The Workshop

SEASONS AND SPIRITS

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
with your every humid whisper.
Rapping on your radiant temples
are my greedy fingers, wine-stained serpents.

Smells of freshly drafted cider
ripple from your noble dimples.
Bothering spirits blue with autumn's bite
follow this scent to steal our love away.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your shriveled bosom with hot blood.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.

Flowers are blooming on your skin again:
your vernal musk, your honey's wax returns.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
dreaming sweetly in our cellar.

THE BASKET FALLS

To sing the songs of summer's lurid dyes,
and be yourself down groves of could-have-beens;
to learn to love the stench of waking lies,
then dream of naked girls on picture screens--
the flower basket falls. They said it's truth
to cast away the rose of you and I,
it's life to lose the lenses and review
the burning sun and blackened earth with eyes
of humble blindness: how they mocked the way!
We gathered still the roses of the tree,
and though our lusts denied us time to pray,
we kept our eyes on immortality--
the hawthorn's blooms are false. It comes to this:
our naked, burned-out souls, a fatal kiss.

DESCENDING FIGURE

Striving for something, I rejected
the image of the mother, instead seeking
the sun's light, the father's blessing -- and so I found
the all-surpassing power of the self. Now,

the road ends in two ways. On the one hand,
the common: Narcissus by the spring, Echo in the caves,
the two yearning, staring, starving to death. On the other,
the obvious: the oath fulfilled, the reins passed on,
the chase, the flames, the thunderbolt. For both ends,
the mother always wins, my blackened chest
becoming dirt for flowers. What
blessing is this?

DESPAIR

the leaves of fall,
the stalks after harvest
the ash of the harvest,
the chaff in the wind,

the bite of the wind,
the snows of winter,
the waters at winter,
the unyielding earth,

the sinking earth,
the stubborn seed,
the rejected seed,
the whispers of lust,

the children of lust,
the flames of the forest,
your hope in the forest,
the coming of fall
 
SONG OF LIFE

1 – Prologue
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth: as his spirit hovered over the face of the waters, he said, "Let there be light", and there was light; and all the rest of the world followed out of the void, like the tail of a comet chasing after a star.

2 – The Schoolboy
The air is always flat this time of night,
flat and cold and quiet, like the lake outside
in wintertime. I slow my breathing down:
I don't want to break the ice.

When I go to bed, I never shut my light,
a sun lamp. Why does no one let me walk outside?
There, the twisted trunks of oak never shift,
unlike the shadows of my bed.

Like the shadows of my bed, the wilderness at night
is home to demons fanged and clawed; but outside,
at least, the horrors are familiar, real and steady
in their motives, while my bed-sheets
shelter only water.

I've been swallowed whole before. I remember light,
cold moonlight, crashing through the winter ice outside,
filling my lungs, choking me, washing away my steady,
never failing faith. Then, I was pulled up
by the rooster's crow.

3 – The Passionate Youth
From the waters and the earth God created man, forming him with his own hands, in his own image: and he breathed in him the Breath of Life, and he blessed him with the Garden of Paradise, and he gave him his Word. Then the LORD God made three women.

The first was formed by the Word of God from the light, and she was the true companion of man; her name was Desire. But Adam saw her creation in his waking: and he found Disgust in her flesh, and Disease in her blood, and Destruction in her bones: and he scorned her. And she left the garden in Despair, finding refuge in the Dreams of man; she remained a Virgin, with perfect youth and beauty.

The second was formed from every inch of flesh and blood and bone of Adam as he slept, and her name was Lilith. She saw herself as the true equal of man: but God knew that she could not cover him to receive his seed, so he exiled her from the garden. And she became the Mother of the Lilin, the demons of the night.

The third was formed from the rib of Adam as he slept, and she was named Eve. And man and woman left the garden together, after they ate of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil; and man and woman died toiling, as they became Bearers of Wisdom.

4 – The Judge
When Man lost his arm, his father was reborn,
his father the wise and watchful god,
and when his father rejoined the heavens, the instrument returned,
fully formed: from the blood-red seed of the pomegranate tree
to the trunk of the tree of life,
the old oak tree.

There are no questions to be asked;
there are no answers to be given.
Death flies at the face of life,
as the body returns to the waters and the earth,
feeding the fish, the fowl, the flowers,
the trees, the beetles, the serpents--
and the spirit flies over the face of the waters,
returning to God the breath of life,
as the soul is lost unto the hands of the multitude...

There is only comfort. Man lost his arm three times.
On the first, he lost his way,
but he found his freedom.
On the second, he lost his home,
but he received his love.
On the third, he lost his father,
but he bore the multitude...

Be still: here she comes,
walking down the milky way.

5 – The Prophet
Today, my navel outshines me,
for today, it is a dying star
huffing its desperate last breath.

The immense pressure of gravity's hands
ever-squeezing its fiery core
at last compounds its every facet
into a heavy hole in time.

Its shell of gas and light erupts
into a splendid rainbow of dust,
of carbon and oxygen and iron and nitrogen,
of water, earth, wind, and flame,
of all the material elements.

And this great cloud of stardust scatters
beyond the world of my humble body,
beyond the womb of mother earth,
beyond the weirs across the heavens,
to create a brilliant legacy for its father
by calling forth the comet.

6 – Epilogue
And the Word of God released the waters above and the waters below. For many days and many nights the windows of the heavens were opened, and the fountains of the earth overflowed; and the waters of death mingled with the waters of life: and the waters swelled and swelled, so that all the surface of the earth was covered, even the tops of the mountains, and all the spaces of the heavens were flooded, even the seats of the stars, and all the beasts of the world were drowned, even the fish and the fowl; and their bodies floated on the face of the waters, then blackened and bloated with rot, then sank again into the seas, upon the wet earth, and even unto the waters beneath the earth: and all the world rendered formless and void...


SONG OF DEATH

So, the world is round!
It has its ups and downs--
A water-wheel
Guided by the Miller and His Son,
Begotten One.

Round and round the circle goes
With the river's flow,
And how the gears and axles spin,
Guide the milling stone
Grinding corn.

Soon, the spokes break down,
As mold and age corrupt the round--
A brief command!
So arrives the Son
To pull us out.

Then, to each, a place is given:
Either the oven
To cook the family's meal of bread
Or the central hearth
To give them warmth.
 
Some new stuff, most of which, I admit, are unsuccessful. Still, this is more an archive.


THE TRIUMPH OF ACHILLES [lols]

Living young and wild and free
is how Achilles lived,
remembered in our poetry
and dead when still a teen.


GROWING

Before a boy can be a beard,
he first must be a goat --
before your wisdom can be heard,
a demon -- to be stoned.


OPEN MIC (held at a restaurant called "Exile in Main St.")

Dharma, not Nirvana,
the inward aesthetic journey
from flesh, from passion,
to peace -- cold passion --

From the honking of horns
to the speeches of horns --
compressed, not cozy,
this drunken exile.


FAITH

Not an answer, but a question
over and over in the mind --
"Believe in me? in the Vision?"
and then the crossing of a line --


HOPE

Broken rhythm -- the blues --
always out of sight.
Then gawdy pinks and blues --
twilight!


ANXIETY [lols]

A corn kernel
choking the chicken,
then -- pop!


LOVE IS THE REMEDY [lols]

My heart burns
for your milk,
bitter, bitter Magnesia.


DIES THE DREAMER

Dies the dreamer
who has nothing to dream
in the morning,
unless Rip van Winkle'd --

Revives the dreamer
who has nothing to dream
in the evening,
when she's arrived --


CLOISTERED

Do you well,
some fresh air.

Do you well,
holiness --


says the monk
with clothes milk-stained
yet far away
from the cattle.

Do you well,
pleasure --
 
THEOSIS

Glory be! to the risen and the being-raised,
to the King and all His Court. Glory be!
to the bridegroom and the bride,
to the sensuous breast and the bleeding side --


LOVE OF MAN, LOVE OF GOD

We are not devils -- we are gods,
once bathed -- washed of the clods
seed-stained -- taste of the love!
Love your Holy Flesh -- from above!


BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL

Beyond Mars and Venus -- beyond
ruling Jupiter and decaying Saturn -- beyond
the rounds of planets, the firmament of stars -- beyond,
absent yet ever-present, like quiet space: the Firmament of Saints.
 
Definitely dense beyond reasonable limits, but pflooecgh.

TO

The wind blows --

where?

like bamboo --
no, a tower of sand

where?

rising
by the foaming crests
of ocean

where?

always the same
sex, then the same
question

where?

not between the two
of us -- fro!


HONEST PRAYER

Ask me anything --
just not -- nothing,
do you hear?

I can hear.

Ask me anything,
just not: who -- Am I,
you know?

Do you?

Tell the truth --

Can you?


TRUE FAITH

Faith is -- incapable
of doubt, only
strange fire -- lily
tears down Mary's cheeks --

then silence -- baptized
into obsolescence --
 
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CAN'T FORMAT THIS:
 

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RECOMMENDED SUMMER MORNING ROUTINE

No need for an alarm: twelve o'clock
breakfast, shower, prayer.

First with eyes, then with nose,
then with fingers, tongue, and throat, consume
whatever's come.

Remember that whoever's gone
is gone forever, even if those breasts you felt
wanking in the shower felt
unmistakably hers.

Finally, in your first conversation,
ask for some sensation down the day,
ask for another someone along the way,
ask for resounding relief for the shame
of waking up so late,

then deviate.


NOUS

Out of Egypt did I call you,
but you did not respond,
only flick your hand at me
as if my Word were flies --

well, let me tell you, honey,
your words are shit compared to mine.
 
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I forgot about this:

IMPATIENCE

Oh! that I should die today,
and leave my sins behind --
and leave the Jacob's ladder,
the holy mount, unclimbed?
I know I shall not die a Saint --
that summit fails my pride.
But I shall die a champion still,
and leave a will unsigned!
 
EASTER

Sign of the Cross, Son of a bitch,
bury the body in a ditch,
and when he rises, let him in,
feed him chicken, drown him in gin.

AFTER EASTER

God stopped sleeping yesterday:
now we Churchfolk eat and play,
as the Gentiles come and go
and the Hebrews choke on dough.
 
Two revisions, one brand new composition:

PRAYER

Reflecting heart and soul, vapors
composed from saliva --
On Spirit's back, naked riding
like Lady Godiva --

DOUBT

starts with silence,
then a reflex
of tears, lily petals
filling the censer, sin offered
through strange fire -- once faith,
now obsolescence

TO THE DISBELIEVING POET

I called you out of Egypt's hand
but you did not respond,
just flick your wrist at me as if
my Word were flies --

well let me tell you, honey,
your words are shit compared to mine.
 
Two drafts:

FRIED CHICKEN AND PICKLED HERRING

Fried Chicken dinner at my mother's house
with brown rice and Filipino gravy,
all well-done and salty.

Pickled Herring breakfast at my lover's house
with rye bread and European cheese,
all sweet and somewhat raw.

Chicken, beast of the sky,
plucked naked, skin fried
to a crisp, savor of oil and flesh
through rising smoke offered.

Herring, fish of the waters,
hacked to pieces, baptized
in a jar, juice of liver and brine
through a golden chalice offered.

Whose is the worthier offering?


ARIEL'S ACHOO

I can sympathize with Plath --
gas my head through oven too,
if, like her,

knew Daddy was a Nazi.
But the fool,
though already riding,

remained behind the fence -- kept feeling
the weight of the tattoo,
numbered the faces of her children

(one, two) with the reckoning
of the Word -- drops of dew
from the nigger-eye,

heavy
as marble cubes.
If like her,

I would have been didactic -- already
the Wandering Jew --
Eros, c'est la vie,

to commandant Hughes,
then let the towels cool
in the closet.

BEYOND ARIEL

(One) Can sympathize with Plath --
gas the head through oven too,
if like her

thought Daddy was a Nazi.
But the fool,
though already riding,

remained behind the fence -- kept feeling
the weight of the tattoo,
numbered the faces of her children

(two) or the reckonings
of the Word -- drops of dew
from the nigger-eye

heavy
as marble cubes.
If like her,

I'd be didactic -- already
the Wandering Jew --
Eros, selavy,

to commandant Hughes,
then leave the towels to cool
in the closet (three).
 
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Thread might go dead for a month.....because of NaPM! Check out my* National Poetry Month challenges (national as in American -- I'm not sure about where I live) over on the "Refining Writing" section of Iwaku!

* -- and by my I mean mostly copied (with permission) from Pig Pen Poetry, of which I am a member, and in which I am also participating! Credited in the challenges, of course.
 
Something I haven't done in a long while is CULTURE RUSH!!!! To fill in some space, here are two raps by Kate Tempest -- check out her 2014 album, Everybody Down!

THE BEIGENESS, by Kate Tempest

[Verse 1]
Who's bad? Said the the kiddy in the Jacko hat
To the kiddy in the Rooney shirt
Dragging back
The curtains in the room in her daddy's flat
A young girl heard the truth in an alley-cat
Howling on the roof next door
Imagine that
All your idols were just like you
Nothing's beyond you
Do what you want to do if you feel that it wants you to
Look
True never meant nothing more than it means right now
When everything's fake
But you in your deepest reaches keeping secrets
Know what it takes to make a meaning means something
I’m moving through a space that some can't see
I know this space exists
So do you if your heart beats the oldest groove
Life is huge but we have shrunk it
We've made it small
We used to walk tall
But who cares, right?
We’re having a ball

[Hook]
Them things you don't show, I can see
Them things you don't say, speak to me
Them things you hide ain't hiding
No firm ground but we ain't sliding
Them things that haunt you, let them be
That thing you weep for, leave it
All life is forwards, you will see
It needs you to need it

[Verse 2]
Go ahead, keep it in ‘til it withers you
Move fast, don’t stop, you got things to do
Tell yourself, it’s them man it isn’t you
Nod your head and believe that until it’s true
You can tell it not to show its face
When you are trying to hold your space
But it’s in you deep in your sinews
And it comes out on the coldest days

See the kid with the memory he can’t shake
See the man with the lover on his mind
See the lady with the guilt and the heartache
See the woman trying to battle with time
See the man with the blood on his hands
See the girl with her hands on her hips
Everybody say nothing. Stay bland
If you don’t show it then it don’t exist
Right?

[Hook]
Them things you don't show, I can see
Them things you don't say, speak to me
Them things you hide ain't hiding
No firm ground but we ain't sliding
Them things that haunt you, let them be
That thing you weep for, leave it
All life is forwards, you will see
It's yours when you’re ready to receive it

[Verse 3]
You’re so focused on finding the differences
You ignore the bonds that bind us
Got my hand on my heart when the rhythm hits
It’s looking for us but can’t find us
In the valley of vanity, viciousness
Full schedules and empty containers
We’re kissing the coshes that cripple us
Enjoying the Beigeness
Do it your way and they’ll find you ridiculous
Pick apart your behaviour
Their scorn ignites what inhibits us
And then we hate ourselves
And our fear pickles us
Sitting in jars ‘cause it’s safer
Some of us are happy to live with it
But some of us know it’s against our nature

[Hook]
Them things you don't show, I can see
Them things you don't say, speak to me
Them things you hide ain't hiding
No firm ground but we ain't sliding
Them things that haunt you, let them be
That thing you weep for, leave it
All life is forwards, you will see
It's yours when you’re ready to receive it

All life is forwards you will see [12x]


CIRCLES, by Kate Tempest

I’m in a mess, I can’t help it
I just go round and round
I’m paranoid, I’m selfish
Push me, I clam up, I’m shellfish
We had a dream, I shelved it
That eats me up, that’s Elvis
Las Vegas era
I’m half bag lady, half Bagheera
I got my hand on my heart
But my heart’s in the gutter
Talking to itself, starting to flutter
When it thinks about yours
Barking at mutts like a nutter
Trying to start wars on the bus
Dumb chunk of muscle with its claws out
Throwing its oars out the dinghy in the middle of a gale
Making whirlpools the way I chase my tail

I go round in circles
Not graceful, not like dancers
Not neatly, not like compass and pencil
More like a dog on a lead, going mental
I go round in circles
Not graceful, not like dancers
Not neatly, not like compass and pencil
More like a dog on a lead, going mental

I’m in a corner saying nothing
Sitting in a pub with my eyes closed
Swaying to a power ballad
Shredding tears at the high notes
My hands are frozen, I forgot my gloves
My heart is broken, I don’t want no love
Love just rots your guts
If you’re the type to feel what you touch

No wait, my hands are smoking on this hot tea cup
My heart is open, all I want is love
Love will prop you up
If you’re the type to feel what you touch

No wait, my hands are frozen, I ain’t got no gloves
My heart is broken, I don’t want no love
Love will rot your guts
If you’re the type to feel what you touch

No wait, my hands are smoking on this hot tea cup
My heart is open, all I want is love
Love will prop you up
If you’re the type to feel what you touch

I go round in circles
Not graceful, not like dancers
Not neatly, not like compass and pencil
More like a dog on a lead, going mental
I go round in circles
Not graceful, not like dancers
Not neatly, not like compass and pencil
More like a dog on a lead, going mental

I go round, elliptical
Watch me orbit this
I keep repeating myself
There must be more than this
I don’t know why I can’t change
There ain’t no groundhogs here
There’s just me in my garden
Howling at the moon when it’s round and clear

Kick a fag box and you might find it’s got some in it
I love that
Just when I think something’s ending
The beginning comes back

Get away with a child travelcard on the bus
I love that
Just when I think something’s ending
The beginning comes back

See something great
Happen to a mate
I love that
Just when I think something’s ending
The beginning comes back

Get a kiss when you feel like shit
That’s so good, I love that
Just when I think something’s ending
The beginning comes back

I go round in circles
Not graceful, not like dancers
Not neatly, not like compass and pencil
More like a dog on a lead, going mental

I go round in circles
Not graceful, not like dancers
Not neatly, not like compass and pencil
More like a dog on a lead, going mental
 
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Here's a stupidly esoteric (and kinda awful) one I wrote before the month began. I really gotta stop obsessing on Ariel, xD

TEMPESTOS

Prospero prays
not to the God who saved him
but to the God who made.

On the island, he is alone
in his belief, all others
either believing in no God
or in the crucifix masts of the ships
never to come,

not in the ships that have,
that sank and sink again.
But he knows Ariel's power,
he knows how it drowns

all but the perfect --

and just as knowledge does not belong to faith,
so do women not belong on ships.
 
All of the prompts that are inspiring the National Poetry Month threads (found in the "Refining Writing" section of this site) come from this site, where I've already had a bunch of my poems parsed through -- check that site out if you want some nice old-fashioned workshopping to help you improve, or if you just want to read a bunch of good poems, both from newbies (pewbies), established writers, and dead poets! Now, I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do a culture rush with one of their poems, since some of the published (as in on paid-for paper) stuff there is published in more obscure (but probably/undoubtedly good) avenues, so again, just consider the link as this mid-month's culture rush! My favorites there may be found in the bit Spotlighting the Hogs, mainly "Logos" by Todd, "Lucia Joyce, Sylvia Plath, and I" and "Matilda died today --" by just mercedes, and "Metamorphoses" by Leanne.

This thread will get a proper rush of original stuff once NaPM is over, of course -- I'm hoping to have to posts, one all spoilered with the stuff in chronological order, the other arranged roughly by topic, with the good ones (or rather my personal favorites) the only ones unspoilered. Also, hopefully by the end of the month I'll have enough material (considering my whole corpus, not just NaPM) to prepare another proper showcase thread, which are basically dress rehearsals for a possible book.
 
NaPM! Well, I'm still four pieces short, actually. I'll post here everything up to the 17th, then when I'm done with all the prompts, I'll shoot with the rest. All the stuff I don't particularly like I'll be spoilering, although I do hope I return to them at some point, especially the real personal doozies. Prompts found here, and I won't bother listing them, at least not yet: Poetry Forum - - Post poetry, get feedback, give critique.

April 2

ALIVE AGAIN: The lamentation of Javier Methol

Someday we will be remembered
not as Adam and Eve were one
of one flesh, but as Castor
man and Polydeuces god were two
brothers, boxer and tamer of horses,
we shepherd and comforter of men,

someday, when our father decides our time
has come, that our flight
should finally find its way to Santiago
as this life I have lived
should rise to that same peak,

that the sea of our ordeal, now
named Glacier of Tears, should melt
and you, Liliana, should spring again.
Until then, the body sleeps.


April 3

DANSES

My holy brother passing hushed
through loud skomorokh crowds,
diamond eyes betray your lies,
and snorts betray your scorn!

Though you have wisdom, you have Faith,
your Hope is yet assured:
for you, there is no Love in masques,
just faces torn by glue!


April 4

THE SEVENTH HOUR

It's that time of day again,
when my arms are cold
but my loins are cooking --

when every lady I see unchained
by childhood, wifehood, motherhood,
'sa mask to be tored off --

eyes plucked out,
noses chewed,
and mouths glewed shut --


April 6

UNDER THE HIJAB

The first time leaves
no subtleties of truth,
only desire -- fear -- then a trace
of vital memory.

I saw that morning
in the heart of a summer wood
what glows behind the veil,

brighter than the golden stars and leaves
traced upon the purple -- not sex,
which the Prophet says would have struck me blind,

but a substitute more vital -- and I found myself
lost in the passage of the woodbird
and the mosquito.

How many songs have I written?
How many hearts have I broken?
only to recapture that same moment,
that same stolen sight of golden hair
and ivory tower neck, then leave
still starving --

there is no second time.


April 7

TWILIGHT

1
The hero's journey
cannot end in triumph. Death
is not the abyss, it is
the return, the final descent
down the mountain. To the living,
only the boon is truly known,
the summit behind the hero
reeking of corpses.

2
The war came when he was a child,
and afterwards, he joined his generation
in telling tales only of this glorious past,
choosing for himself a mundane path. He became
an officer of the law -- a guardian,
perhaps, or the dragon
holding the goddess captive. He found my grandmother
at an investigation in the provinces,
falling in love
first with her cooking,
then with her quiet rural manner.

3
Now the silence haunts him.
He sits by the door of their house
and dials up a channel
on his battery-powered radio,
a gift from his three daughters.
Before my grandmother's sickness, it would be
the news -- now that she lies on the couch,
a bag of vomit nearly spilling out beside her,
he prefers the worship channel.
But even this must end. My mother,
busy accounting for pensions,
complains about the noise.

4
Siegfried returned to the world of men
with the Tarnhelm before his death.
And as the flames of his funeral pyre
rose to the heavens, the world of the gods
burned down -- the hearts of men
were purified. That is the real boon,
the power to transform.
If my grandfather is to offer us
anything more than his life,
he must die like a dog.


April 12

TEEN ANGST

1
I love the trembling upon release --
the tingling up and down the spine
turned flashes of light, lightning
pushing down pulling up knees elbows
whole body pulsing convulsing with
excitement ah perfect relaxation
squirts of milk impregnating empty air.

2
I wonder what you became
when I told you about that dream I had
where I was on top, and you were weeping scratching screaming,
only -- that was a dream,
and only a dream, right? No control --

Now, I enjoy myself alone
with your picture
in the hour between Ambien and sleep,
where the mind reaches heights the waking won't allow
and lows far below limbo.

3
We were never involved, I think,
not even as friends, I seemed so distant --
all of you knew me only by reputation,
that I was a mystic (or maybe just a weirdo),
and either you were drawn or offended.
You were offended. At first, you sought to correct me
like a child, teasing me, disrupting my routines, dissecting my anxieties,
then you elevated your artform, turned filia into Freud,
becoming first a tease, then a disruption, then a dissection,
until you learned the truth, that you could deal the most harm
simply by ignoring me.

Of course, I took this
more like a blessing -- women who were not drawn to me
would, in going my way, only impede my progress
in music, painting, language, poetry:
all the arts with which one draws women.
Not photography -- I couldn't understand it,
how one's supposed to celebrate his subject
without changing them.

4
My picture of you -- it's your yearbook photo,
where you bear your widest most honest smile
in your slightly upgraded regulars.
I suppose that was the photographer's advantage,
that he was new to our crowd
yet never played the mystery, that he came there
only to do his job,
take beautiful portraits
of beautiful young bitches.

5
Nightly, I imagine you
compelled by some invisible hand
to slowly remove your clothes,
first your pants, to leave your greatest treasure the ass exposed,
then your shoes -- never the socks, which always add texture to these affairs --
then finally your shirt, though not removed completely,
just slid up to allow for more vigorous rubbing.
And then after a minute of touching, feeling, tasting,
teasing, disrupting, dissecting, I'm in. Occasionally,
maybe every Monday,
"slowly" becomes madly,
the minutes of pleasure are skipped,
and you weep and scratch and scream along the way.

This excitement always denies the Ambien
its true job. As the hours pass, I'm left to think --
what is real? what is fake?
She is a victim, in my mind -- of my mind --
so is she a victim in waking life?
Or perhaps it's all justice, of a sort --
whatever the truth.

6
And then I rise up sink low to limbo again
but with the cold fiery hands wrapped around my chest
grown tighter, heavier.


April 14

IN THE TUNNELS OF CORREGIDOR

I did not fear the blindness
when our guide commanded us
to shut our lights and see
as the cloistered Japanese --

and though the breath of wind divine
resounding from those cratered walls
tickled the spines of my fellows,
I caught no voice, I felt no hand --

but I jumped when the light returned
and the image of a soldier ashamed
destroying himself by grenade
was imprinted in my vision.
 
April 1

ARIEL'S WITNESS

I dreamed I saw two souls return to one
like the logs on the fire of the hearth of the home
they had built together, out of nails and lumber
cedar olive branches cross and layer
him the binding nailing, her the holding birthing
now the two the one panting side by side
on a bed of hides, ages of ages --

then I awoke, naked wet alone,
uttered practiced prayers, thick saliva vapors
sacrum heart and eye, like Lady Godiva
on Spirit's back Truth riding, peeping Tom
despising the horse the hide the heat -- back to slumber


April 5

WILL AND REPRESENTATION: An ekphrasis on Mikhail Vrubel's "The Demon Seated" and "The Demon Prostrate"

Isolate -- turn of the century
prostrate to past and present -- tears
rolling down windless slopes -- wings, loins
hacked, scattered -- off the immortal

I AM -- desiring no malice
seated, flying, fallen -- peacock eyes
filled with hateful flame -- with rueful power!
and skin glowing copper
turned tarnished tin --

Though my skin is earth
and Venus is my favored planet,
Saturn cannot conquer. There is
only Love within this fire,
misplaced, cracked, consuming,

yet nevertheless Hallowed,
for I AM nothing -- a child
still, enjoying -- sunset flowers
in the shattered forms of dusk --
 
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April 8

MEMORY RECLAIMED

a memory a film
viewed once, eventually excitement
loud action, hero
slaying dragon
or princess opening sex
drowned out, as always,
in favor of the little things

the children -- perhaps the sun
setting red in the horizon,
dramatic string section
hanging chords -- cut to night

red firelight
on the deep in contemplation face,
a young voice, his words in the quiet like
"should I heed? should I heed?"

and smells of sage on rafter, thickening
moss on wood, bed of furs
beginning to foul, sour wine --

my son my younger self, we heed now
sitting here, locked
in illusion
now let me enjoy my pipe


April 9

A VISIT TO SOME FORGOTTEN CHURCH IN MOSCOW

One dusty hand reached out, caressed
my cheek -- the other held
offerings to be bought, gilded frames
of some saints: Vasil fool, Sergei,
and the painter-monk Andrei.

This hooded figure also spoke
in hazy voice -- and Russian. My guess:
If only you could hear,
far-hearted tourist, their complaints
about this house of God turned pile of earth,
iconostasis flushed by rain,
and censer made bouquet,
then how you'd weep! (or pay)
as now I do.


Back then, I wanted to become
a doctor -- returning home, I laughed
at the leprous spot below my eye.
How young was I!


April 10

WEATHERTOWN

I will not leave for Weathertown,
will not Desire -- its spires,
for though I like the weatherman,
I've yet to catch -- his Lies.

The TV and the radio,
they never ride my wave --
and when I search the web for rain,
I always fail to save.

And people -- though I took no vows,
I comb the hermit's fill:
my wilderness, a shuttered home,
my hieromonk, a pill --

for past the weatherman's vane charms,
you chickens are a chore --
aside from belts of blood and breast,
this business is a bore.

Or rather, how I dread romance --
to Love is like a storm!
and cities, hated opposite --
great droughts -- past all alarm.

No, I'll not leave for Weathertown,
and treat the 'Self' -- applied,
for Truth is not a gale without:
I'd rather Live -- a child.


April 11

GIULIETTA DEGLI SPIRITI

1
Leaving my philandering husband Giorgio, I quickly set out
to make a mistress of myself to Sangria --
that is to say, as I boarded Jose's rickety boat
to Spain, I got myself
roaring drunk.

2
Who rides a boat to Spain?
Me and Gabriella took the train --

3
Sometimes I wonder if I'm really still Giulietta,
as I sit up smoking after love.

4
Me? I know I'm no longer Giorgio -- now, you call me Giorgina.
One night, after love,
I dreamed my sex was being pulled off of me bloodlessly,
like a stub of tallow stuck awkwardly between the legs.
That was the only change. Yet still, you and all others
acted as if I were finally complete,
as if I were your sister, fulfilling your dream
of a thirst quenched.

5
The first thing we did once we reached Barcelona
was visit that famous unfinished cathedral,
Sagrada Familia. The name alone
made me shed a tear,
although I remember
it was not one for sadness.

6
That business trip I took -- I actually flew Gabriella
all the way to Hong Kong for a painting.
"Interior d'un Cafi". I told her seeing Paris
captured through the eyes of a complete stranger,
a revolutionary
who fought against Spain's stranglehold
over his country,
was better than actually going there.

7
I told Jose, I did not want to live by the sea again.
But he refused, insisting the salt
would help clear my lungs. That was my problem,
he said, becoming breathless
over every little thing.

8
In fact, my plan was
to go to Tunisia -- she complained
with your voice, when she learned.
Why take the long way? she asked.
Why not go by boat?
I said I wanted to retrace the steps
of our ancestors the Romans, reenact the farce
of the Punic Wars, eventually
of Aeneas leaving Dido.

9
Leaving you, I thought the spirits
would stop haunting me. Didn't I conquer them,
if not in this world of phenomena
then in the world of my memories,
your films? But they returned
one night, after love.
Neptune again rose from the sea,
again brought with him his great barge
of decay --

10
Then Venus appears next, in her golden veil
and tight bikini -- then Bacchus the young god
with the girlish black hair and the over-shaven face
and the white breasted raiment that in your memories
still didn't distract from his sex -- then Pluto
or maybe Saturn burning your favorite doll --
then Jupiter your grandfather the lord of the heavens
flying through the mists to his
mistress Parisienne -- then what again?
Now I don't remember. That story you told me,
explaining why you were so breathless
after your brief visit to the neighbor's,
I wasn't really listening.
 
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April 13

ROTA FORTUNAE

Should the shadow of my thumb
scratch the mole upon your back,
will you bleed?

Anything for you
is so cliche. And besides,
that's not how metaphors work.
Here:


I'll never get used
to losing my keys.
I can lose
anything, really,
just not keys.

Everything can be replaced,
like the broken wheels of a cart.
It's just harder to replace
a lock, having to call for help
in breaking a door open,
either through force
or through artifice -- than it is, say,
to crack open a book and remember
a name, to make connections
between a memory and
an heirloom, to mark
the passage of time
and declare a certain place
home,

to sit beside a stranger
by accident and say, "Hello.
Should the shadow of my thumb


April 15

THE READING

She drew six cards and formed the cross --
I found it all arranged.
I sent them back and went the course,
but fate had me detained.

And there it was: the death of me
and all He left behind,
the woman by the waters still
determining the line,

the devil's curse returning lots,
the tower falling down,
the comet blazing through the sky,
and howling come around.

But horror struck me not because
of such a brilliant fall,
it was that I'd no agency
even in standing tall.

For since the Endor-Witch declared,
I acted without choice,
at first the hero so accursed
then afterwards her voice.


April 16

ARIEL HERSELF: A sort-of palinode to "Ariel's Witness"

Swmming through seas of books
and substanceless souls, I encountered
my fellow swimmer Leviathan,
core of my nature, half-woman
half-whale, head helmeted
with crown of woven hair --
I readied my blade
and tore through her breast.

Reaching the shore, walking through woods,
finding a feast -- upon the table,
goblets of wine, platters of bread,
bowls of honey, spits of lamb --
a lion a bear
Behemoth appeared before me,
with claws, copper neck
overlong, face compressed
into a horror, hair
extended into horns --
I readied my blade
and tore through her breast.

Climbing the tower
and resting curious in the astrologer's lab,
crown of my nature, Ziz the woman the swan,
swooped down to scratch me to kiss me
from the stars or perhaps from their reflection
upon the mirror the lens --
I readied my blade
and tore through her breast.

Returning to the library and parlor, I remembered
my lover Babylon, mailed to me by an angel,
cloaked in white yet crowned with red,
surrounded by the masters --
Caravaggio boys and Gentileschi girls,
Titian gods and El Greco saints,
Bosch and Brueghel, Watteau and Wright,
the burrs of Blake, the homilies of Goya,
Cole's landscapes, David-Friedrich's landscapes,
the symbols of Dore, of Moreau,
the Ophelias of Millais, of Waterhouse,
the anguish of Munch, the ardor of Schiele,
Vereschagin's vivid portraits of war, Vasnetsov's fantasies,
the bastards of Vrubel, the fables of Bilibin,
Kuindzhi's studies, Nesterov's contemplations,
the contemplative sensualities of Kramskoy,
the innocent seductions of Borovikovsky --
still, I readied my blade
and tore through her breast,

then found myself awaking again,
naked wet alone,
uttered practiced prayers, thick saliva vapors
like Lady Godiva
on Spirit's back Truth riding, peeping Tom
now forgiven.
Oh God, Oh Mighty, Oh Immortal -- consume me.


April 17

RUBBER

The pathologist poured wax plaster
over the peaceful face of the woman
who drowned smiling in the Seine,
afterwards saying, "Her beauty was breathtaking,
and showed few signs of distress
at the time of passing -- so bewitching,
that I knew beauty as such
must be preserved."
If he lived now, he would have poured latex, instead.

Juan Luna, meanwhile, used oil
paint, splashing and pouring it onto the canvas
like light striking a piece of film,
to create his masterpiece, the "Spoliarium",
apparently a thinly veiled protest
against Spanish oppression.
Some of us now would use a camera,
arranging the composition on a stage
with a dozen living models, but most others,
knowing to achieve his same expressive effect,
would prefer acrylic.

Here in the Philippines, his magnum opus
hangs in the main gallery
of the National Museum, where the gigantic scene
of gladiators cloaked in chiaroscuro
pulling away their dead for the next entertainment
would be the first work to greet visitors' eyes.
I've only ever seen it in the pictures,
though this girl I like once told me
seeing it through a screen
was completely different
from observing it in person,
intimately, feeling one's breath
bounce back from the canvas.
I nodded, and showed her the next week
my coffee table book on the Tretyakov.

Sometimes I wonder why I've seen
all the sights of other countries,
but not my own. And then I remember:
her father owns a rubber plantation
down south, in Davao. Just west,
in Cotabato, rice farmers
a few weeks ago went to rally
against a governor who refused to give them food
in the middle of a famine, not knowing
the reserves were already being sold
in the markets of Manila. Their bodies
still lie on the streets, I imagine,
their brothers too afraid to pull them away.
Nothing ever changes.
 
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Drafts.

AND SHOULD I FIND YOU....

And should I find you in a sugar rush
hiding behind the ballads of a thrush,
should I laugh? Or smile -- oh, how it cloys,
to feel such pain, yet gesture still in joy!


TO MY LOVE

We men, I must confess, are swine
disguised in honor's flesh.
The farther we sail from sorrow's beach,
the closer we reach our lovers' arms,
the hotter the sun, the sweeter the sirens' song!
Even the greatest among us, Odysseus,
failed -- first fell to Circe,
then to Calypso the cunning goddess.
So if unlike Penelope, you should see
the ships I've sailed, the depths I've penetrated,
I pray you not refuse me, but with like-mind
find forgiveness -- perhaps deny me flesh,
but in the end advance your tenderness
with greater temperance.


DREAMS STITCHED TOGETHER

In a Catholic service, this Protestant boy's
hand is denied, half by an overbearing mother,
half by an overstating mind. No body of Christ today,
unless taken symbolically -- with a spot of tea.

This boy rebels. The retiring father
offers a cup of tea drowned in milk.
About the two, the plain plastic trappings
of a modern monk's life. The boy speaks
in riddles, having never spoken for himself before.
The father uncorks a bottle --

Forgive me, sister, if my words were harsh.
Exhausted from a night of dungeoneering
whose final gift I found too harsh to achieve,
I was forced to hire that especially articulate gnome
whom I had enthralled in my last meaningful excursion
to write my letters for me -- why did I not catch
how much he resented his slavery?
And so he chose to spite you and I,
Mabel -- nothing was meant.


I know now everything should have been.
That was my true mistake, to allow old compulsions
to break bonds of blood even older --
again, forgive me, and have your friends,
whom I can see are still sleeping over,
cease spiting me in turn. Sincerely, Dipper.


-- tongue loosened by the Holy Darjeeling,
the boy reveals his desire to join the basilica.
The father smiles, yet whatever advice he gives
is lost to the following dream, like light
striking a rounded mirror.

BASILICA

Piety turns
the heart to stone.

Let me cover this rock
in gold leaf, in the delicate
browns of flesh, in flecks
of black and rich azure --
let it not remain gray,
empty, almost modern,

ultimately the kinder home to moss
which knows only compromise.
 
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