February 13, 2017

grandine alla madre grande, fica e ventre

'Given' by Lisa Yuskavage ©

Each day my hands clasp 
a prayer to Her wholly trinity 
where I wear what I swear my allegiance to 
each morning I become aware 
I am seared with this insistence 
an amplification, a supplication and mollification of ego 
mason jars of jellied laughter await 
those breaking of fasts with tea and toast 
most Life is vacations 
and not seeing such slays the wise 
which is why being on the road 
is for those that enjoy the ride 
journey-ists are artists 
willing bones and soul past 
future aggregate material sacred 
we scar and are scared 
when we are dared 
past comfort 
She says with a smile 
this is the language 
we all ought strive to know 
it sounds like a bare armed tree song 
with the wind rushing in 
from the partly rolled down window
I scan back and forth 
across the road 
painted lanes and sides 
I remark in squint hark to myself 
even in bright daylight 
electric lines crackle with anticipation 
they feed the dissonance 
dampen resonance dancing ...

the radio suddenly comes on 
hiss and static then factory sized machine angels in choir 

"There is no sanctuary and discord 
has been around since soon after the printing press 
when we began teaching others to teach 
how not to teach the masses the glory 
and power of cellular infinity aka 
why do we have telomere breakdown ..."

I shudder 
think of how 
and how long 
my cells 
have been 
by intention

in the hush pattered moments 
when alone in ponder 
the traipsed intertwined laces 
of conscious will, will place us 
where We want to be ... 

my little collection :
(an obtuse clever play on name or definition) 
how many poems 
are carved 
onto your soul

scabs in the rain 
finding pieces 
fit me eaten 
a nose, says brain 
eyes,  jealous, says soul 
cry imaginative memory 
invocation & wine

automatic surreptitiously serendipitous 
the thrust of Life is fall fly do what soul must 
send regards, it's snowing again, February 
and the road is quietly beautiful 
and dangerous 
as entertainment
that is so fucking weird 
a gloaming light no wade motel 
kind of living part of a 
microwave background 

witching hour forays 
egg laying weaver 
Her house is in the trees 
calendrical leaves and needles 
knee palms belly crawling calliopes 
whistle sounds muffled in the frozen night 
wolves howling why we dig marrow 

I Love Her too is hand written 
corner embraces, destinations may be 
tourist truck stop paper place mats 
with all fifty states and roadside attractions 

She has me 
in wobble smile tarantella 
I am wet clay in Her hands 
my poems, pulse bleeding 
tongues, rivers and rain 
I'd explain more 
but you get the idea 
how being 
held and holding 
what cup is pouring 
and what cup is storing what needs 
find limb and articulation ...

I am on a lazy susan 
in the middle of the floor, We have 
drawn a circle 1-13 indicated 
salt, shaved rust and costumed rubies adorned 
She sends me spinning 2 what O'clock we R now 
mystery to wild card to clutched bed sheet roses 
poses We made roles in the patterned chaos 
bloodstains down Our forearms 
like inland deltas 
feeding the grass lands 
after the desert of Winter 
cedes to Mother may eye 
Spring again ...

We find ourselves 
spun, picking wild flowers 
and divinations 
from the litter we picked up 
along the ways  
into what tales 
the children 
of the Miller's daughter 
and Rumpelstiltskin, tell us 
excitedly as we pulled over 
a when and then 
turned towards morning 
here and now, a cow 
and those magic beans 
gold for straw again 
and all the things 
We hold court for 
inside Ostara, shell, 
yolk and surprise inside 
the waiting births  
each and every sunrise



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