there was a table laid that would not lie

•November 15, 2011 • Leave a Comment

a draft horse body.

bred thoroughly by fire.

pure desire.

how the ruby embers remember themselves with one strong breath.

concentrated.

her surrendering off-kilter, secret spiller.

interim.

him entering her.

the three-point-crown-of-flame,

oakwise,

with dark seed eyes,

crow-legged,

raven-haired.

flickers, her slither, his slap.

the way the old chair opens its mouth.

the way they made the other chairs an anchor,

her root, his hold.

his invested plum now

two cooled grapes, or

a handful of dried currants though,

like the diamond coals,

her tongue

makes it ripe again,

with the quickness of a peregrine.

when you become

eucalyptus, madrone, manzanita.

when you become the center in the trunk-

a window.

when they curl their suits into each other,

his flag draped,

her tail curled.

her victorious puissance,

his magnificent cause.

they roll in the stillness and

pray on fine-point edges.

they temper and tamp.

they play without clocks.

he saws her in half,

she reappears in a sauna.

when you become a golden puddle.

when the sun eats the evening inside out.

when every sound is a sacrament.

when your sweat is an oil,

he wants to bottle her armpit,

like a stuffed apricot,

a cinnamon goat,

an amber honeycomb.

when they leave through their limbs

and come home to themselves

they find that

their recognition

is an engine.

when your heart is a hummingbird.

when wings weave on your walls.

when you become both the feast and the fervor,

and every murmur in the halls.

a wolf is eating this paper

•February 17, 2011 • Leave a Comment

after much out of body experience, pain or discomfort in the flesh calls your attention back to presence, especially through breath. and stretch.

crows showed today though mostly it’s been owls in clucks, in screeches, sitting silent on bare branches, flying overhead with bellies of the moon, giving up their wings to a sister and eight feathers to me.

dirty dishes brought this: “fear is the beast i ride in the night with a harness of light- it chews at the bit as i pull the reins tight.”

and the other evening curling in the late: “horse and rider. long road of fire. wind sings strong, trees turn to choir. all nights through, the horse and rider to chart the course of heart’s desires…”

The Wild Bunch. Unforgiven. The Bravados. The Outley Josey Wales. Two Mules For Sister Sara. A Town Called Hell. Lonesome Dove. Joe Kidd. The Proposition. Whiskey. Naked with a cowboy’s daughter. Ennio Morricone.

an echo of a howl, or after soup and how its served

•February 16, 2011 • Leave a Comment

in company of a lovely wild beast with lips as juiced and plumped as the perfect orange, in fact the whole of body ready to pulp and burst. A head of hair mixed with sunlight and dirt- a soft nest of desert-colored serpents leaning to tangle, curl, and spiral. Met in the new machinery of languages where words tuck like dreams and the tongue pulls all the curtains. Then in smoke and grapes of Spain- strangers touch to make it plain and reach to break the other’s cage, brave missed behavior breathing, letting skin explain. Our desires never die is the moral of this trail, such paths to fly our fires sail…

having waited for the stamp of an owl and given stillness and broken sleep, and dusted off with muscles sore now filled with a language and explaining of their own. shown an owl alone in a wander that night- one screech to call my eyes, then another stillness, heart-face turning, the deep looking from thin bare branches- a silent visceral vigilance…

gusts today. blue bird egg sky meeting a thick gray wool blanket slowly pulled over the sky with every wave of wind sending branches bustling. and love delivered letters. conversations with many also made of memory. this body now one long soft dub thumping itself to drum and drone, making homes of moments and names swallowed up by unrolling orchids or stars appeared like couriers and catfish amidst the cod and a watch of perfect protest telling Kairos time….

bundled cusp

•December 1, 2010 • Leave a Comment

man of paper in curl and crumple, folded over under through. creased with bits of news. inks of blue and shadow smudge. he spanks her with a ruler and it sounds like a delivery on the doorstep, sounds like the gambler’s hand slap on a table full of bets.

when paper rests, the leaves come out. from trees after all. from a cut and a fall.  from a buzzing cutting whir of blades comes trusting such soft sheaves. a proper bundle, ribbon-tied, and calling to unknot your tongue.

there in the dark, rustled by night, the sleeping paper man is really keeping breath saved up for his penultimate purpose- the perfect spark to light the verse, to eat the curse of words gone wrong, then sweep the world with fire and turn the sharp edges into songs…

dark splendors

•October 20, 2010 • Leave a Comment

when you are a salt lick.they bring all their wounded. stitch them up with a cloud of bees, making honey busy.

busy as shaking days. busy as time. busy as waves. like a buzz saw swerving through a tangled maze.

make every breath a little silent lightning storm. and if the morning throws three masks- your eyes are still a fire. whenever they look, they blaze.

towards, to words

•August 2, 2010 • Leave a Comment

red eyes alone in his fire shirt, summer dazed from little fires blazed.

a song

boy cries, wolf

wolf wise, boy

boy flies wolf

and wandered through the professor houses whispering in growing garden. talk of temples with cobras in each corner. overwired but not overheating. breath retreat. the long evenings.

the build.crumble.build.

the base desires. the monastery. the story feeling rough drafts.

the going past.

slips under doors

•July 29, 2010 • Leave a Comment

eye look for my dreams as they look for me. face with no face.

and running in place. with a little dark summer cloud in the cold night- it will require lightning in your skin and the thunder drums of tongues- to enter present grace.

so i softly shake. little sail boat rocking back and forth. breath as engine, all the belts unbuckling.

 
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