April 26, 2017

spending days with cassandra .......................................................... waking from comas with commas, karma and calm ........................................................................ NaPoWriMo2017 #26

here the poem says mothball everything, tell no one  
america, scared of ka, is going to nest, next line blessed 
while the rest of god here, is an illusion 
comfort by sleeping however, is not ... 

so I believe I'm called a lunatic to keep reason from being my friend ...

words need bleeding, me in the weeds by the roadside, watching 
bent quiet crept, waiting bouquet traveling at leisurely rates of speed 
I spy weathered signs, yesteryear(s), clear views of nature getting through 
to where I once was ago, the flower petals are clock dial hands, 
turns of the sky not having control over 
any of my eye movements, scent wants me lost 
in ramparts of color dollop womb-if-ication 
I think spring and summer thunderstorms ...

it must be a new moon, my eggs are breaking
 and my balls are stuck in a vice world at large of humpty forever 
some follow a king, some the horses, 
still others listen, pay the fare and play 
it is if we wanted to see the ship 
and captain go down wearing hole Life 
as a black tie affair ... 

nicean 325 pagan politics disguised 
ravenous cats, christendom ... 
damn mother of constantine stole the library of alexandria ... 
after fact-ers proctor examinations of gullibility 
they are half book rulers, schmooze-lers, 
they use novelty vomit to feign concern ... 
they wham you into liking cable television, internet 
and low quality digital feeds for music ... 
poem says fuck'em, give me kettle drumming 
and crossbow salvation-ists, deadheading 
zombie flower peddlers, anytime 

the dream of when 
nine foot tall marionettes 
they were thick piano wired 
to the tree, we used pulleys 
and ox yoke chestnut collars 
we gave hollers for dollars 
through megaphones 
into microphones 
they write poems 
we are contacted, contracted 
to relay them as penance for not believing in magic 
a time or two when we hadn't known 
what to do simple grace was to stare 
mirror mirror nearer the face 
bowsprit and buttress 
we gave the harpies 
and gargoyles a chance 
to harmonize 'and to our surprise 
they reprise-d human foibles perfectly 
we called around a fire story time, 
all the glories 
of days we had 
at go and stay 
in the mountains, camp ...

we spread ourselves aurally thin 
and fit into speakers 
we had positioned above 
and behind the audience 
licorice lovers always lagged behind 
they like the changelings 
and morality zoetrope-s 
some of us kept stones 
in our pockets 
dark skipping 
what dreams 
we remember ourselves 
precipice-d desire 
mental illness 
as causative deformation 'reverse engineering 
special circumstances that fence the killing of the soul 
articulate limbs 
broken shells, skin 
names I call myself 
when about to fall asleep 
dreaming again 
of endless mouths 
to feed into why 
we move coffins 
lid to slid 'off the cuff 
with remarkable lies 
we hold as holy, pearl diving 
a midnight we hold dear 
calling us home 
I bind thee, poem says 
to your freedom, to your madness 
to your quiet discernment 
and I am personal logic, 
an illness of cures too, it seems ...


1 comment:

  1. "so I believe I'm called a lunatic to keep reason from being my friend" ... Amen to that, brother.

    "words need bleeding, me in the weeds by the roadside, watching" ... Yes. That whole stanza, actually. So powerful. I'm in exactly the same place. Always, coming off a migraine, I go into the strangest, most grasping-it-all headspace. Everything is clear that nothing needs be clear. I am. That is enough. It's perfect, actually. Breathing.

    "it must be a new moon, my eggs are breaking" ... This is the best transition ... and then your balls in a vice. Hilario. Well, not for you. :P

    "nicean 325 pagan politics disguised
    ravenous cats, christendom ...
    damn mother of constantine stole the library of alexandria" ... Love this.

    Also this: "after fact-ers proctor examinations of gullibility
    they are half book rulers"

    "they wham you into liking cable television, internet" ... Don't you think we're killing ourselves this way?

    "poem says fuck'em, give me kettle drumming
    and crossbow salvation-ists, deadheading
    zombie flower peddlers, anytime" ... Right on, Poem.

    "they were thick piano wired
    to the tree, we used pulleys
    and ox yoke chestnut collars" ... This is so gorgeous, it sounds pleasant.

    "we are contacted, contracted
    to relay them as penance for not believing in magic" ... Fantastic sound.

    "we spread ourselves aurally thin" ... I like that this might mean we ourselves are diseases, spreading ourselves among the masses. And also that even if we're physically fat, we might be aurally thin. "Listen to me; don't I sound skinny?" ;)

    "licorice lovers always lagged behind" ... Damn it. All my life, THIS has been the problem?! I do love me some twizzle(r) sticks.

    "they like the changelings
    and morality zoetrope-s" ... Who doesn't?! :P

    "precipice-d desire
    mental illness" ... When you dash a d, it makes me think of De. "precipice" = press sigh pies" ... So this makes me think of you pressing her "sigh pies." :)

    "names I call myself
    when about to fall asleep" ... I really do think about this, when I'm very foggy and sleepy. What is my real name? Do I have one? Should I have one? I always think of Water and Wind.

    "lid to slid 'off the cuff
    with remarkable lies" ... Again, great sound. A pleasure to read aloud. ALL of your work is. (I'm picturing all sorts of scenarios with pan/Pan lids and slides ... I'm simmering spaghetti sauce, so that's playing in as well. What if spaghetti sauce itself is a lie? Flavor? Heat? Honestly, isn't everything a lie, but also the truth? If you don't believe this, you're not a philosophy major taking your own class[es].)

    "I bind thee, poem says
    to your freedom, to your madness
    to your quiet discernment" ... Poem is such a smart cat. This part is really a poem all on its own. A mantra, really.

    And excuse me, but that is the best title. We all love Cassandra ... and waking from comas with commas, geez.