Anemone

Here where the steady waves white, seizing by their inches shoreline sands,

unfinished at the death of grief--go on, break again the singing sounds in the

fire & all. I touched fingers with the great green Anemone & she closed. & I

opened.

A poem is not a doctor. & I am not a priest.

I watched a sycamore swaying past the fence in another yard. She was shucking

oysters by the cherry tree, shedding symbols in the fashion of tears for all

the seeds she would not see them grow.

When she had been pickled, she grabbed me by the waist & pulled me into her

confidence (I made no promises) that a play on words had saved her skin.

"Did it though?" I asked her. She groped the past by a little tit.

I passed away again.

& "While I was among the exiles by the river I saw visions of God"

Eagles roosted top the tusk.The wind advanced electric. Beats a beating chest.

A rose still in the west. I waited for my planet to reveal herself.

I lost sight of you in the badlands & now I wander. I weep for the winds & the dusts on the winds in my eyes. I weep a lonesome joy for Earth or some planet like it.

I switch off my headlamps & through a film of road dust gathered on the window of the bumboat, it catches--this breath made small & stupid. Up & short within withins within the beaming black. I take with offerings of smoked tobacco to foot at the rock end of nothing. The air is still. A distant lapping of oceans calm & great with hush. Light & water & air & earth, evacuated of time--a long draped spectacle, a solemn dipping glass, the center of a galaxy bathing into the Pacific, falling naked over exquisite pools of planetary axle, exclaimed in nightly pleasure, the place through which every creature must pass at the moment of dying.

Surrender is the mother of.

Light & darkness is the father in.

Father is not called.

Mother is not named.

All directions spell return.

Ob-literate baby,

shred o'er yor root

in keep acquaintance thin

wil't thou overthrow a desert?

a great exchange occurs.

as bombast expanse,

the took of tables,

& got of goat

of

all    last

      falls

&

evers

"Who are you?"

I love you most

a never resting arrest the rest I rest

I love you most.

Outerspace--because it's always been.

She was the only person in the car.

I'm almost certain.

Her legs were straight.

Under her wings, she had human hands.

She did not turn as she drove.

April 12

Suffering from a bout of metaxia.

Dearest Diotima,

Plato is a fool! if he will not wrap you wet up like beneath a body above. I’d rather go blind. Baybe babe. I-I, ah-m-I-Imo- Imo tell you anyway: which fruit of divine? Sullen. Streeted. Treed. What to do with a windowbreathe? C(u)(al)m? Wouldn’t lick a lifted leg (rooftops tell otherwise’us) what of thig[] deliberdone (candy) stuck, suck-onned? [h] – [ow long alingers slid it to the almost uh].  (Fawnd) of [pepper]-(meant) (then) (be-rob’d a) weary lip.

Experimence made me hat-hater of him solids anyhow (tonguey). Just Soc(k)s, (rats). Whe’d e(e) half wear’em eh? Pretender me! Like I coulda bricked the moon (course I do).

Sincerely,

Sincerely,

Sincere.

P.s. Metaxy – “the in-between,” “the middle”: of poverty & possession. Eros, says He, displaces what divinity lie between (ergone: there is everything that can stand in that holy way). Don’t cock up, say the ancient pail. So let’s talk about the trooth, I say. Cards, He says, they tell you tales. Diotima, you have said nothing to date, (olive), [fig]. Poor poor pauvre (op)posies! Sunsets in our eyes again.

April 11

What lunacy! 

find  am lost. attempt to steer the undertree toward Venus. Wooden hollow blasting into outer atmosphere, shall save the spaceman swings in the vines, hollering, hollering. 

never did a dark day once and if so was only for the joys of dragonflies, abuzzaburr swift constellation creek. It’s in the false smile sinking. 

question: does will against the gut flower epifinities? Well the starfields in the astronaught park scintillate the medicinal falling of fungal patter, the rain when sky is clear, a thousand shredding atmosphere meteors made expressionist days for night. 

willed to live in splaying mares. Forgot to suffer, or, forgot to feel the pangs and so suffered blind. 

Lunacy!

April 10

A lot of times,

“see the stars.”

April 9

Beating up a pillow

A lot of times

April 8

A poem means

Beating up a pillow

April 7

A lot of times

A poem means