Friday, February 21, 2014

KNOTS







choose your badge of the day woman man child straight gay black white polka dots blue eyes brown eyes florals or stripes red blue we all feel the same amazement when we smell a coming storm hold a childs hand or spy the first crocus of the spring and i have had to rethink alot of things from rites of passage to dragonfly wings where is my center what is my core where is the line my line the line we crossed a thousand times that i can't see anymore to rethink my faith well nothing new there black fallen catholic to a love child of eyrie, here on the prairie creating small paper wax music glass worlds - no division no walls
planets of words green or blue east or west paths collide and i'm failing all tests as in each structured belief harbors its opposing twin so one is in the other this game i can't win is it love or addiction the ultimate quest the sacredness of knowing duality of intent duality of desire do this do that stand here think this to end suffering one must end all desire blue or green east or west choose life or death by complacency love or addiction and yet to pose the question signifies the loss of the highest degree the smell of an early autumn night fresh mown grass seeping under my gate and i know where home is and how bright stars shine and where snow takes me and the wonder of a kiss and is it love or addiction does it matter to those who stand outside the fire at whose door does the cosmic debt lay the one who cracks it open or the one who bricks it up the one who ignores the door is the price to be honored by sacrifice or fear whose cavalry rides the righteous road and whose blood is more red the story forms a boundary a line a line crossed a thousand times all the while your will stands guardian upon your wounded heart regret and thought and the space between words on a line know this love is the ultimate badge and only love remains
fight
true
stay
and i have had to rethink many things from rites of passage to dragonfly wings

Thursday, February 20, 2014

The Lake

Pink-golden dusk of late winter
sun skates along the ice of willowed shores
as dusted expectation soars
there is no time here, no year . . I am seven
and wear red mittens
the dome of sky swells into air sharp
haunting, inhabiting the corners of circled souls
prairie, wheat grasses and milo
this  lake sits captured :
Lake Minatare
but I believe it Minotaur . .
this ancient mythological water
enchantment frozen into shores ice lace
forgotten corn & the distant deep note of sugar beets
a glimpse caught of some beaded satyr
out of the corner-pocket of my eye
riding wind-valleys over snow-tufted-grassland
rising
to
Ash Hollow
unexplained - startlingly defined
a pale pair of mannequin legs protrude from the glaciered ice. . .
seductive . .
haunting . . .  wearing red heels
mysterious passage
into
pink-golden
innocence

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

blue of late winter









the sky sings with vapor trails
pulsing against the buried pockets of the Akash Ganga
sounding of brightness & cobalt mystery
bird-wing to particles of stars & dust motes
gathered under this dome of shifting cerulean
morning's haze veils the depth
banishing dark matter beyond our spiral care
falling, colliding, enveloping
listen …
feel …
the pressure of awakening rests
in the wired connection of the reach
wind sweeps out of the west :
warming the rise 

Monday, February 3, 2014

taste


. . . to be honeysuckled velvet
beautiful naked - dressed in whispers & hymns ..
the quick prism of rain-dust upon your tongue
i reek of dreams & corseted wants
longing to feel the cold gray highway upon my back
as you press me to the thistled ledge
falling
cascading
sideways into galaxies & alleyways
quivering shivering
unbreakable
falling
i taste
you in dictionaries, Kipling & old movies . .
ancient iron biting my palate
staining my lips with snow
melted nectar marking a rite of evolution & passage
falling
into
a rising . . ,

Sunday, February 2, 2014

pastiche











i bleed the sweet aroma of a hand-rolled 10 year old cigar ...
smoked alongside
the 70 yr. old delight of the master
of the hidden tuck, 
the trinket lost,
the lifted skirt ...
i inhaled
to the capricious amusement
of 
ghosts
and red velvet elvis paintings
and 
the subtle hand of a god
we are only vaguely familiar with 
draped in turquoise and crimson.
yield
to the demons ...
open - inhale
to honeyed redemption
sweet.
open. 
redemption.