Sussurus Concepts of the Better Half*

Love Poem to Allen Ginsberg

2010-04-29T06:30:00.000-07:00

"O my Homunculus, I am ill,

I have taken a pill to kill the thin papery feeling"

Sylvia Plath

(breathlessly plunge ahead)

4am
You enter the hot dreamgrip pulled

amphetamine and plummet, a day's hate/love

making fabric stuff a protean seam
when 2 hours plus and the steam's still coming,

dream-real dream-time nub shaped
quick to justbrushed velvet static-cling
and your body there brine soaked all over
and drained dark pink to submission of lust-fat
and loving it as your I and I juxtaposed corporeal,

pale and wanton thrillful weight,
something unannounced, unplanned for,

bough of pressing shoulders claiming

more & more devourous bones

when tree-tight unstifled

moans your hisss & ohh -

back you flung to thread trunk eyes

where rhizomes sunk China-ward,

downpour oblivion still composing

the clutch & smack of slow possession-

flesh that reels a clamourous axe

of affect-clap and almighty cog-thread too late nic'd black;

too soon does dusk reverse to whetted morning
but your ears are roaring and mind is horne'd, foggy,
soppy where Never never landed sorely misshapen,

dharma fool, the feverish

pool of scene that you left

bolted wet, let head compartment snuff the light

inside the wicked myriad

-swift course to bribe the salient seas
you clung and found speed's eager phantasy
a lush and scaring over-friendly guest
you brined in bed.

awake

from terrors oversized

-shake dreams from your hair pretty child my sweet-

one dove, in spells of lingering, sighs

the weight of the world

in luuve

...

...

To a Cancer (... not the usual one )

2010-04-10T18:14:00.000-07:00

(sprightly, nonstop, and breathless)

festival brights

dark hours

push throats an

eyes o'er

edges fleet an

crookd o

lept sky bound

right into the

pocket of air

you made

a pillow ;

how

lifelike then i

dreamt of

cobwebs swept

aside and rent to silk ,

left they the corner

thankful for

the scattered

time they hung

with you o scolded child-winter ;

beams caught the net aghast of light ,

the space between leaves ,

blood's forgotten host of pulses beating throng

to burst of colour,

thrill of song-

catch me fair

on ice i fall

when water's gone .

An ache-less chill ,

unbodied sight -

the roar of latent herbage;

and i a silver Isle

midst the dusty light of dawn

...

To a Libra , in response

2010-01-05T14:34:00.000-08:00

(this is a song , music pending)

...

dance, do I with you some day?

'yours in dance' you wrote involved

in visions faraway.

we, we, merry trekkers in the mountains of the mind,

pause by breath

to take a sip from haven's undiluted stream-
this by heave the arch and the dream

that stillness trickled by one bouldered night on way to sea -

this the pause of god that offered blind the spittle of sight and green deliverance -
a sigh and twist so limp convened by all the sleuth of words and images replayed,
O, they-
to cast no dice but live by chance and spill the blood in moments- still?

to dance?
limerence, diagnosed, how could i rise and walk with shouldered pallet

thru a distance eye'd by numens thin -

smaller naps of rest

between the lore of syn and transformation -
when forces under current beckon

wheat to foam and all that glitter -
"should i dare to eat that peach"? ( no , never. )
Rapids red and backstream Butte

carried flagrant love by Rockies

(though the rig was oilskinned and fit)*
I saw cascading from the lighted surface clear- a sign, a perfect play of air ...
And still, somehow, the beads, the brow,

those visions hanging from the ceiling there (!)
strung cure of carmine to return to later -but the now's enough
to cut the waiting anchor fast, end, steer of ghosts and dogge'd

last the ped of stealthy water to the river's gaining edge, to gasp-
-the moment's breath returns to send you back like Tolkien, back again
But twirl as we ethereal atoms in the ever fluid sip-
a fiery grip outlasted,

still a breadth below the mastery,

traced enamor to the tryst -

there is no end, no end to this

(we we merry trekkers in the mountains of the mind

pause by breath

to take a sip

from haven's undiluted stream)...

wutai shan

L'eau Incubus

2009-05-03T18:48:00.001-07:00

I tell you

that you might not believe

what happens

when it is quiet

and I have only your voice.

You tremble

in the great divide,

whisper in ear

that now your hand is mine,

and not to use words but show you light

to part the fog between us in the dark.

So I place your land on arches,

giving pulse to palm

until the visions flow.

Now know

my desire to graze

this lacquered spirit

to your sturdy ship,

buoy weighed on supple shore,

ancient ladder combed to tracing spires

in the sky, harbor, here

these jaded isles,

lips, sirens everywhere-

old newnesses from every side,

wet limerance guiding on

exponential moistness, wind,

salt thumb

inside of cheek and teeth,

I in the air,

and you beneath the breaking waves;

gasping three precious molecules

-I ease your clenching jaws apart-

expel your pleural swell from stream,

force you looseworn things that breathe

til you liven and lungs awake in madness

to receive what once coursed vigorous past my coronaries.

You, I invite,

to extract the divine

and draw upon the host of prophesies

dissolved between my manifold flesh inside.

Four soft layers and a skull beneath

you already surge amid neurites,

Soluble,

synaptic ghost; I lay no claim, but follow

to your throat with aim to nest

in your throbbing jugular.

Soon, in sight of our syncytial wake

this sessile form relieves its clinging state

and tides to agony,

ecstatic glee-ic ache;

propelled by thrust

and lull of lunar sway

under curtain, ballast, sea and kale

we dive-

We, so alive, cannot live

when both our heads are under water.

And I, in arms, fall prey to eternity

in the timeless stasis,

the pulse has halted without warning

and we love the death until the morning

caesura builds the body

from the flotsam grains again.

...

Cats

2009-05-03T18:20:00.000-07:00

For now, the hair of life’s certainty
stands softly on end,
and I know upon waking
it is a day of quiets.

I sit absorbed,
reading, writing,
curled with book and corner
and they come to me,

Quiet and feline
through the dim-bright of the afternoon,
silently through their fingers
my upright stands to meet them,
They are the reminders.

Not alarmed,
I know they do not understand
the reason for their sudden inquisitive nature
-later they might think back on boldness,
about how they were met close
before the impulse could be denied,

But in that moment
they are a shadow of themselves
more sure than body blocking the sun,
the moment a second thrill
less time and space and what the
sense can know,

show me my smallness,
how one we grow,
when through the upheaval
you are the movement settling to grace

and so am I.

One female pads stealthily over
-I see her
pink out the corner of my eye-
leaves off fingers and bends
to plant one kiss warm and solid
at the apex of my cheek
And I think:
Today the wonders are endless.

Today I am a child in the eyes of it all.

…

2008-12-21T12:54:00.000-08:00

Speak!

True words aren’t elegant Elegant words aren’t true

(Speak!)

Place your right hand on the bible do you swear to tell
the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you god?

When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, 'it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less.'

Don’t speak to me I don’t believe a word you say

Speak! (what is there is there to say?)

SPEAK! I cannot say it I cannot

(Help me)

Speak.

I am frightened, I cannot-

S p e a k!

...

I speak but do my words have voice?
I shout my evils to the sky.
I speak and silence trails behind.
I bleat the lexis,
then I sigh unceremoniously.
I speak and on the ground they lay,
the multitudes unspoken

. . .

I speak I speak I do not speak!
I have been wordless all the week!
My words give false hope, penniless, ill chosen.
They are least and oversized, they are nonsense, unsensational lies!

They twist upon me, unrelieved, and in my wordlessness,

I grieve through pouring.

More tremendous are little declarations,
the quiets
find no conversation,
they are small small small.
They come as wisps, escape as smoke,
the outed breath that thoughts provoke.

How tiny talk manifests no mind,
ear flaps tune excitement and decry
the constant flux! such flimsy fluff!
(now that’s enough,
that’s enough
Shhhhhhh…..)

O speak and lie speak things and die speak poly-tics and film speak prisons and pain speak capitol-ism I ain’t ashamed to say I believe in the Lawd and His angels

Hallelujah!

Speak calves and sex and rubric of love, speak niceties slow and undoings quick, speaking all the more might do the trick to make it real, so prefer the sham to the uncertain and speechless marvel that rests navel-height and… and…

severe

.. . .

Speak at me close and I trust not those that easily come.

Of fickle words, actions leave you most settled.

So speak by aimlessness and art,
by default there is no part or interest in the being-time,
and so by riddler’s right, it seems
That in composite, in between,
we are fewer and fewer of these that leave,
and further said by those that stay
silent, in the distance,
searching,
to hear less the turnings of those words
and more of what you have to say.

...

to M.S.

Across Thick Happenings, A Novel Rise

2008-12-08T14:36:00.000-08:00

...

Generally, the nights broke phenomenal

through the window

east, the din of gulls made known

the clamour of day

none too gently; blue opacity

of the sea’s plateau

eventually wound its way thru all the senses,

the new-scrubbed Seattle grey

valenced in bulk

to a crescendo

that demanded

eyes, provoked nose:

a wild

earthly wheel’d shock

of a land-locked

mariner’s legs exposed.

Let’s say,

for once,

that this morning

was different, whether

yawl or pitch of the wind

lifted something else from blue

nothing to the sky above,

or perhaps the weathered

nymphs, in their tide turning,

knew (what had changed), and

decided on that breaking

to say something different.

Assuredly, I was not

the only one to behold the

vivid spectacle, in new light, look

on what was wrenched the night before

into the Insatiable Darkness- we, suspended

through Its vaporous demeanor

on wings,

soft droplets of surface condensed

to ephemeral stream.

...

August 17th, 2008

Morning, after

Snowdrop Tulip Walker Festival

...

Inspirations from Barry X. Ball; An Ekphrasis

2008-11-19T15:20:00.000-08:00

For Mark

Martyr,

dear muse, your right hemisphere emerged scabbed,

a tight interlocking of dead scar tissue

textured

to a hemorrhage indescribable.

You have earth on your mind.

You appear as death awakened.

Though my oiled fingertips, my digital prints

ache to savour you underneath,

I dare not disturb you into life, nor stir

the casting of your warm golem flesh,

pursed lips and plebeian nose,

nape turned oscillate.

And nestled in the curve of your heavy throat,

perhaps I derive a basal note-

O, surely it hums with unnatural vitality!

You and I are no more

compacted soil set apart, alone,

while in your igneous basin

vibrates the lowly vibrato of stone.

I cannot look from left,

it is the right that appeals to me,

Whilst from below

your unmaiden form wizens to a tarnished solemnity,

your thoughts protrude

unweeping buboes from your visage-fore,

though by no artistic measure did bone'd fingers raise those cold indented sores.

A face that is unhungry,

paused in marble-top relief

finds a double

in the foliate margins of similar height.

I too am wounded on the right!

I too would protrude,

hideous, malformed, unsmoothed in my etching,

a rendering disparate from castings they make.

As I whisper in your ear do you silently quicken?

Do those utmost molecules begin to mistake

my sounds in the flushing of their own?

You and I, we are a bitter poignancy when the inside gives clue by the out.

Doubt in context, free from frame,

against the bitter whiteness we become

a tyranny of coalescence,

and those who made us,

man by machine by initial vision,

fall away when we stand singular.

No breath, no bone except for stone

no tiding shoulders to shrug the blows

no feet to move from this uncertain sight,

we in repose

with granite lids closed upon untold imaginings.

Yet I imagine my palm atop your conical cranium,

the cool permutation of flesh against skull,

burrowed in the ruddy slivers of

your offset widow's peak.

I would, if allowed,

trace the mineral rivers from occipital to unknit brow

and further.

And would you, of all,

alike as we are,

begrudge me the intimacy of my blind solemn tips,

were I to begin at the nape and linger

at the rose-aligned compass of your lips?

...

Pirouette, Simple Trappings of the Body

2008-05-24T20:10:00.000-07:00

Here I lie

Pointer and thumb
Rub a dub dub
Within the creases of my dark-bonnet pleasure.

My appetite, never one for forfeit,
Shall bite decidedly
With portable skill
On the damp little figure of my pick-pocket thrill.

O the dimpled exterior of screen, spot blue
My swifting fingers slowed by a thought,
The ready nonsense that was my open mouth-
Cavernous portent wanting for you.

Nestled extension of my thimbled self

Peeks behind careful stitch covering, until

Your nimble digits pluck me

Susceptible, but still,

Burning flame circuitry and consuming
The imprint that is this mysterious union.

...

Loose Jargon of the Shaman

2008-05-24T19:52:00.000-07:00

Worried willow

keeps me wispy-eyed

in its spotlight, by and by.
Magic Mister,
wire blister,
how my fingers fly,
fingers fly.

This night I'm gathered in my battle dress,
my quiet gown is simple.
Nonetheless, I'm open toe'd and feverish
O, now I am,
I am, I guess.
Let us sit and find an alien muse awhile on the springy lawn,
the earth's envelope.

See now, this goose is grounded in her doubts from
crazy silt
sidelong glances,
contact,
brushings,
sleight of hand,

where do I stand, man?

When all is boiler perfect,

how pot belly can your kitchen stove be?

Hop,
stew your gaze upon my power windmill salute,
juxtapose the funeral march over my quick Budda star-
I'm weightless and defining,
suspended from threadbare elastic lining,
dangling from the loose jargon pocket of Mr. Mojo Risin.

Collect the leaves
and we "Roll, baby, roll"
like a divine trumpet scale of old,

but not before the fireworks of offset lunar light
shady stories,
captured cloud visions,
Ferric ringing,
"Waking Life"

Mad juncture,you leave your needle track marks
on the bruise-easy flesh
of my good-time loving soul.
You are my smack,
my flow,
tall man's big celebration
stomped in the icy melt snow.

Again I capture the fuse of the floating negative,
lazy white on my dark lid hinged,
The words replicate distance,
better used
at the time
when this porticus indian will skim my news.

Then it's the bright sober fish belly,
flashing white and supernova,
cornucopia of the color-wheeled projection we are audience to.

Through one billion window'd etchings,

I have seen the exacto-edge of the morning,
boldy jaundiced eyeball, blink
behind white puffy lids.

I have seen the peripheral puncture of the rising,consecutive blaze of the blurry-eyed
surruptitious sister star,
red-rimmed spectre of the native man's fount.

I have seen the polished armour peak,
the quarried silver mount.

Now,

I have seen.

And how now, Horatio,

my breath-checked diaphram's harpooned me some control:

I recollect the gaping toothless maw
of a friendly boardwalk demon,
a lazy serpent log,

pickwicked lighter,
cigarette fingers,
barely believable three-legged dog.

And through the pinioned tumult,
these pinwheels we've over-thought and undergone,
I've known the light fandango-

Incredible Night,

Incredible Dawn.

...

From 3/27/07

Even Messiahs fall on hard luck

2008-05-24T19:42:00.000-07:00

I’m a sculpture.

An elegant origami crane in flowery print,
A fierce little poise
of impressionable paper ideals
hung on thin wire,
perfected artful arrow in moist resplendent hues,
a faint, muted monument
suspended
in an airy eggshell room.

A child of good manners and collected interest once fashioned me,
her voice a singing breath in cold
but how she worked
so quietly.

I know that she meant well,
creasing each permanent fold
with innocence assurance,
shaping every point in careful execution-
but little did she know,
as she created her bird of paradise
-perfect prototype of wings and beak and breast-
how fragile her creation would be;

No one told me, in my still exercise
that with one swift blow at best
my folds would yield and cease to hold,
creases no longer straight and precise
but crumpled and messed,
that form of innocence no longer pressed
into my colorful pulp.

Wings that once modeled
in detailed distinction
jut from a brittle ball.

A color-masked mound, wadded,
once paraded permanence-
now a maimed existence,

a thousand and one wishes

crippled to a muttering ruse
on a rough stained floor bed

...too soon a nest for naked pups,
no gallant end when I am ripped to shreds.

From a lower weighless vantage I recall
a windy breath,
a sweet slight afternoon
that called me to blue abovein practiced ease.
No longer will I please
those upturned eyes;

Smiles, whispered admonitions
will not reach
this bit of me that lies
forgotten and discarded in a corner of disillusioned dreams.

...

From 4/9/06

Dampened Portraits: A Dream

2008-05-24T19:21:00.000-07:00

So tickled the thought
when once I knew
the sky was suckled up with dew
with leavened folds
that brighten hollow scarlet cuckolds

I tasted in dreams
those fuzzied few,
and 'ere the morning away they flew

Then all I held
was bleak and fey ;
a soldier in garnered swift array

But let's not talk of tin toys press'd-
It's Orange who's the adulteress ...

She peeps from every bauble'd surface
of white teeth
that sink
into ethereal fruits
..those insubstantial
still-life delights

...

From 4/20/06

Practical, The Rash

2008-05-24T19:19:00.000-07:00

Skin skin

skin,

Leaving in tender sheaves
like layers of pastry from week old baklava.

Some say that we rot
from within,
like old rusty watering tins,
distilling in ripe, peppermint gin
from 1967.

I, however,
seem to think
that appetites reflect current trends
and clinical propaganda
rather than the latest tasty dish,
but who’s to say the initial itch
isn’t from that fermented cream
you force onto it
day after
day

without a thought as to why
it pricks in the first place?

...

From 3/12/06

Saline, Postmortem

2008-05-24T19:13:00.001-07:00

The sea once visited me in New York.

It rang with strands of likewise separated pearls
and crashed with keen croonings of pleasure upon my summer afghan.
The pearls were dislodged;

they lay like eggs on a cushioned spool of milk,
warm and fresh in cream linen.

...

From 3/2/06

Miscreant

2006-10-24T20:19:00.000-07:00

Branded,

both hold in the coiled-spring gathering of charge.

Fantasy and invention combat,

like twin lightning loves clinging on a warm wet twilight.

Ah, I saw it there.

But oh?

Surely a mystery could be solved on Primetime,

a trick of the chance tickled brain couldn't last.

Who knows.

Still, and still yet,

there are miniature bows running off gold

in the jagged streaks that play upon the best kitchen copper,

darting above polished upturned kettles liquid-shiny with fright.

And when I close my eyes

I can see the floating negative,

lazy white on my dark lid hinged- - with a clang it's a black cautery door .

And my throat, a wine stem, sighs

restive and waiting,

alive in the great blue electric universe,

my hard-boiled egg hope crumbled up cozy,

snuggled with a blue dream dying to be chosen.