January 5, 2015

I wonder...

'La Meute' by Gaston Bussière, 1905

I wonder...

(does a body 
always war 
with the soul)

(part 1)

am I endless wander 
wind-sure deliberate knives 
wading my conscious 
as if looking for inheritances 

am I formless exalts
ecstasy minded 
divvying up worlds 
thoughts takes one to...

am I parts, shards and Lothario 
designed for Brynhildr woods

(is my humanity 
a series of mechanisms, 
interlocking tosses)

gains the
spirit by losses 
there are lifetimes 
in each 
fade away 

rust is fire 
that plays me 
a record 
slow enough 
to see 

there are many 
acts of me 
pieced together 
glued intros 

broken glass mosaics is
my background symphony 
gathered sounds 
and clutched fabric 

I rather like 
where you 
lead me 

(this is somewhere my eyes want to get to 
but only my nose knows the way)

inside your trine-scent 
neck, shoulder 
and hair 
I swear in

I make up 
I utter, 
scratch, hiss 
howl and 

I sell myself 
on why 
your skin is
divine monologue
insisting easing
into devour
an aria 
in the middle 
of a chaotic din 

I stop 
take heed 
my need 
to listen 
without pause 
or reservation 
won't let me
leave this linger


(part 2)

when given 
as freely 
as a song 
to the ears
love pures 
by bliss

(mist is
suited rain 
tearing thread
to get at 
what's between 
blinks and 
sewn seams)

it is here 
inside where worn 
by counting water 
keeps time aging
inside me 

I remember 
my name 
on occasion 
carve and music 
have always been here too

(declaration self 
clothing me an Emperor 
means emptying the shelves)

René Descartes  
lives in my forefinger 
tracing shapes 
and formulae
on the dusty sills 
and sashes 

I decorate with 
lashes and latches
what I can bend 
close to batten
why I feed my eyes 
sweet and savory
nosed perusals 
past excuses
taking chances 
with mathematics
and poems
yet to be 


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