It rains.
A truffled scent
glitters
in dead leaves,
naked trees.
Transudation
into the depths
of the night.

1298

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants—
At Evening, it is not—
At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
It stop upon a Spot

As if it tarried always
And yet its whole Career
Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay
And fleeter than a Tare—

’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler—
The Germ of Alibi—
Doth like a Bubble antedate
And like a Bubble, hie—

I feel as if the Grass was pleased
To have it intermit—
This surreptitious scion
Of Summer’s circumspect.

Had Nature any supple Face
Or could she one contemn—
Had Nature an Apostate—
That Mushroom—it is Him!

December, 1870*

After the beef was gone,
after the pork and the lamb,
and the fowl and the fish
and the dogs, and the cats,
and the rats in the gutter,
the butchers turned to the zoo.

We ate the wolves.
We ate the wolves
broiled in sauce of deer,
the antelope truffled and terrined.
We ate the camels
with breadcrumbs and butter,
and when they were all gone,
we sharpened our knives
and primed our guns
and came back for the elephants.

The gunsmith Devisme did the deed,
hurled an explosive ball
through each of their docile heads.
They fell like mountains,
like the pillars of Dagon
pulled down by mighty Samson,
and then we hacked them up
and carted them away to the kitchens,
to feed the wealthy and the rich
in the clubs of bright Paris.

I breathe in song leaving silk dictation
upon his skin, converging each note in
dreams of his reality

denuding him...

absorbing him in whispered aubade's,
savoring him in fingertip forages; aching
for his touch to mould me, caress and
hold me like a paintbrush to canvas;
its bristles a tongue tasting every
curve of me

undulating...

I dance with him slowly; by our song
bodies swaying with a beggars need,
as hips and thighs whisper in wanton
heat leading us to temptation's portal
of lust

hungry...

in savored decadence a delicacy of
truffled sweet creaminess upon
tongue splayed between open thigh,
and still in song skin upon skin;
passion rides leaving us wet
and wanting

devouring...

with hungry mouths sinking beneath
our coveted desires; probing delicious
fantasies, pulsing for him to plunge
shamelessly in out wetness as we
sing our own songs of uttered sighs
and moans

our lover's ballad...sung

There was this thing with parsley and lemon that i never knew,
Before jasmine bloomed below my moonless nights.

It came as a surprise when i learned the moistened bundles,
Green of scented lashings, took to whipping saintly flesh.

Holy was the root beneath the sacrificial lamb, white and rubbed of
Tasteless degraded dirt, growing in rows facing artificial south.

"Baaa-baaa", cried the appetite for its feeding in the field.
"Baaa-baaa", scorned the lemon lamb.

Seeds squeezed free as yellow screams dripped through divine ears.
Bitter acid, holy ghost, neutralize our sins.

"Nothing will be wasted, nor forgotten!" claimed
The shears. as hands of holy citrus, clip-clipped-buzzzzzzz.

Tremendous clouds of earthly fluff, not hung high as the
Gods do for fear, lay beside the feasted lamb of peasants parsley

Naked; purged; they gathered in stinging holy hands,
Around their false and bleeding christ , fictionalized death, fabricated life.

Lemon seeds i now spit for sport and leaves of parsley i keep pruned
From their rocky stalk. the roots i boil and use to fill a truffled stew.

(I am)... my own I am

I am the Creator
I imagine what is not there, but what is felt
What is in my bones

I can feel that
That is deep work.

I shift into new spaces
I lead with my courage to be brave
When it is hard to be brave
these days
in America
But we have to continue on.

I choose to find the pieces of recognition
To sift through those parts
That make up my identity
Who am I?
Who is anyone?

To make them whole
Isn’t that the point to
our purpose?
Of our salvation? To. keep. going on...
Gliding slow and refilled in short and long truffled steps through alleyways..
Eventually towards a valley that may be
called our own.. whatever that means.

Being a co-creator I touch others
I become the mirror of their soul
Sharing a glimmer of mine
And that’s enough...

To feel..
to hear..
to know..
Plentifully.

Not to understand more or to fear less
But to see the truth come forth from underneath this...
creativity.

What is creativity, but a fleeting image
A passing thought
An air bubble of time and space that sounds great, but appears jagged
in its form and flow

No questions asked
No worries;
thoughts to dance
around.

It is just and it is human
Formed for a mind and
heart
The body of its source
It is I, the Creator  
And... I am proud of that.
For this is my creation.