Mountain

The shepherd boy turned and began to speak:
"A diamond mount at the end of all stands,
a day to climb to the top from the lands,
a day to circumnavigate the peak.
A small bird flies in to sharpen its beak,
once a century; and when down to sands
the mountain reduces, then the clock's hands
one second of eternity will creak."
That's when the shepherd gave us all a wink:
"Now I cannot know what you each have heard,
that's impossibly long, the time is absurd,
I can see on your faces what you think -
but let me politely tell you the word
Personally, that's one hell of a bird."


Thanks and apologies to Doctor Who.

Cliff

Seven days and the winds are calm,
no storms this time of year.
We all pay a price in the end;
halcyon days come dear.

Once there were two loyal lovers
who parted with no fear
so he could make the rising tide;
halcyon days come dear.

They were the envy of the gods,
Ceyx himself had no peer,
Alcyone he thought divine;
halcyon days come dear.

Hera, he flattered her in love;
Zeus, she replied with cheer.
Even the gods above were jealous;
halcyon days come dear.

But even lovers have journeys,
leaving wives behind here,
full of wrath, the gods sent a storm;
halcyon days come dear.

The storm capsized the little ship,
Ceyx called her name once clear
before drowning of his hubris;
halcyon days come dear.

Alcyone waited cliffside.
In a dream she could hear
her husband's shade was lamenting;
halcyon days come dear.

She woke at dawn in deep despair,
her answer all too near -
she threw herself down to her death;
halcyon days come dear.

The gods finally relented:
like dragons to their weyr,
on the sea kingfishers nested -
halcyon days come dear.

For seven days in mid-winter,
the sea is calm and clear,
while the sacred bird is nesting;
halcyon days come dear.




(Pronunciation Note: Properly Ceyx should be "kay-ucks" but everyone says "seecks" instead, so I have preserved the monosyllable here; Alcyone should be "al-kee-oh-nee" or "al-see-oh-nee" or even "al-sigh-oh-nee" [think Hermione] and I have maintained four syllables here also).

Stone

When I am soft and weak, in pain I ask
the Goddess to make me into a stone,
for a rock is never taken to task,
nor ever is gravel truly alone.
Every crystalline structure connects
to its own twin, and this twinning protects
from the echoing solitude of night
and so the creeping, crawling, prickling fright.
Water like love; in the desert I eke -
the Goddess comes and tells me in the light:
hard places contain the fortune you seek.

My features are stone, my face is a mask,
my wit as sharp as a knife I must hone;
Never in love am I welcome to bask,
I work to maintain an icy cold tone.
It seems that I belong with the rejects,
along with all the usual suspects:
those filled with sorrow, with pity, or spite,
and all who lack the means or any might
to stand by whatever needs that they speak.
Life is not fair, and nothing seems all right;
hard places contain the fortune you seek.

From a distance life looks rich as damask;
under the flesh you cannot see the bone
until you approach, proceed to unmask,
see that the maiden disguises the crone.
Wisdom is needful for when one detects
diamonds in the rough - so one prospects
among rocks only with most careful sight;
if this is so, then even at great height
it is possible at gems one will peek.
No faith without initiation rite:
hard places contain the fortune you seek.

Harsh, coarse, and dry, never wick but hask;
under ordeals you will shake and will moan,
stripped sore from within as if from the lask,
weeping and flailing, then on the ground, prone.
Only through this, that character corrects -
pressure gives rubies their many aspects,
sapphires grow when the stressors are tight,
emeralds blossom only at that site.
Endure whatever destruction will wreak
for you must learn how to put up a fight;
hard places contain the fortune you seek.

Be merry as yet, joy is in the cask,
we have memories of days that have shone;
when there is plenty, then fill up your flask
to imbibe in an intemperate zone.
And therefore some misery it deflects,
some of the aching and anger bisects,
if one might wish to ward off the dark wight,
one must become one's own shining white knight.
Even if it makes you some kind of freak,
fear not the straight, narrow, common to slight;
hard places contain the fortune you seek.

Fight dirty, learn how to kick and to bite;
be wise, accept not the cheap or the trite;
forget to always turn the other cheek -
lest an explosion within you incite;
hard places contain the fortune you seek.

Interrupting poem: "I Asked"

I asked
the universe
- whether it
would live
or die
and a great
and terrible
silence
answered me.
And I went
happily mad,
reeling with
the possibility
of a quiet
maybe.

Dirt

I sink my hands into the rich, dark earth;
mud pies and gardens are all that we need -
I long have wondered what it is all worth.

A mound of dirt is heaven for a seed;
plant the body so it may be reborn -
mud pies and gardens are all that we need.

We sprout and we die, just like the green corn;
from ashes to ashes, from dust to dust -
plant the body so it may be reborn.

Or burn them, or do whatever you must;
far be it from me to judge, I am dirt -
from ashes to ashes, from dust to dust.

Living is with many boundaries girt;
no one of us can escape in the end -
far be it from me to judge, I am dirt.

However high you rise, that far descend;
I sink my hands into the rich, dark earth -
no one of us can escape in the end.
I long have wondered what it is all worth.

Sand

Foundation slips beneath my feet;
the sand below is soft and dry.
If unstable, I am awry -
unsettled whenever we meet.
And yet how I dislike concrete:
it jars my bones, my skin will fry;
at least sand gives under my feet,
it hurts less whether wet or dry.
Beaches are where we beat the heat,
milling of classes low and high;
deserts are lake beds, time gone by;
sand, whether a nuisance or treat,
remembers the press of all feet.



(Note: the Roundel is the English 'round,' while the Rondel is the French.)

Sky

Heaven above stretches forward, above,
further out and further in, further up,
to the dark brow of Ishtar, wrapt around
with her bright diamond star-studded girdle.
One day I shall kiss her face, lips and eyes,
I will reach up into the sky and grab
for my piece of paradise up above,
I will go with my people to the stars.
Until then I must take great care down here
of the broad bosom of the earth who now,
even now, presses me forward, up, out,
to seek my fortune among gods and men.
Though each morning the sun rises, blots out
the stars and heavens, the map to heaven,
each night they all emerge shining once more
to point out the way to our bright future.
Let us not scorn her blessings, let us praise
all that she offers to humanity:
a way off of this lonely piece of rock,
the quiet boondocks of our galaxy,
the womb of our kind, interstellar rubes;
many paths towards the center of all,
many ways to achieve union with all,
trails of breadcrumbs made of stars and planets;
all that we have lost and all we have now,
all that came before, comes now, and will come,
and everything of which we can dream,
all these are her gifts to us, her peoples.
It would be blasphemy to not attempt
to make the most of her blessings, or yet
to keep them all to ourselves: we must share,
we must fly, we must love, we must be hers.

Cyclone

The sky has begun to swirl above us;
it is time to run, to hide, seek shelter.
The hurricane evacuation route
stretches silently, ominously fore
and aft, as mothers and fathers drive on,
tense-lipped, tight-fisted, eyes glancing up high
to calculate how much time we have and
flickering over the shoulder again
to the mile-marker, how far to safety.
Even the children are quiet here now,
feeling the pressure, the waiting, the fear;
all families must race home if they can,
to protect the homestead, the house, the farm,
or race inland, out of the forecast path,
towards the protection of some school gym
or basement, or some cafeteria,
where the fright echoes all the more loudly
in the hushed silence and thin wails of the young
too small to verbalize, seeking comfort.
Wind that blew now roars, shrieks, whistles, and groans
with all the weight of the world on her back,
pushing forward, crashing through obstacles,
dragging along trees and rivers and bikes,
and spinning off tornadoes in her wake;
one twister eats up a large trailer park,
another just dances across the top
of a forest without even touching,
without even setting down there at all.
Have you ever stood in the quiet eye
at the center of a small hurricane?
Even a tiny tropical cyclone
is devastating on the rough edges,
but nothing is so eerie as silence
at the smooth heart of a wild raging storm.
In moments we plunge back in to the wind
again, the rain, the storm still whipping round,
still battering, still flapping, fluttering
branches and road signs falling from her skirts
as the tempest pushes deeper inland
to vent her spleen on the land with a will
until she tires herself out and sleeps,
or returns to the sea from whence she came.

Wind

A whiff, a huff, a puff, a chuff, and then -
the breath becomes a breeze, gentle zephyr;
a wisp blows by, whisked along, a-flutter,
dancing by in the ebb and the eddy,
the draught and whinge and wheeze of the current.
The clouds begin to scud across heaven,
blown along the jet stream in a flurry
of light and moisture, of heat and motion;
the blow becomes a blast, the gust a gale,
and the whirlwind blusters as it musters
itself to fly snorting across the sky.
Ventilate, anemoi: fan forth, freely.

Breath

Inhale: heart beat, eye blink, skin sweat.
Exhale: heart rest, eye still, skin feel.
In with the good, out with the bad;
get what you give, give what you have.
Expand and contract, stabilize,
metabolism regulate;
iris expand, pupil contract,
stretch limbs as far as you can.
The tide rises and the tide falls
as the moon rises, as it sets;
blood surges forth, rich with the air,
systolic, and then diastolic
as the heart rests between the beats,
between the breaths, between the tides.
Inhale: the world rushes forward.
Exhale: everything recedes back.
My brain is constantly churning -
respiration sends air swirling -
I must remain mindful of the
gem in the eye of the lotus,
keeping light on in the attic,
running on all cylinders,
hold contact with the mothership
hold tight the silver cord within.
Every breath within, without,
pours into me, pours out of me,
spilling forth and taking back in,
whole galaxies born and dying.
Breathing connects each of us to
everything in the universe.
Inhale: take me into you, too.
Exhale: always free me again.

Aura

A nimbus of light surrounds you, shining,
crowning you with rays or horns curling up
to embrace the sky, stretching out to all
other life in the universal whole.
The air around you courses, shimmering,
alive with color and movement and heat;
your aura flexes, fluctuates, and bends,
driven by gravity, magnetism.
I can see the rainbow of emotion
slither, shimmy, playing across your skin,
simmering beneath and above surface,
betwixt and between physics and magic.
When you are angry, I can taste copper,
smell pennies in your wake as you pass by;
your unhealthy hateful lust stinks of rot,
your fear like flop sweat, urine, and decay.
When you love, breath is laden with roses,
sweet fruits, laced with poignant tang of forests
carried on the wind after the rainstorm,
weeping with joy, with fullness, and with lack.
You are all replete with you, feeling you;
you project your essence outward, breathing;
you are the size of the entire world;
you are so much smaller than a preon;
you do not even exist; you are all,
for you are tied into the web of life -
and I can see the strings, the knots, the whip
of cords through the air, and how they connect.
One line pulls you backward, toward your past;
another pins you here, to the present,
intersecting with all of the others,
lines of other forces beyond time or
family ties that bind, constricting, or
tendrils of hope, questing forth for food.
You overlap with all other people.

Sea

I should like to live by the sea;
it always feels like coming home,
like I am coming back to me.

A house on a beach would suit me,
where I can see the white waves foam;
I should like to live by the sea.

The shore is where the start of life be;
returning, however I roam:
like I am coming back to me.

From storms shelter under the lee,
watch the sky from under ship's dome.
I should like to live by the sea.

Nothing soothes like wind in the tree,
susurrus of wave, cosmic ohm,
like I am coming back to me.

Though hurricane batter the key
and darken the sky like the gloam,
I should like to live by the sea -
like I am coming back to me.

Lake

There are many myths about this here lake:
they say it holds the ghostly souls of old,
or young whom love and family forsake;
the waters below are so deep and cold.

The waves will not release secrets they hold,
the past will not give in; thus, you must take,
and if they will not relinquish, be bold.

The duck flirts her feathered tail at the drake;
the current passes over submerged gold.
The future over the present will rake;
the waters below are so deep and cold.

River

The river must never stop her flowing
for she is the one who brings us all life,
food, and water for drinking and sowing.

The waters teem with their biotic strife,
skipping along; and down in the mangroves,
the briny ocean kisses his fresh wife.

The fishes are running in flashing droves
ichthy-phallic, thrumming through the soft wet,
the folds of the beaches, eddies, and coves.

The bear teaches fishing to her small get;
the beaver, how to build a dam of wood;
the fishes, how to avoid hook or net.

All who can protect the wide river should,
for she is home and provider and blood,
mother for everything that is good.

All life evolves, growing up from her mud,
fed on her riches, in turn it will bud.

Stream

The water is downfalling from the sky,
coursing through puddles and passing me by,
trickling in droplets and filling the stream,
hydrating fishes which all dart and gleam.
Polliwogs kicking, rain droplets splash,
the thirsty approaching, timid or rash.
The children are waiting for their escape
to dance in puddles, to crow and to jape.
The roebuck bends down and then hesitates,
steals a few sips, but they've opened the gates;
the small deer flees before humans arrive,
cries of the young, and the strong, and alive.
The stream, she will fall, swell, and fall again;
a pattern repeating, to wax and wane.

Rain

When the rain begins to drop
I sometimes pray it ne'er stop;
I should maybe like to drown
all the sins of this fair town,
and all the pain in my mind,
all constricting ties that bind.
And when these are washed away,
learn another lay to play.

When the rain will start to fall
on ev'ry home, hold, and hall,
no one knows what it will bring -
neither priest nor royal king.
Those who do not learn the past,
doomed, repeat in future vast;
consequence from sin depends,
the ark against floods defends.

When the rain can plunge about
urban fervor it will rout,
rural torpor it will cease,
barren wasteland will increase.
All beneath the flood shall lie,
water not distinct from sky,
'til a covenant is reached
through the dove we have beseeched.

Ash

There is an ancient bird perched,
perhaps she used to be red and gold,
now ashen and smutty
on the dead tree in the desert.
She gives one last croaking call
before collapsing to the ground
beneath the twisted black branches
and bursting into flame.
When the phoenix dies
and rebirths herself,
she lays two eggs,
one white, one drab.
In her fiery demise she passes
from this land to the other world, briefly,
to sojourn until she has renewed
her youth and her plumage.
The bright egg cracks open,
the phoenix-chick emerges anew
as the sun rises from the horizon each morn,
her face freshly washed by the ocean waves.
(In the beginning,
everything was female,
for only mothers can give birth,
and first did so of their own volition.)
(The phoenix is not a symbol,
the sun is not a simile,
nothing is a metonym,
everything is not a metaphor.)
The phoenix is alive, aflame,
red-gold with burning, crowing,
singing in liquid syllables of immolation
the joy of movement and light.
From ashes to ashes,
she dies and is reborn;
in soot she conceives herself,
in soot she eliminates herself.
These are the mysteries of the firebird,
who emerges from the white egg,
flaming red and brilliant,
only to subside into charcoal and black.
She flies brightly across the sky,
increasing or decreasing in luminosity,
always to return again from one
of the two eggs, light and dun.
So the mysteries speak;
but always note where one is silent:
despite the awesome truths they reveal,
all is quiet on whatever happens
to the dark egg left behind in the ash.

If there is a bird of light,
we may propose a counterpoint:
as night follows day,
and the small light the large,
so the firebird has her opposite.
If she grows bright and then fades,
so the darkbird must start pale
and then enrich itself with deep shadows,
cool nights, quiet obscurity,
and the tenebrous potence of the unseen.
In the passage of time she consumes
herself, conceives herself like her sister,
the same two eggs for the twins each cycle,
for we always reproduce ourselves
and in so doing produce our complement.
Fire generates ash; ash preserves fire -
just as one banks the coals carefully
to keep the embers warm until morning,
so the firebird and the ashbird
keep and preserve each other together.
A light bird and a dark bird,
mother sister twin, self and weird,
flame and shadow, cognate and contradiction -
she grows so red she is blindingly white;
she grows so green she is impenetrably black.
So let us name the sister
of the flaming firebird, purple-red,
according to the inky green-blackness
if the firebird is the phoenix
then the ashbird is now the chloerix.
Tyrian purple and deepest forest green:
the royal red of monarchy heated
until it burns white with illumination,
vegetative chlorophyll absorbing all light,
so the deepest jungle is darkest night.
Neither bird belongs only to the sun,
contrary to popular belief:
these are moon birds, two faces,
the full and new aspects,
the facets of our most treasured gem.
Phoenix and chloerix, fire and ash,
the torches of Hecate who protects,
who gives us light in the night
when we most need it (to see)
and the safety of darkness (of not being seen).

Cinder

The sad times come when everyone leaves:
the clearings echo in sudden silence,
the walls of empty rooms begin to speak softly,
reviewing and rehearsing what was said before,
the blaze has dwindled to embers and coals
and now smolders, smokes, the last of the slow burn.

Once upon a time, an orphaned girl, adopted
but alternately abused and neglected,
made her bed near the cinders of the kitchen fire
to keep warm in the cold nights of the stone castle;
bedraggled, covered in soot and ash, she emerged
each morning to the ridicule of her adoptive family -
but now that she is a princess and wakes each day in silks,
her hate has cooled from conflagration - to cinders.

In short succession, it is easy to lose much -
spouse, friends, family, work, connection, sanity;
and while once there seemed a light -
in the attic, at the end of the tunnel, after the long dark -
now the fuel has been combusted, the fire is gone,
the dis-ease has run its course, the party is over,
and even past mockery is just an echo in the silence,
past abuse a nightmare from which to wake every morn,
and if ever there were some flame of passion alive,
now there is only that which was not consumed by the fire.
 

All that remains is smoke and embers, coal and cinders,
hollowed-out shells once sturdy, ripe, and full of wooden flesh.

Flame

Yellow tongue lick, leaping
with a heart of hottest blue
to touch highest up
in a cone of light
reaching, stretching
high to the moon
at the vertex of our
illuminating parabola.
I dance to the rhythm,
we jump and sway,
you pour heart's energy
into the circle
inflaming the power,
all are coruscating with the light,
sweating diamonds
as their hands and faces and limbs
flash around the fire.
We dance ablaze,
we fire people,
people of the light,
shades between us slipping
in and out, weaving a counterpoint
to our terpsichorean contortions
lifting our song higher,
leaping the fire higher.
This is the triumph of our
paleolithic technology
even still -
the bonfire and the drum
as inspired dancers bounce and spin,
the guitar and the spotlight
and the crowd comes alive,
the glow stick and the strobe light
and the unce unce unce,
and everyone is jumping
tongues leaping to exaltation,
singing along, singing out,
crying
O favored one
How I praise thee
(this is my song)
I love thee so, fire
light thou have blessed me
with protection in the darkness
and guidance on shadowy paths
Goddess of the sacred flame
we adore thee and sing
and dance in thy honor
ever more,
everywhere
the people dance
in the blessings of your light
they raise up your power
most high,
Queen of the heavens,
holy of holies,
Lady of light, lady of night.
As your waters flow down
and our flames flick up
we dance the earth faithfully
as thy children and fly out
to spread your seed
throughout your creation.
With every generation we are reborn
and we devote ourselves anew
to thy glorious service.

Smoke

"I need a smoke - "
she says to me as she brushes by,
eager to feed her addiction,
unable to hold herself back from self-harm.
Recently there was a news story,
you know how these things go,
revealing that smoked food items
are carcinogenic, unhealthy
"which is probably why they taste
sodamngood"
he says as he buries his maw deep
within trenches of smoked bacon,
beef, sausage
piled precariously
with smoked cheddar,
faint imitation of pizza,
flatbread almost invisible beneath
the weight of protein and dairy.
The sportsman camps in the woods,
drinking cheap beer alongside
scorched hot dogs and burnt beans,
his campfire smoking up the glen
in the night as it smolders to sleep;
in the morning, over hard tack
and trail mix, he mentions
to his children how a wildfire
can actually refresh the health
of a forest with choking undergrowth,
but we must always extinguish
the fires we set, lest the camp
creates a blazing inferno
which destroys the whole forest.
He pours water on the remains
of last nights coals and ashes,
stirs them to be sure there isn't
anymore smoke emerging.
The family goes to hunting,
but the wind is wrong
and they smell too strongly of smoke
and too much like humans
or maybe the animals are just lazy today,
sleeping in late, or on vacation;
maybe the animals are off
away from home hunting, too.
So the family says goodbye
to the other camping families
who are cheerfully settling in
for another night of campfires,
booze, stories, and songs.
comes back into town,
heads over to the pizzeria,
and settles down to eat
just as the red-faced man
begins to clutch his chest,
moaning and sputtering over
his smokehouse meats and cheeses.
The waitress comes back in
from her smoke break
and calls him an ambulance;
the paramedics arrive
and help the man.
At the hospital, a doctor says
it isn't a heart attack,
only angina, a warning
to get more exercise and
to eat healthier foods.
The waitress is freaked,
back at work still,
but she needs that cigarette,
"just five minutes, please,"
and she's outside when
firetrucks go wailing past,
towards a dark smudge on the horizon
where the outskirts of town seem to smolder,
emanating now obvious gouts of smoke
gushing forth from the forest.
The news reports that "sources
in the forestry service believe
the fire was caused by a careless camper,
and families in the area are being evacuated
ahead of the approaching smoke and flames."
The children,
in awe and horror,
turn to their parents,
who reassure them that
the fire was not their fault,
but probably another family
who did not pour water on the ashes
and stir them to make sure
that no more smoke was emerging. 

Spark

A single small spark
can light a blazing inferno;
infinitesimally small changes
generate great chaos over time.
Once,
when you saw
me unexpectedly,
I could swear I saw
your eyes alight with pleasure;
but it remains to be seen
whether such pleasure
remains a rare treasure
or increases
with each day's measure.
It is difficult to fan flames
from a distance;
the aspirational fire builder,
spark maker,
flame feeder
must approach closely,
softly,
even breathlessly
to keep the spark alive.
If earth is the body,
the broad foundation and source of all being,
and air is the mind,
the cool blade of reason cutting, dividing,
and water is the heart-soul,
the surging effluence of will's emanation,
then fire is desire,
the spirit alight with crackling appetitive energy,
attracted and repelled semi-consciously,
following the emoted direction of the will,
as logically ordered by the mind
and physically upheld by the body.
A single small spark
may be caused by touch,
a static discharge
released through contact,
but may also arise
through verbal flirtation
and fanned into hot flame
by long late-night conversation;
however,
a spark is not sufficient
all by itself,
and if not tended
quickly fades,
grows cold,
and vanishes suddenly.
In order to catch the flame,
offer it small tinder
first before feeding
it kindling
and then larger fuel.
A single small spark
becomes fire
with plenty of oxygen,
proper fuel,
and the appropriate
chain reaction
which permits the heat
to grow.

Ghost

The cat turns and stares
at something invisible to human eyes
before fleeing the cold room.
I often feel a chill
creeping up my spine
as if I am watched, unawares,
by some silent entity.

How do you speak to ghosts?
How do you commune with the dead?
The ancients knew a blood sacrifice
was enticing to the hungry shades,
a gory repast providing
the stuff of life
to evanescent spirits
who cling desperately,
hopelessly, to the light
alive in the vital essence.
Now they are lucky
to receive cakes and liquor
once a year from only a few
contemporary descendants.

If only I could determine
why this specter is haunting me,
disturbing my cats and myself.
Perhaps it is animal magnetism,
or the constant possibility
that I may make
a blood sacrifice of myself.

Perhaps my ghost haunts me
so as to foreshadow
my own afterlife,
for they say that self-termination
does not bring one to heaven
but rather consigns oneself
to the realm of fire and brimstone,
thence to move through purgation
of one's sins before
finally being welcomed above;
or, what is worse,
one condemns oneself
to wander the earth forlorn, forsaken,
with unfinished business,
rehashing what has gone before
without reaching closure
without finding release.

The patriarchs of the churches
played a neat trick on us all
by defining necromancy as great evil.
For, strictly speaking,
any communication with the dead
is a divination, and divining
requires communion with the divine.

It is not evil to speak to divinities;
prayer and hymn are holy things,
whether applied to a single god
or to an entire pantheon.
It is only because one god is so jealous,
so possessive and demanding
and wholly unforgiving,
that even talking to other gods
and, by their graces, to our ancestors
becomes demonic and profane.
Most of the wars of the world
and uncountable infinities of dead
were the fruits of three branches
stemming from one religious root
which has seeded the world over.

Ghosts have haunted me much of my life:
the dead of the long past, resurfacing;
the dead of recent history, unsettled.
I can see the bones beneath the flesh
and I hear the rattle of skeletons in closets
(your rib cage looks like a small marimba,
your skull looks like a a large maraca),
and always feel the chill of death,
like the palpable wave of nausea brought on
by the smell of rot and decay.

Heart

Every beat hurts,
a sideways slicing in my chest,
rhythmic reminder:
there is no love,
there is no love,
there is no love,
there is no love.
Though we may consciously think
with the meat in our skulls,
it is the fluttering organ
which pumps away in the ribcage
that operates as the seat of the emotions.
Every disappointment
is another stabbing shock
to my weakened muscle,
every piercing rejection,
every broken promise,
every canceled plan -
even when I sit at home
in a state of abeyance,
reminding myself that
there is no love,
there is no love,
there is no love,
instructing myself to
steel my heart
against the upcoming loss.
And yet when that loss comes
or goes,
it is as if lightning struck,
electrifying my nerves
and sending my heart into overdrive,
pounding madly with distress,
threatening to ricochet right out
of my stricken chest.
And yet I still hope,
and yet I still wonder,
and yet I still work,
and yet I still wait.
When I was a child
I heard the prophecy ringing
from televisions and movie screens,
from radios and books and poetry,
that someday my prince will come,
Mr. Sandman will bring me a dream,
that I will see her face and become a believer,
but can anybody find me somebody to love?
So far all any one lover has wanted
is to do real bad things to me,
but there have been no princes,
nor dreams from the god of sleep,
nor faces which made me believe,
nor any finders of love -
no one man or woman
who has ever loved me
as fiercely, as proudly,
as passionately, as forgivingly,
as purely, as freely
as I have loved them.
It is no wonder, then,
that my heart still sighs
there is no love,
there is no love,
for my idea of love
this thing which courses through my veins
and drives me to madness and kindness
all simultaneously
does not in any way correspond
to endless unreciprocated favors
nor to begrudging minimal room, board, and care,
nor to more obvious contradictions
like violence or other abuse,
nor yet to forgetfulness, absence,
and the pretense that I don't exist
or matter
until I'm willing to pretend happiness.
Why then
does my heart insist on yearning
after what it tells me must not exist?
But if
there is no love
then whence comes this
desire therefore?
How can I crave
what is not real?
Why must I long
for what has never been?
These questions,
whispered into my heart
by the bird perched in my soul
however grey and thin
somehow revive a spark,
whether hope or madness
is never clear;
but the spark burns
clear and bright
with one song,
one verse,
one line:
there is love,
there is love,
there is love,
there is love.

Soul

I am the sole inhabitant of my life;
my home is an extension of my self,
and echoes with emptiness,
the deep dripping cave
behind other people's voices.

Proposition: solipsism
is neither inherently
nor obviously false. If my
soul is the sole soul
in all of existence
this does not automatically entail
the following:
that no one else exists
(because you are all me
divvied up into parts),
that nothing unexpected can ever happen
(because the mind is not wholly
transparent, even to its inhabitant),
that the material world does not exist
(because the mind is matter,
the mind can certainly muck about
with matter and the material world,
make mind into muck and clay, make
muck and clay into trees and bridges
and people),
that nothing is real
(for I am real and my
creations are real,
really painful),
that nothing exists
(for I exist and my
creations exist,
even if they exist only
to ignore or hate me),
that nothing can be known
(for I can get to know myself
my creations, my soul),
that nothing can be communicated
(for I always talk to myself,
always have)
that the distinction between self
and not-self is arbitrary
(for even in my solitary
existence I am only immediately
conscious of part of my soul),
that laws of nature are violable
(for I am the kind of mind
who prefers some order
at least sometimes,
and if I am Sol
then the planets I create
must orbit me),
that nothing matters
(for it matters to me whether
I am in pain or unmixed pleasure).

Having a serious go at solipsism
while my soul is kept in solitary confinement,
though I never made clear to me my crime
nor the length of my self-same sentencing;
solely I play these soul games with myself.

Body

"Wouldja lookit
the body on that one"
is not a compliment,
but something you would say
about a car
or a horse
or a dog.
I am tired of being
just another body
(i am tired of having a body)
and being regarded
as little more than
another empty doll
to be re-placed
in her box or house
when playtime is over.
Someone told me once
that an obsession or fetish
with a body part or size
is the marker of a misogynist:
one who hates women,
who slices them into parts
like so much beef at the butcher shop.
"I'm a leg man"
"I'm a breast man"
"I'm an ass man"
but I am not a leg
or a breast
or an ass
(unlike you),
I am not available
for $4.99 per lb.
over the counter
to be cut up and fried
in your skillet.
My body,
Jennifer's body,
might be a horrorshow
but it is not scripted,
it is not partitioned into
pieces for consumption,
it is not rated for viewer discretion,
it is not to be graded
on a scale from 1
to 10.
You may not wrap me in plastic,
nor may you tell me
what you think you know I want,
you may not force me down
nor pose me for your scene;
these boots were made for walking,
these lips were made for talking,
not for stalking,
not for mocking,
not for gawking,
not for shocking,
this body was made for rocking
to the beat of my own drums.

Mind

Of late
I am in a fog
induced by medication
and illness
which cloud my mind,
sour my temper,
and distort my eye.
It is supposed
to be mind over matter
but I cannot help
but think
that they quote it
backwards,
when my lack of clarity,
my lack of balance,
my lack of joy,
are so patently
caused by the material
inhabited by disease.
Of all the things I've lost,
I miss my mind the most;
mind you,
I'm not entirely sure
I ever had it in hand,
or if I did,
it never matched up
to what I had in mind.
Although,
I must confess,
I never did mind
being called 'crazy'
unless
this label entailed
a total discount
on all my beliefs,
claims,
and actions.
Mind your manners:
do not make uncouth assertions
or observations or declarations
about the mental state of others,
and never let your manners
slip to the back of your mind;
people will notice,
people will take umbrage,
people will hold it against you -
whether or not they ever say a word
about minding the slight
or about considering it an explicit insult
or intentional oversight.
Then again -
those who harbor
unstated grievances
with others
in their minds,
and act on those
perceived grievances
without ever telling
those others -
such a one who nurses
malice
in their breast
and never comes clean,
might as well be permitting
an open wound to fester
and grow necrotic,
denying medical treatment
as the poison spreads
from the infected injury
up the limbs
to poison the heart
and the mind.

Organ

Sweetbreads are glands,
usually classified as endocrine,
digestive,
or lymphatic,
the thymus and pancreas,
sometimes the testes,
served breaded
and fried
with a dipping sauce
(o the dipping sauce)
to culinary adventurers,
longtime adherents,
or inadvertent stumblers
who in shock
deny what they have eaten
or grow ill and expectorate the
unusual foods.
We are far more accustomed to consuming
skin and muscle and
fat and bone
and more rarely
the brains,

or more rarely the stomach, the kidneys
or more rarely the intestinal tract, the tongue
or even more rarely
the eggs, the ova, the roe.
My organs
are supposed to be
self-contained
parts of my organism
(with a specific vital function)
just as
the organs of an organization
are supposed
to be self-contained
departments
or media for communication
(with a specific vital function)
or the male organ is
supposed to
be self-contained,
an appendage or part
(with a specific vital function),
an instrument or tool or means
for some function,
as the pipe organ
or the mouth organ
or the barrel organ
is a musical instrument
or tool self-contained
(with a specific vital function),
being an appendage
of a larger organization,
a church or an orchestra
or a band or a duo
with the specific vital function
of keeping the organist
the organ grinder
the organism
the organization
alive.
We consume the music
of organs made of meat
and tissue and gland,
singing, dancing meat;
we consume each other,
meat people who dream and think
like the meat animals whom we eat who
chase rabbits in their sleep
by the fireside;
we consume ourselves,
organ by organ
from without and within,
using up the vital essences,
our precious bodily fluids,
pursuing dreams and ideals,
true and false beliefs
guiding our self-abuse,
abuse of the other,
abuse of the self-same.
Work 'til you drop
(don't stop 'til you get enough)
work hard, play harder;
take recreational poison
or poisons prescribed to simplify
your life by
deadening sensations
or flooding your organs
with superior sensations designed
to fix you
and your organic problems
at least as long as you consume
the temporary quick fix
in a gel-coated capsule or un-coated tablet
instead of anything
organic to nature
and readily available to
those who work hard.
The unusual is a delicacy,
the manufactured is commonplace,
we are allowed to consume both;
but what grows of its own accord
must be criminal because it did not
get authorization
from the right internal,
religious,
or local
organ.

Bone

I was five
going on six
and I broke bones,
two
large ones,
a compoundfracture
(an important piece
of medical jargon)
of the radius and ulna.
I wanted to be in
the cool kid's club
the big girl's club
at the babysitter's house
but they had a gymnastic test
to determine my coolness
my bigness.
Perform a cartwheel,
become instantly adult,
a member of the in-crowd
(peer pressure peer pressure)
and I had never taken dance
or tumbling
much less gymnastics
but by god they would not exclude me
(my zeal proving my utter lack of cool).
Frankly,
bones were an abstract concept
at the age of five
going on six
like sex or romance
or retirement
or income;
that is,
bones were an abstract concept
until a loudcrack
and the sight of my previously
unremarkable forearm
now bent into a deep U
when arms are supposed to be shaped only
like a long l.
I don't remember crying out
or crying tears,
or the drive to the emergency room;
it was probably the shock.
I do remember going into the room to have my
bones set
but I probably passed out
when they snapped the break
back into place.
The babysitter
brought me a treat:
fast food breakfast food
while I recovered.
Do you know how long it takes
bones to heal?
For months I had to wear
the plastic bag from the loaves of slice bread
we purchased at the supervalue grocery
over my arm anytime I wanted
to bathe
or swim
(it was a torturous summer)
to protect the stupidcast
on my stupid brokenarm
and everything was stupid and dumb.
And even when I returned to school
I had to write with my stupid left hand
(a skill I now appreciate more)
and when they cut through the plaster
(hotsaw warmbreathing
as it buzzed into the cast)
and cracked it open
to reveal
my pale,
shrunken,
weakened
right arm
I was in shock once more.
At home
or the babysitter's
I washed away several months of itchy
deadflaking skin
still stunned
at the almost green pallor
of my several months sunless skin.
It became a weatherwise ache;
those who read me closely
have noted that I sometimes
still clutch
that right arm to me
bent as if in a cast
early in the mornings
or in enduring stress
as my lips press
into a long thin horizontal l.

Sweat

The heat begins to rise
and our bodies moisten;
perspiration is nature's way
of cooling the body,
air conditioning built
into the epidermis.
An icy shiver of fear down the spine
transforms wet heat
into a cold sweat, clammy
and drying into hardened plates
of terror, heart-pounding -
only to remain itchy
in salt crystals along the
crevices of the skin.
But don't sweat the small stuff,
not sweat stains on sweat suits,
because neither industry
nor anxiety
ever stopped sweat from exuding,
never stopped sweat from transuding.
You will have to sweat it out:
diaphoresis is a medieval cure
to purge sickness from the body
through the integumentary glands,
the basic principle being
better out than in.
On the contrary,
if you can get your quarry
to sweat
it will improve your chances
of tracking them,
of trapping them
whether the mark is some animal,
some dupe,
some criminal informant,
or some other prey;
raise the temperature in the room,
make them work hard
while you remain cool
and patient
as they tire themselves out -
but if you work yourself up
into a lather
then the game will no longer be
afoot
but will have taken hoof
and fled.
They say horses sweat,
gentlemen perspire
and ladies glow;
but if this be true
then afterglow
is just post coital saturation,
and the glow of a bride
is just excretion
wrapped in a white dress,
and the glow of an expectant mother
is just the drudgery of the body
building a baby
and percolating through the skin.
We sweat when we strive,
struggle,
suffer,
when we compete
or indulge,
when we deliberate
or perform,
but the purpose
of perspiration
appears primarily to be
survival
under a sweltering sun.

Flesh

Flesh is ever under duress;
we oppose it to the soul,
and as such it loses significance.
A flesh wound -
'tis only a distraction,
a mere fraction of pain,
and not to be regarded
as a truly mortal injury;
cutting the flesh
is not cutting someone to the quick.
Flesh color -
theoretically a kind of non-color,
a pale halfway between yellow and pink and orange,
unlike to color of people of color,
the color of bandaids and lingerie,
crayons and shoes and makeup
for white people only,
the only possessors of flesh
who count.
The flesh of the bodily surface -
the skin, not the deep bone,
the obvious superficialities,
not the subtlety of blood,
what feels the immediate impact
of environmental change and flux,
what others can physically
strike with fist,
kiss with lips,
tongue lap licks.
The pleasures of the flesh -
degraded beneath the pleasures of the mind
despite the fact that the mind
experiences its pleasures
only by being embodied in brain and flesh;
carnal delights are lascivious and libertine,
tending to create a hot, wet mess
but nonetheless
a symphony cannot be heard without fleshly ears,
nor a painting seen without fleshly eyes,
nor a paradox pondered without a fleshly mind.
The flesh of foods -
meat or fowl or fish,
but also the vegetable
and the fruit,
the pulp or the muscle or other
edible component parts;
but food is yet another
sin-laden desire of humanity.
The anatomical flesh -
the muscle and fat
between skin and bone which,
depending on its quantity
and its quality
may indicate self control,
control by others,
or entire lack of control all round.
To flesh -
to add weight,
to add detail,
to incite,
to initiate,
to remove the meat from the hide,
but never to mind,
to substantiate,
to soothe,
to calm,
to heal,
to be.
The flesh is cleft,
the flesh decays,
the flesh destroys,
the flesh delays,
and ultimately we suspect
we lose the flesh
at the end of our days;
but from the Goddess comes rebirth,
and so flesh can be the site
and the source
of endless praise.

Blood

"Blood will tell,"
the midwives and wise women whisper,
as the woman who labored
now rests in the sweat
and blood
of the birthing-bed.
Blood tells many things:
when you are young,
the blood tells
in the tilt of your nose,
and the shape of your eye,
and the gait of your walk
from whom you descend;
when you age,
the blood tells
in your work and career,
in who you wed,
and in your own offspring.
A doctor of skill
can read the vital essence
like a book:
the blood tells
of your nutrition and hydration,
and whether you have disease
or whether you indulge;
the blood can also reveal
whether you are carrying an embryo
or a parasite,
or beneficial symbiotic life.
A priest of wisdom
also learns from
sanguinary fluid:
the gods who dine
on nectar and ambrosia
have straw-gold ichor
coursing through their veins,
but mere mortals
who eat flesh and fruit
pulse red cruor
from their wounds;
and thus the priests teach us
the imbibing of those fine wines
which transubstantiate gore into glory
and bring everlasting life.
Well-informed women
come to know from experience
how to understand
the claret liquid
which issues from vulva and vein alike,
which is trapped in injuries
beneath the surface of the skin:
whence comes the cleaning of a wound,
the beginning of one's periodic flow,
or the freshest of new bruising,
and whence comes the healing coagulant,
the end of that self-same monthly cycle,
or the last green remnants of bruises aged.
Blood will tell
whether you are ill or well,
whether you are gentle or fell,
whether bound for the heavens
or for hell;
and blood will demonstrate
whether you are picked by fate,
whether you die early or late,
whether you tend to change,
or rather to stagnate;
and blood will show
whether you are friend or foe,
as well as all that you know,
and whether you have
much further to go.