Enfleshed and skinned and stuffed with juicy giblets:
A future worm's-meal of steaks and chops and riblets.

O.O

"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of ****** she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail, to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the ****** huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough *****, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"

Underneath the anger, there are tears. Beneath the fury, there is hurt, a river
of affliction - the day that possibility evaporated. I knew, the moment
it was gone. Telos obscured, like a mist, had left me.

Frost in February, morning at the local coffee house, perseverating, sedate
in privatized, cogitations - certainty dissolves into irony, the transient
collective with predictable cadence and singular objective. Borrowed
energies - preferred anesthetic in defiance of the placid, quotidian horror.

Angst wrapped in skin, clothed in remorse, like a muslin coat unable
to keep me warm, the palette of truculence, dislocated savant,
with guarded aversion - faces enucleating in tacit harmony, the muted tragedy
of the forgotten.

Yoked, the metaphorical satchel, freighted with the sentient debris, sifting
the fuckage, memoirs of failure, privation of venture and honor, objectified as
mere portent. [Existence] - the daily riot, becomes the necessary crucible.

Dissonance and detachment resonate the cultural banality, [being] displaced
by icon; [branding], ideas about ideas, life several times removed,
emblem over essence.

Existential renegade, exploiting the counter intuitive, the paradigmatic prodigal,
favor squandered, in the absonant passage, bearing fruit of the undone.

Bones of contention lament, interminably, like a false friend, present in absence,
perceived in the lack, subtraction, slip-stream - the disheveled
palaver of the broken.

Acutely self referential, misery enfleshed, its own reward, a post-war
discontent inhabiting sorrow, compressed and narrow, begetting
apathy in springtime.

Commodity of youth, the currency of beauty -permuted, commerce of the
ethereal and diaphanous. Human caprice, post-modern fog,
the flattened self,
the enemy of us is us, drowning in the decorum of narcissism.
the fattened calf,
immolating on the sword of autonomy.

Recycled grief, a recursive loop of gestating thoughts, marinating fluidly
within the interpretive grid. Confessional cyber community - exposed wounds
and concrete suffering, abstracted from virtual solidarity, refracted through a
reductive sentimentality, maybe they will ‘like’ it.

Iconoclast in exile, inhaling the incense of barrenness , surrounded by synoptic
drivel in understated - present tenses - alight in the now, axial axioms of the privileged,
who genuflect to the god of unfettered freedom.

Peripatetic intervals of isolation, self-imposed, hidden in a sanctuary of derision,
colliding with immutable otherness , the waters of chaos, calm.
The proleptic display, announcing eschatology. An ancient text written on the interior
expressed in myth and narrative the courier. The carnal and cerebral
arise, rightly flourishing.

Sense thresholds stirring, surprise and turbulence, reverberations of altered
domains merging - the temporal and ubiquity, the indissolubly resplendent
inversion - the invisible made visible. Opaque intrigues subsumed into the
balm of reconciliation - the first shall be last…

©2012 W.S. Warner

your mind processes more than what you are looking at
a periphery unconsciously enters the eye
and your memory forever looks behind you
- wherever you have been
while your imagination takes you on a journey
- a spirit world enfleshed by your brain.

Providence summons  
Natures purchase,
Beyond prosaic
Utility, toward
Communion.
Austere terrain,
Ice crystal, Dust –
covered
Haunt.
Divine disclosure,
Epiphany;  
Ourselves -
Carnal cisterns of spirit
Enfleshed
Skin; merging
Luminous,  
Savouring,
Design
Ordered by love.

©2012 W.S. Warner

Do we really ever slow the soul enough to make
                                               any difference?
Stress-filled moments rushing-on the river of life,
And we are drowning, choking on insignificance
As we grab for more, feet kick hard, sink us low
                                               in mire of strife.

Our latest moment grieved, the new already gone,
And we recoil from the future we must surely meet
                                               in the present
As cruel apprehension rolls dark over face of the
                                               sun
To summon defeat of another life in relentless
                                               Time's engagement.

Born outside the doors of fair Eden, uncreated,
Tick of the Clock but marks the absence of eternity ~
Hole blown in the heart of God ~ time was never
                                               intended,
And now we die so soon as we are born of spirit-
                                               enfleshed infirmity.

hell now. hell later. heaven lost.
earthbound. lost-bound. losing ground.
never cede the territory of desire.
ever hell. keep on. keep lost. on-bound.
dispossessed of a heaven at your feet.
your feet treaded heaven, your body enfleshed heaven
and can again. ever again. earth again.
hell now. hell later. ever on.
never lost. no-where to be found. now-here found.
now-here on. no-where lost. now-here bound.
no-where bound.

She plans, she waits, she is patient
Mostly she can be ignored
Chained to the wall
Kept in the box
High on the upper shelf
In the back of the room
The one with the mind locks

She awaits her moment
She bides her time
She is a creature of opportunity
To seek the vulnerable space in  heart and mind

But her whispers break through the bonds
A litany, a cycle, on repeat

"Why would anyone ever want you?
What makes you think you're so special?
What makes you think yourself worthy...
     of time
     of space
     of thought
     of love

You're not smart
You know nothing
You've done nothing

No accomplishments that matter
Never an original thought
Never an original sin

How could you possibly believe anyone would let you in?

They're just being nice
They're just bored
They'll disappear when someone interesting comes along

You don't matter
You're not special
You are nothing

Don't even bother
Don't even try
Don't say anything
Don't do anything

Know you're place (see, you can't even use the right "your", stupid little girl")

Stay in YOUR place

Don't take the risk
Don't believe they actually want to
     talk to you
     share time
     or space
     or body with you

You know you're too dumb, too slow, too fat, too dull

Why try to kid yourself..."

on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on ...

White noise over the quiet parts of the loudest songs

Until I buckle and become ensnared
As her shadow covers and envelopes
And knocks me off my feet
And kicks me when I'm down
Pummeled, crying in the corner of my my mind

I reach out blindly for reassurance

Someone somewhere somehow

I know, I know, I know, I know, I know

But she's taken over
She's in control
She knows which way to go
To make her point and become enfleshed

She's been watching
She knows where to strike
She's found the softest part of my underbelly
She's been sharpening her strongest knife

The place without much solid ground
It's tenuous, it's new, it's risk
The place where the wild things grow

And she strikes, sinks claws in deep

Sends a message across space and time
When I know better than to cross that line

Not the right time to ask,
     not fair
     not needed
     the exact opposite, in fact

And you, bless your heart, you don't engage
Leave me alone on that stage
Let me fight this monster of mine
I'll thank you for that another time

She wants be lost and alone.
This monster who took over my phone
And said truths better left alone

She likes making a fool of me
Exposing my vulnerability

But see, I know she lies to me
I know she's wrong
I know she's naught but the expression of weakness in me

This is why she lives in the mind-locked room, top corner, back of the shelf

So I rest, regroup, refresh, relax

Find my own way out of the darkness
Back to my meandering path

Turn focus on the things I KNOW
And give the rest some space to grow

I know I'm smart, and deep, and clever
     (But, yes, I am a little slow)

I know that I know nothing
     (And I know that knowing I know nothing is something to know)

I know that I've done a lot, been a lot, accomplished a lot
     (And I know the past is naught but experience to color my choices in the future)

I know that I exist and therefore I am special
     (A lot of crazy impossibilities aligned to bring me here today, and that makes me special...just like the rest of the plants and animals filling this reality)

And I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know that people wouldn't
     talk to me
     share time
     share space
     share thought
with me if they didn't want to

So why worry about it?
     (Snaps the chain around her neck)

Why push?
    (Puts her box back on the shelf)

Why stay on solid ground?
    (Turns the key on the mind-locked door)

I know I like to tread quicksand