Rite of Passage

RiverNotch

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RITE OF PASSAGE: A collection of poems done for National Poetry Month 2016
by RiverNotch, irl name Jed Castillo

Credit to the promptmaster milo, from Poetry Forum - - Post poetry, get feedback, give critique.
and to all the other members of the site, for encouragement, feedback, and general poetic awesomeness

This collection is finished only in the sense that the selection of poems probably will not change; numerous edits might come in the future.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

April 1 -- Ariel's Witness
April 2 -- Alive Again
April 5 -- Will and Representation
April 6 -- Under the Hijab

April 8 -- Memory Reclaimed
April 9 -- A Visit to Some Forgotten Church in Moscow
April 10 -- Weathertown
April 11 -- Giulietta degli Spiriti

April 13 -- Rota Fortunae
April 15 -- The Reading
April 16 -- Ariel Herself
April 17 -- Rubber

April 19 -- L'Etoile
April 20 -- La Lune
April 21 -- Le Soleil
April 22 -- La Iugement

April 23 -- Toddler's Joy
April 24 -- The 120 Days
April 29 -- Solomon in the Garden of Asters
April 30 -- La Maison Dieu

Check out the bottom of the page for the second draft!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Ariel's Witness
Alive Again
Will and Representation
Under the Hijab
Memory Reclaimed
A Visit to Some Forgotten Church in Moscow
Giulietta degli Spiriti

Weathertown
L'Etoile
The Reading
La Lune
Ariel Herself

Rubber
Passage out of the Dreaming
The 120 Days
Le Soleil
La Iugement
La Maison Dieu
 
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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


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.


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 --


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.
 
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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


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!


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.


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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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


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.


ARIEL HERSELF: A 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.


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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L'ETOILE

To the fox, those grapes
he could not reach
seemed
to become some other fruit -- nightshade,
perhaps, only enough
to quiet the grumbling child.

He tried to leave, naturally,
first wishing upon the distant star
that some ready ship would come and take him
then having the haunch of farmer's rabbit
bloat his small stomach,
but already
the trellis
had become a noose, Venus
herself a morning
consumed by the coming sun.

The true lesson is
wishing upon a star
ties you to its course.


LA LUNE

I'd wish it off,
their light, their noise,
every damn night
either partying or arguing --

more distracting than the moon,
than the howling of the bitches
and the crawling of the crab
out my sex --

if I knew its futility
wouldn't just distract me,
just lead me down worse circles round
this loomy gloom --


LE SOLEIL

Here in the city, the birds
are always begging for food -- their songs,
however light, are never happy ones.

Even the crowned rooster, who at dawn
courts the sun with a little chicken dance,
does not do so out of love,

unless one confuses
the ease of Abraham's climb
with his knife.

Then the cock returns to his kingdom,
the feathers washed by dew now dried by the sun,
and he finds that he is one son less,

all for the sake of a handful of corn
scattered across the barren road.


LA IUGEMENT

Apparently, the teacher who introduced me
to the pleasures of Caravaggio
and the crises of El Greco
died today --


just fell a few steps
and hit her head, four years
after she last gave birth, three years
after she handled us, two years

after I'd set off for college -- about a year ago.
Usually, this sort of news
just pops up on the internet,
but this time I had the luxury

of being called. I had to make an effort
to sound like I was on the brink of crying,
as it was in the middle of class -- Analytical
Chemistry, I think, the one I failed that year.

I think that was also the year I started writing.
 
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TODDLER'S JOY

it's those pesky baptist virtues again,
turning every span of fun --
the crackle crash of crystal dish,
the spilling of the rice and fish --
into some catastrophe,

all my roofie contemplations
and ritual masturbations
becoming some sort of hook
to the dark side, to the pagan side --

yet is it really so dark at the surface?


THE 120 DAYS

1
getting hard to parse through people nowadays --
quite a surprise, to see
how alike all girls' asses are.

not teeth, either -- seems
they get them braces before boyfriends, as if,
to their stock, the subtleties count.

hair and eyes, perhaps? how hard their hair sticks,
how wet their eyes get -- for I've learned
it's not the air that really gets me,
it's the moans, the groans -- then the crescendo
of screams, sobs --

2
know what, this time we'll make the rules simple.
regardless of how swayed you seem,
you will die -- for in these modern days,
who isn't a convert already?

oh come on -- don't cry, not yet, not yet. our sex
still lies hidden, unready beneath the sheets.
besides, if you were really worth saving,
you'd enjoy all this -- twice we libertines
have lived and died, each time
the fires of hell
succumbing to the succulent
smell of the roast.

3
you know, one of the whores -- excuse me,
Sunday school teachers -- tells us
God also loved the smell, when he was nothing
but a child -- turned it into his consolation,
after drowning us in one of his tantrums.
I suppose that's what we're trying to capture here,
the arc of the rainbow
formed by pools of drying spunk --

one more subtlety to count. tell us,
Renata, what exactly did you do
when we married you to Sergio?

shut up. i didn't really ask you anything.
that was obvious. one more demerit.
Anubis would not enjoy this.

4
stop shivering. it's not as if
one hundred and twenty days
were not enough time to prepare.
and those nails we stuffed into your dog bowl
really turned your teeth to shit.

stop looking at that brand. Sergio deserved it,
as he was the one with the sword. you shall get
a far subtler knife -- instead of steel,
maybe a candle. and maybe
we'd stuff it up your ass,
once you're dead, let the putrefying flesh
absorb the wax.


SOLOMON IN THE GARDEN OF ASTERS; The third section being taken from the King James and English Standard Versions of Song of Solomon

1
God gave gifts
to his beasts --

wings, claws, beaks.
He gave me
wisdom,

opened
my third eye
with his hand --

I tell you, his hand
feels softer
than silk, sweeter
than sex.

Why should the other two
open again?

2
Father sowed
the garden --
I built
the house.

And as flowers wither
like stone bricks never do,
as stolen looks
murder,
I ask myself:
what is my father to me?
Am I not both hand and cheek,

son of David,
son of Bathsheba?
Bound to be

the lion and the lamb,
the hand of God
and the cheek
of his foolish people.

3
As the daisies
open in the days of angels,
so do I open
before my beloved.
Daughter of Pharoah,

who is chiefest
among ten thousand?
Whose head is as
the most fine gold?
Whose locks are bushy,
are black as a raven?
Whose eyes are as doves
beside streams of water,
bathing in milk
and fitly set?
Whose cheeks are as beds of spice,
as sweet flowers -- lips like lilies,
like lily-bowls dropping myrrh --

whose hands are golden rods,
easily bent, crusted with the beryl,
not the diamond. Whose belly
is polished ivory, naked teeth
stained blue by lapis lazuli,
glorified pebbles. Whose legs
are alabaster -- not marble,
not as old, not as strong.
Whose countenance is as Lebanon,
as her cedars -- now conquered,
now chopped down for the house
of a foreign king. Whose mouth
is most sweet -- sickly so,
desirable only to fools.

4
The essence of wisdom
is grief.
Deprived of love,
the worthiest gift,
I stumble

upon the bushes before me.
And now the lids
are glued shut,
all force
atrophied.


LA MAISON DIEU

I live as if
I were married,

then by some
stroke of the poet's hand,
I died --

a marriage born
of a thousand kine,
a consummation
interrupted,

then by the swift
stroke of Agamemnon's hand,
my limbs unstrung.

It is to see and to be silent,
to walk and act
in dreams
yet by every
stroke and judgement
to love passionately, unconditionally --

the dead-end job
becoming hell,
the impractical lover
becoming Calypso's hand,
rather, Penelope's jealous shadow,
the needlessly expensive
collection of 60s records
becoming the Sirens' song,
better yet, the Phaeacians' gift.

Is there a greater peace?
to live, in this tower,
an exile,
yet to be
perfectly one
with humanity --
 
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RITE OF PASSAGE, edited manuscript


RITE OF PASSAGE: National Poetry Month 2016 Compilation
A collection of poems by Jed Castillo


PART ONE: Uncircumcised

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.


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.


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 --


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 --

never a second time.


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


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!


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.



PART TWO: First Cut

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.


L'ETOILE: A fable

To the fox, those grapes
he could not reach
seemed
to become some other fruit -- nightshade,
perhaps, only enough
to quiet the grumbling child.

He tried to leave, naturally,
first wishing upon the distant star
that some ready ship would come and take him
then having the haunch of farmer's rabbit
bloat his small stomach,
but already
the trellis
had become a noose, Venus
herself a morning
consumed by the coming sun.

The true lesson is
wishing upon a star
ties you to its course.


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 --


LA LUNE

the neighbor's pet
the lobster squirts
the yellow salt

into my eye
the backyard key
watching the girl
swim naked on

"for whom did we
collect this pool?
not you, she-wolf
unplanned!" the dad
declared as I
withdrew and she
arose to crack

a smile a shell
a pinching cry
arose that night

when out her thigh
a hand of blood
diffused to dye
the loomy gloom


ARIEL HERSELF

Swimming 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.



PART THREE: Moving Out

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 on a screen
was completely different
from observing it in person,
intimate, 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.


PASSAGE OUT OF THE DREAMING

something about water being thicker than blood,
about clear urine diluting funkless semen
some awful joke about sphincters, about muscle relaxants
someone drinking a glass of almost-water, doing a spit take

something bursting out of the normally flat screen of my phone
something about the way those words swim about like moray eels on the prowl
something bursting out of the waters of the toilet

something about the picture of Jesus the old woman at the photocopyist's showed me,
about the blood and the water pouring out of his heart, or rather the hole in his liver
someone drinking a glass of gin, doing a spit take

something about moving to some far away Arcadia, maybe Canada
someone chasing after me, like Droids, like the Empire, like the First Order
something childish: wrists poised, fingers pointed, mouths going psshew! psshew! psshew!
something about the technical specifications of my stolen editing software

something about the pleasures of orgasm, of all those sighs and spasms
something about the river Lethe coursing through the pipes
someone's grandmother passing away at the church steps

some awful joke about dilution
someone wakes up, has a cold shower


THE 120 DAYS

1
getting hard to parse through people nowadays --
quite a surprise, to see
how alike all girls' asses are.

not teeth, either -- seems
they get them braces before boyfriends, as if,
to their stock, the subtleties count.

hair and eyes, perhaps? how hard their hair sticks,
how wet their eyes get -- for I've learned
it's not the air that really gets me,
it's the moans, the groans -- then the crescendo
of screams, sobs --

2
know what, this time we'll make the rules simple.
regardless of how swayed you seem,
you will die -- for in these modern days,
who isn't a convert already?

oh come on -- don't cry, not yet, not yet. our sex
still lies hidden, unready beneath the sheets.
besides, if you were really worth saving,
you'd enjoy all this -- twice we libertines
have lived and died, each time
the fires of hell
succumbing to the succulent
smell of the roast.

3
you know, one of the whores -- excuse me,
Sunday school teachers -- tells us
God also loved the smell, when he was nothing
but a child -- turned it into his consolation,
after drowning us in one of his tantrums.
I suppose that's what we're trying to capture here,
the arc of the rainbow
formed by pools of drying spunk --

one more subtlety to count. tell us,
Renata, what exactly did you do
when we married you to Sergio?

shut up. i didn't really ask you anything.
that was obvious. one more demerit.
Anubis would not enjoy this.

4
stop shivering. it's not as if
one hundred and twenty days
were not enough time to prepare.
and those nails we stuffed into your dog bowl
really turned your teeth to shit.

stop looking at that brand. Sergio deserved it,
as he was the one with the sword. you shall get
a far subtler knife -- instead of steel,
maybe a candle. and maybe
we'd stuff it up your ass,
once you're dead, let the putrefying flesh
absorb the wax.


LE SOLEIL

Here in the city, the birds
are always begging for food -- their songs,
however light, are never happy ones.

Even the crowned rooster, who at dawn
courts the sun with a little chicken dance,
does not do so out of love,

unless one confuses
the ease of Abraham's climb
with his knife.

Then the cock returns to his kingdom,
the feathers washed by dew now dried by the sun,
and he finds that he is one son less,

all for the sake of a handful of corn
scattered across the barren road.


LA IUGEMENT

/Apparently, the teacher who introduced me
to the pleasures of Caravaggio
and the crises of El Greco
died today --/

just fell a few steps
and hit her head, four years
after she last gave birth, three years
after she handled us, two years

after I'd set off for college -- about a year ago.
Usually, this sort of news
just pops up on the internet,
but this time I had the luxury

of being called. I had to make an effort
to sound like I was on the brink of crying,
as it was in the middle of class -- Analytical
Chemistry, I think, the one I failed that year.

I think that was also the year I started writing.


LA MAISON DIEU

I live as if
I were married,

then by some
stroke of the poet's hand,
I died --

a marriage born
of a thousand kine,
a consummation
interrupted,

then by the swift
stroke of Agamemnon's hand,
my limbs unstrung.

It is to see and to be silent,
to walk and act
in dreams
yet by every
stroke and judgement
to love passionately, unconditionally --

the dead-end job
becoming hell,
the impractical lover
becoming Calypso's hand,
(rather, Penelope's jealous shadow)
the needlessly expensive
collection of 60s records
becoming Phaeacia's precious gift
of a homeward ship.

Is there a greater peace?
to live, in this tower,
an exile,
yet to be
perfectly one
with humanity --