another day

launched by rising light
 an after-burn of enthusiasms

in tailspin drawn into the vortex
deep soundings taken 
  in the ocean of air
  in the speed of light

I know of no standard for
 measuring the quantities
of want and need 
  coming together
no means for assessing 
   the qualities   of each 
from among   the various species 
    and subspecies of desires
flailing in the net of imagination
 seeking a means of escape

the patois of the  yet untried
permeates my speech
I trade in local goods
 item by item  bartering
  aporia for sweetmeats of substantial release
windfallen fruits from the world tree
meticulous in arrangement
 bruised flesh turned to the underside
singing out my wares
 fallen fruit
 is sweetest on the tongue

mysterium (edited)

whether some lack of completion or over-
doing.  mocked-up model: a world.  this  tease of
shapes. moment by moment    snap 
shots.  page through fast  faster  now they 
flicker haltingly   on the run.  
from outside looking in looking 
on   this world  appears 
operational. view the landscape.  in particular all 
its breathing pieces.  hone in    on the 
metaphor makers.  observe the  confusions
note the faces: quizzical   perpetually perplexed. 
yet smiling.

yes to be. yes to be writing
the power over me. of words. the 
shepherding  into momentary herds   in coherence
bound to speak out of the mock’d up world.  

feel of the barken dress of the yard oak.  
scrunch of her fallen desiccate leaves
her bare crown  the fractaled fingers of her skull
itching to touch the sun. her undercarriage stilll robed
soon to be snow veiled. dryad within    sinks 
to her roots 

mysterium

whether some lack of completion or over-
doing.  mocked-up model: a world.  this  tease of
shapes  lying  sitting  standing.  moment 
by moment snap shots 
page through fast  faster  now they 
flicker haltingly   move on the run.  
from outside looking in looking 
on   this world  appears 
operational. view the landscape.  in particular all 
its breathing pieces.  hone in    on the 
two-legged metaphor makers.  empty movements
all that moves inside: ideas  theories about the movement 
without.  observe the expression:  confusion
note the face quizzical. perpetually perplexed. 
yet smiling.

yes to be. yes to be writing
yes.  the power over me. of words. to 
shepherd them into momentary herds   in coherence
bound to speak out of a screen in the reel
whirl. a mock’d up world.  full
of ripe ideas.  

feel of the barken dress of the yard oak.  
scrunch of her fallen desiccate leaves
her bare crown  the fractaled fingers of her skull
itching to touch the sun. her undercarriage stilll robed
soon to be snow veiled. dryad within  knows in 
her roots of the inevitability of spring’s return

VII. fevered pitch

lifted   then
     headlong  -- upon  the feathered plume
  of solar wind blown  flares  
ignite the oracle’s eye  of cindered slopes
baring the infinite collusion  your thoughts
mine  the whirlwind’s  harvest
my mirror   hand held
reveals the form
of their substance
pitched and yawed and thrown
into the breach

  crashing downward
tumult of the aerial sea
bedeviled by dust  and dust buried
the sun branches out
 redressing  the matter of shadow
 reflecting the glass sun back
  upon itself

making it real

silk is spun
carpets are woven
caravans ply the spice trade
nomads roam in no man’s land

elusive touching
upon the ethereal woman
guised and reguised
 in diaphane 
against the night sky
he  hungering among the ruins
 of Xanadu
whets her appetite
for intangibles

the sharpened blade of mind 
 slices through  the veil
now rent   the scales fallen
clear eyed  the seer seeks  reality 
among objects uncertainly
positioned to give solid appearance
to  passing waves
 in the phenomenologist’s landscape
all this dung   word-shaped
by the hermetic’s hand

VI. clotho knits up the ravelled sleeve

opening her whiskey arms
  to sing  her old song
come closer  my love
  come closer
in her sand gritted voice 
in her throaty reprieve
all sins forgotten  
the sweet of honey remembered   
never  the sting of the bee

hair falls across her
  forehead
woman of the veils
 bent over her knitting
 into each stitch  a wish
a yarn of southern swamp greens
glimmers of blue sky    shreds 
of red   fly agaric   ‘sang berries
twilight  purple hued turns
toward midnight blues

V. still

your voice   still
 floats into my ears
after the closing
 of the door   
after the rise and descent
 of fogs

who pulls the strings?
who pulls the strings?

I cannot fathom that  strings
 are being pulled
and voices  [not mine]
THROWN
 into my mouth

yet     I took  you 
into
 my mouth

a dribble of a thousand seeds 
 you planted    there 
   drool from  
   between  my lips
   
my heat   my dirt
 an urn  of germination
word seeds   fingered up
through  soiled speech
 
my thumb is green on you
     seedling burst invasion
      of my garden plot

you   hotbedded    
  grow into   my licentious
    speech

how far the mind wanders
 from open plain to dark wood
and down      down
   into the underworld
   of sparkling quartz 
and conversing corpses  and
 those   who utter prophecies

we have ignored them before
we have translated them
 time and again

you have come  and gone
abrupt leave-takings
buried in avalanche
swept away by flash flood
swallowed up by a terrestial yawn 

in and out   in and out of
  my life
the gate  swings
empty on its hinges
where once you rode 
 into my unkempt plot