, but being mere, yes, not a limiting adjectival modification, on a word, intended to soothe,

NOT ******, soothe, as said of gentle rolling seas, calm as constant as Jupiter's ever near there, right there, red spot, there,
that is an anomoly, yet, there are those who claim clarity, that

Red spot, Ted-talk phaze, ease in, get a buzz, mmmm, slow, slow

slow
whoa, so slow, what difference can plain-people, just us,
can we ever just know, this is the way, no obstacles,
and we leave trails, and trails widen, and widen, and widen,

wide as the milky way as seen from North Korea.
What a blessing, right?
--- God made these chickens we are eating,

no, child we selected these big red hens, people, like us, we can
know how earthly goods grow and we can help, as gard'ners,
retired guardians and priests can, make soil richer,
by leaven from the native soil,
fresh after fire, sparks the bloom

Patience, paid close attention, over time,
pay is as interest always is, compounding…
complex knots
slipping infinite loops generation systems
spinning straw to gold, bricks to build a tower…

to grow mustard into brocolli and cauliflower, prosper-o

we can engineer squash blossuming
be.. not spelch-pstpst-offt-listen,
- laughing
in my home are children, aged 6 to 13, across a seven year gap…
in my home with complete 5G internal Wifi, with cable
- copper, ah
- the humm, copper wire interference, acceptible as soft
- sub-spectra sfumati self-edged,- cut from whole cloth
abrupt.
Con, is with, fuse, is
blown… but, click, we are past that, where I live, on a pension.
I survived an oath in a war. And in America, the we, as
represented in Congress after Korea, and UCMJ, reach, reach,
- remember the ears that read, need to know
right, MP talk, uniform, all the exact same alignment and weave… for forsake, forsooth, forgotten gains, -- un-fore-gotten
upright walking, living concept, Phoebe Zeitgeist
- she made a word nest in my mind, on March 16, 1968.
- On a Douglas Flying Tiger insertion mission,
Flying to a foreign land more foreign than any thus far, redux.

Surreal stepped up to real, realms of preception, Metaverse/
uniform code under it all, we wished for this, can we, can we,

please, walk back in and watch the shadows morph to home sized I-max with true-fi dolby optimized to your very own, humanity
verified self--
- eyes up, look where we were when ever, then be come you now known as dear reader, responsibility free, cookie or no?
Be any mind you find you can wear with no wish to lie,
the wrong mind set with the ears and eyes, and we cannot lie…
you lose.
The whole ritual of prayer and supersites, tics, ****. We glow…

once illegal exposure
confidential, super-secret, super-positioned tyrannical systems,

whole cloth leprosy, black mold to dust time sequence…
-- such minds as fed us Elliot and Thorough Error-prone Poses,

as seen from the repressed mind of an unassimulated inate-ifity,
We are none of us, Adam sons, his model had nor repro circuits.

Hey, once there had to be something akin to ****** birth,
really, mitochondria developed virally, just fine, so, so fine,

imagine, we got the cell, a wall, with enzyme will efforts on the doors, we open to need, and useful matter is accepted,
as in another phase we open to expel the uselesshit, which then fills the red corpuscles, which use iron to hold the load.

Flushing blushing bride, Mito-mom, her daughters, imagine…

trackless wasteland, aftermath of minor miscalculation
in the dancing cosmos, whirling
whiling, smiling
inside…

I made it. 2022, Everest Pax, is the real name
of my youngest grand son, who randomly
reassures me he loves me, as though he wishes me
to not let that slip, naturally, his version of me is fragile,

what he imagines I am can disappear, in a day,
like Uncle Mike, and Uncle Dennis, and Uncle Richard,
and Uncle Remus…
none of whom were alive, when Everest Pax was named,
by his mother, with no input from me, save
the covenant aspect in the who gives this wombed man…
common pagan ritual adapted to post-Jesus Christ-sanity.

X-mas, nada mas. Agree, and take the cookie,
or risk another death,
on the real wrong battlefield… Well, what the hell… hero
or legend in my mind, thinking, what would any who do?

You visit this place
You do not stay long
There’s nothing here
that speaks of settlement
Everything you do has an edge
of intensity wet by the weather
sharpened by the clock

If you try to be still
in what passes for shelter
the wind will find you
seek you out

So with the camera your primary tool
begin to collect - image after image after image
Point and click : view and share

Eventually the mark-making begins
though fraught with difficulty
it seems just hopeless this testing out
of the body’s response to what passes
before the scanning eye
Blink
and the image shifts

There is this fierce and on-going campaign
between the near : between the far
What lies at your feet :  what decorates the horizon.

After a few hours wrapped round in nature’s vortex
the eye and brain are exhausted by the profusion of it all
wearied by the press of wind, the touch of rain, the glare of sun

Always the problem of what you do
with what you’ve seen
and touched with cold hands
pulling out metal objects from the sand
whose rusted and distressed forms
will lie exposed on the studio table

The place marks you Rain and wind on the face
raise new freckles there’s a salty veneer to the skin
the rub of sand  :  a wash of seawater
the grasp of pebbles : wood’s chiromatic grain
The lexicon of texture expands under your fingers
changes of temperature : degrees of saturation
and further uncompromising perspectives
unimaginable yet in two dimensions
Beyond beachcombing this is seacoast surgery

Away from it all (and out of the wind)
your memory stretches to the corners of recall
Wandering through a home-centred day
as in a waking dream
knowing you’ve already gathered
all manner of sensory matter
held and stored in the pineal gland
flowing free in Meissner’s corpuscles

Even absorbed in conversation’s company
as you turn away to fill the kettle
you are on the beach back in the wind
scanning the memory tin : priming the future.

Sedating Love (Genesis)



March 29th, 2012







  Love; everything inside of me screams passion and pure insanity.



This lust for desperate love in the form of an infectious boil is eating away at every ounce of my flesh.



Pain; I’ve been sedated with a malignant chemical; my IV revels in gazing upon the dead lying upon their hospital bed.



You’re my intravenous tube, my Lifeguard, my Moon of the Transcendental Star; the Intrepid Knight of Gallantry.



God knows the pain and dereliction endured in this time of tribulation have opened up the corpuscles of my inflamed and succulent flesh.



You’re my parasite; you devour my quintessence in a florid feeding frenzy.



Blood-stained memories of vivid iridescent colors embellish the walls surrounding my very soul and spirit.



-“God why?”-



“Now I see…”



This anomalous soul of mine has internalized every ounce of my virtue into a superficial layer of my being.



The torpid nature of my mind has caused me to secrete an antibiotic field; resisting the very heart of my chaste son who has gone without nurturing within the confines of this vessel of mine.



The trophoblastic shell of my epidermis merely houses a love of righteousness within me.



Carefully concealed within my hollow bones are the tissues and marrow of a youth who longs to break free from desolation and obtain heartsease.



A zygote in formation at present; now a blastocyst; now an embryo; now a fetus…



Where does birth lie?



My genesis, my dawn shall arise at the dusk when the day and night are at the careening point...



Where both opposing elements have joined and departed; they have done so at the zenith of their limits.



When a new element shall bask in the eternal purity of a chaste nothingness; it will be an efflorescence in which opposing forces shall clash.



A child bearer of light is what I have become; my innards glow with a radiant light as the very waste of my being has been purified.



Vapor and ash lie in my intestines as the love inside of me eradicates the abomination within; you dare to vanish into nothingness when you no longer have a purpose in this world.



My demons have lost their purpose; no longer shall they blaze my very nervous system out of whack.



My neurons shall be rejuvenated and the communication between every benediction of a soul shall be accomplished.



A dark star and the nebulae of gaseous radiance shall arise to bring about change in this world within a world stacked upon it.



Jade green horns and matching set of blood red eyes to go with it; this is a beast of gruesome wrath and a flame provocation as well.



Steam sears the very air in His proximity.



This is an adroit demon whose subterfuge lies in the deepest tome of despair.



He is the progeny of a Lord whose diabolical ways cast his soul from heaven down to Gaia below less than minutes ago.



-Love him-



-Feed him-



-Bless him-



-Corrupt him-



Evil and the offspring of vipers can no longer hold down my being; a divine oath has been made to induce my nemesis’ return.



It is my turn to ****** him into tears…

  

This is a godly sadness the likes of which will bring about repentance.





-Amen-

“How can I get you to go down on me,”
he asked, without preamble.
His voice, nervous,
laced with strength
hums through her form,
summoning
a tatting of ***.

She moves her entire form
Across the room
pushing solar plexus
With index finger
The wingback chair collecting
His form – assuaging her intent.

Retreating nine steps
To gather
Her acumen in dripping her clothes off
Adroit pivot
portent gaze
locked
exteroception - engaged

His exhale
executed succinctly in shallow lung
puckered alveoli - clenched
resonates as her own.

Pearls scooped catatonic
atop lingering breast ascension - alone
Remain –
Summoning brine.

She tastes his pulse
Derma puckering sweat globules
Redolent aeriform vapor corpuscles
declaring his need.

Fingers supporting her upper weight
she glides - crawling
pressing half inch spurs into the carpet

Lackadaisical dactyl dance
Seizes
muscle calf to thigh
Invoking listless leg drape

Pausing
Warm breath – rendered
Upon knee cap parallel
Framing shoulders

Engorging - in aching silence
Pulse thick, wrought in shaft

Kneeling
Primed
Proud

She flicks the button
From slit fabric recess
Cupping palms under thigh,
She renders garment to puddle

half-in – half-out
whole
chthonic shaft to palette

Sliding exhale
to mound
lax jaw
focus
Iris entreats -
narrowed corneal withdrawal

Oblong lip array surrounds
Supping the creamy, coppery,
Smoky, saline inoculation.

Latent dribble invokes tongue
Furl about lip cusp
Absorbing globule
Into slaked smile.

City-bus is crawling one zone to another
Someone is recalling somebody silently
Entering into the dustless cool mall
I may dare to tell all the senior ladies love
May open the cellular phone.

Yellow champak smelling the teen-age
Passerby may suffer from unknown blunder
It's really an untold epic
Somebody feels someone
I may redesign my attributes
May write some lines on the corpuscles.

City-bus is entering into the yesterdays
Yellow neon-evening is moving from tomorrows
I may fall down to the stoppage
May kiss the air might touch your lips someday.

City-bus can't cross the globe
Can't find your cyber destination!



Poem 05
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X

Serpentine corpuscles trickle to his chin
as they batter him in incensed anger's blow
but couldn't they break the broken man within
the sinner long used to seeing own blood's flow!

**** him the frenzied crowd storms over him
ceaseless punches fall like moribund rain
insane monsters' boiling wrath's steam
would stop only when is numbed all his pain!

His meek hands vainly struggle to defend
cracked bones clang like splintered glass
head bows then curves in crumbled bend
till his frame yields to the merciless mass!

Be scared not he has died thus in the past
repaired revived and released from cell
every time coming back in renewed lust
to walk once again through the fire of hell!

Your Levi's beat all I have seen
Your ancestors had some good genes
I love your good roots
Your fine attributes
From your head to your toes and between

It's all very clear to me
You're certified, high pedigree
It so plainly shows
There's some blue blood I know
I hope that you'll share it with me

LADY, IT'S ALL IN YOUR GENES
YOU MAKE MY RED CORPUSCLES DREAM
SINCE YOU CAME BY
OUR CHEMISTRY'S SO HIGH
LADY, IT'S ALL IN YOUR GENES

Your figure is full thoroughbred
You could raise up a man that was dead
I want to be part
Of your love from the start
I can't get you out of my head

I taste your pulse
derma puckering sweat globules
aeriform vapor corpuscles
declaring your need
embellishing sacral curvature
in mellowed diaspora
I glide closer upon the sheets drapes
fingers supporting my upper weight
pressing half inch spurs into the mattress
dragging my whole self towards you
for a kiss

like dulcet lovers
twins on the Aegean
two hearts beating in time
bis vivit qui bene vivit

never shall innocent blood be shed
yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river

time ran by leaving ****** footprints
time mated with a vengeance
does time run down or simply run out
of time?

never shall innocent blood be shed
yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river

blood speaks in a rush
and mumbles in corpuscles
blood measures heartbeats in pulses
between two hearts
a silken cord of caring

never shall innocent blood be shed
yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river

time answers all questions
in good time
souls are thin rivers
running into the same
shivering ocean of memories

never shall innocent blood be shed
yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river

hearts are cymbals
beating out the old refrains
in time

*He lives twice who lives well

I cannot really it explain,
but I can give it
one helluva try.
It's a million (or more)
fuschia-pumpers,
the spilling of hemoglobin
& red corpuscles,
broken bones
bleached white,
lying in the sun.
And streams of blue
tumbling from
the duct-factory
& the silent
green fields.

My voice shrank and my entire body sclerosed to stone
when you lifted a hand because I was never sure
if this time would be the time
you took it too far.

The air left my alveoli, travelled through my bronchioles, trachea,
and out through my clenched teeth as you walked out the door,
safe to escape from my lungs because fear
had paralyzed my diaphragm and
overstimulated my amygdala.

It was always a vicious cycle:
My limbic system remembered the monster that escaped your ribcage
when the rage inside that was instilled in you to win wars
that was never fully extinguished came through
yet the same system processed the love I felt
when you played peek-a-boo with my niece on the grass;
even my brain wasn’t sure what we wanted.

Four weeks had passed since:
I said goodbye to our cat because he was yours now,
I took the trinkets I had scattered to make it our home
rather than your place where I stayed,
I erased sloppy alcohol-kissed love notes from the whiteboard
where I wrote the therapy reminders you ignored.

My mailbox filled with emails riddled with depression and  
post-traumatic stress and worry manifested as a knot in my throat
that made it impossible to breathe so I searched for any spare key
and drove the twenty-seven miles to ensure your safety.  

I grasped the doorknob hard enough to trigger Pacinian corpuscles
throughout my skin, terrified of what was just beyond the threshold.

The inverse of lamba squared is ten thousand to the power of the heist

Your Presence has premiere rhythm; Substitute halving my health

Estuary bearing burden standing true grit

Loaded dice humanity Undertaken uneath

forsaken aether Fluoridated month

Perfect posse palpitating puncture buck shot Higher than an ambush ambassador

Ceasing the sky fills wounded knee high to smokescreen rising Picking golden stunning silence
Mesmerizing Ocean wind wild card crying colour

All I want is form, yew grows always happy
Death defying lateral trial Destiny Timings

Legendary League of Ten thousand feet Emissary Ameliorate Stark inebriety
phantoms fathom cat and mouse Sanctuary in Sensory

Hustle bustle Gravity’s Blasting Muscle Pulses Corpuscles To Alleviate
Spiraling Carcass harness the sieve erase the harvest remove the artist’s grin
Smirk at Graves and hunt their Twisted Fates

I will crack pages open to reveal the worlds I have created
Where whirling passion meets a depressed turmoil to dictate a further storm into an alternate being

“Astral travel “
Let my wisdom flood through the gates of your cerebrum to enter and penetrate your thought cavity
Visualize and I promise you will be transported

Imagine ...
Yourself , silk flowing just above your resting space
Now focus , focus on the motion of your blood , the pace - your corpuscles will become more vivid
Feed your body energy
From your powerful realm
Begin to pulse, I want you to breathe at the pace of the electricity
Can you see it
You are glowing , neon
Like under the signs of an old diner in the American movies
A glow, brighter than the stars
A glow so toxic, one that a simple mind cannot fathom
A glow both evil and pure
This glow creates and destroys

Destruction formulated by simplicity
Simplicity forming art
Dangerous art circulating ‘round the idea of breakage
Every now and again, an oasis needed
Not being able to reach far enough
The art destroyed the painter
The glow bursting out her veins
Death by her own beauty

The soles of my sandaled feet
maneuver lumps of brick as if by rote
and I am compelled to face the square.

Almost noon on Sunday,
I seek the impromptu mall
of Tarot readers and caricaturists
where palmists merchant to St. Peter,
each an homilist to the choir of steel drums
tinkling near the alley.
Alternate drummers motion bills and coins
into the walled cache of a tattered suitcase.

Tall arched doors spill into
the welcoming flicker and scent of melting wax
as an older woman enters,
the heft of her rosary bending her
near genuflection.

Familiar passages resonate;
memories lead to Sacraments.
Questions filter through me like confessions,
and I note what lingers of my faith.

Still.

I feel too guilty for Communion.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
Even as I turn to You,
my right toe numbs
and my ear begins to itch.
My ******* constrict
and my throat presses into the wet.
Inject me, Father, with Noah's syringe –
the one that jazzed him
to build that floating zoo –
that I may track my path before the Rise.
Or, let me don Your priestly robes,
and turn some wine to Corpuscles
divined to see beyond my own plank
or preach the Beatitudes to yawning zealots.

Is there a mirror on that altar?

As the cathedral entrance closes,
I am who I am
—and I am not worthy—
standing my shadow's length
from the shallow steps.

Azaleas blooming at my back,
I remember when religion grew within my mind
fed weekly by carvings on a chalice
in a chapel on Esplanade left to nature post Katrina.

Spanish moss greys the white beard of God
where the dome of the fresco fractures.

Phalangeal hues of sun
eclipse the floating dust
from breaks in stained glass stations.

Masses of blackberry and kudzu
drape a pregnant mass
over the sculpted marble of the cross.

The chiseled palms of Christ extend as
ropes of growth unravel from His Torso

like a figment of my reconciliation.

Vines fall to form a brambled crown
atop a broken stone
between the great doors
where the Bible swells open.

A version of this poem has been previously published in the anthology Louisiana Inklings: A Literary Sampler (29 October 2013).

*"Sanctuary" was featured as Poem of the Day and  added to the Poetry Club on Scriggler.com

Shhhhh...ECOUTER LE SILENCE
( Shhhhh...LISTEN TO THE SILENCE )

the silence so loud
one could hear
the cat blink

( le silence si fort
on pouvait entendre
le clignotement de chat )

the music of the silence
when the music
stops

( la musique du silence
quand la musique
arrêts )



the cicadas weaving
a sudden silence
out of all their noise

( le tissage de cigales
un silence soudain
hors de leur bruit )



the only thing heard
in the immense silence
the cicada's beating heart

( la seule chose entendre
dans l'immense silence
les cigales battant coeur )



I could hear my blood
circulating within me
the hurtling of large corpuscles

( je pouvais entendre mon sang
circulant à l'intérieur de moi
le dévaler corpuscules de grosses )



in the darkness
our hands our eyes
we touch with kisses

( dans l'obscurité
nos mains nos yeux
nous touchons de baisers )

The Gram sir,
polygonal father firefly
stand in Cibatus ...
thread and thread form light.

In the year 1300
miliérnaga great night,
the Lucibatus provoke a detritment an *****
He fell back to Cibatus
And her delicate body broke into two parts...

In the center was in "A";
Her two columns
Stumble down at the head of Mr. Gram.

He in the compartment,
The pulverized seeds scraped
Galloping ice that undermined the Cibatus
The year in 1200,
Oh syllogism much light!
You coordinate the central hole Cibatus basket;
gramineous navel dim oracle
Coming through the middle,
Dodona River as light.


In the center of barley,
Mr. Gram healed their wounds;
Fecracia corpuscles,
Major ***** Susea ...
that ruled with all his power by blizzards.

"Not Cibatus or broken,
traditional custom was broken by wind
and not by Light gram "

In the dark night of San Corinth,
It fell night where Mr. Gram asleep ...
happy told the fierfly
your damage would not alter its sun.

Toward the end of the day,
He said his greatest roar...
Their wings hawked loose
Cibatus noise pain!

Lat night came,
and invisible, transparent body
wanted spring,
Love this protozoan
Cibatus alone.

Farewell  said fierfly in 1300,
when it fell by the protozoan crag ...
Signs metal birds
They said ...; Aaaah ..!
and noise Gram God,
They said! Aaaaah ... Aaah ...!

Nor no hugs or charity,
the rough particle spring circle
flierfly donated the ***** ...
Limestone Road
He loved the feet of ash,
white bodies laughed
and they transmuted his absent body.

Flierfly he opened his eyes...
Cibatus looked at his winged whistling song:
" Fly Fierfly,
stretch your threads;
Mr. Whiskers love Gram ...
buried next to the root of Cibatus "

Farewell Thousand Three Hundred ... !



JOSÉ LUIS  CARREÑO TRONCOSO
10 to 11 July 1995.

rain down corpuscles of light
into the salty ocean waves
bend for me and smite
the darkness of this drowning cave
where I am held by the cross section
of some fourth dimensional abnormality
maybe it is just my reflection
maybe it is just my reality
something I can't seem to picture
a Corpus Hypercubus sort of memory
tied down by mental strictures
left wondering in this somber reverie

I am gone and out of sight. So why should you care? There is nothing left in this soggy sad tale, of childhood self-defeating. The center city of my times and my observations all out of sight. So why should you care? The silent soliloquies and trending electric doom. The death and reconstruction of vast empires and deserts blazing in their teething tyrannous rise. The unconscious attitude of millions quietly scoffed at by philosophers in dark, locked closets. The waves of our own gluttonous self classification  completely illuminated on the firing line and who had no last words for any of their sins. The failure of our own cultivated mold, on our own rock, on our own time, surely a good place to stop this december. It's now, so why should you care?

Things will see well, said the city. No neon corpuscles. No dead-light street corners. Just me and the Five lying about which way to get home.

I seem to want to hate them all. Every last golden memory. Just find an other.

There's a certain chord
that thrums in the same wavelength
of sonorous solitude.
It is more of a quiver than a vibration
like a bird's wing trapped
in the half-inch between the tips
of a boy's thumb and index finger.

I hear the sound of
repressed struggles and imprisoned words
like a bottle of soda shaken, shaken

hiss.

It sounds something
like the clink of glass shards
swept into a forgotten corner
or the whistle of labored breaths
ebbing against the sandpaper lining
inside the throat
or the atomic scream
of dust corpuscles settling
on top of cardboard boxes filled with
nostalgia for the unattainable.

I know this sound, this song.
I hear it in the flutter of your eyelashes
the murmurs of your fingers
across my skin
the unspoken lying between your teeth
forcing their way to the corners of your mouth
your smile.

This is the sound of a divine choir
when heaven
collapses.