March 15, 2016

with a honey flower throat

John William Waterhouse: A Hamadryad - 1895

she was all carjack crackling 
with early age electricity sounds
and hack a thon premonitions  
she was this velvet tells it jar 
a genie or talisman 
that was meant to talk you in 
to touring every world 
you encounter from when 
each life as a cell began...

this time she was 
a paper wrapped afar 
we were in her car 
slip disc admitting  
ignition from failure 
to repeating certain burns
she said switching bait 
was to bake and lure 
all hell to a broke loose 
she wanted to make sure 
i knew to cook my goose slowly 
drain the succulent fat 
into cult-i-vat-ed root vegetable 
bubble and spit 
she wanted me to leave 
her viscous wish lists
she said she would have to put 
the attainment directions 
directly into and onto my skin...

perhaps the first poem was lost 
to the laptop power outage 
on purpose, a magic momentary lapse 
the present as a presented mighty tonic mystery
some thing for me to swear by and surrender to 
revering all of what i used to be in that poem 
then the screen went black and i had to re-boot 
shoot i can't remember everything we did 
can you...

but when the photo books come out 
i swear myself off of humanity 
and earmark an exit from paraded life...

i'd rather keep my own carousel illuminations 
my versions of whorled whirling calliope worlds 
my nautilus calling in an archaic ocean language 
something lyrical and symphonic 
that can say while mimicking wind and rain 
demons and angels be one and the same 
elegant poetry and litany
of shadow restraint 
to beamed when willed 
and compelled to do so... 

when unleashed they swill 
our beer, wine and spirits 
swearing to themselves 
we heathens do this best 
and in return they spill beans 
on what god means between beauty 
and the explanations science brings 
for art to steal into, though mostly
for the reasons why we live and die 
each a held breath in a fragile embrace 
of what holding light through night brings 

and quietly the melody plays 
satyr, nymph and the arts 
of pleas and offerings

poems are like
rings around trees 
counting the stars 
with their leaves
though we only 
know this when 
this reach is 
put down for 
us to see


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