Ceremony
hot snow woman
somewhere it’s christmas, but i’m here doing laundry
we both know how dangerous that can be
my favorite things to wash are sheets and towels
they come out white-hot, bright and steamy clean
and ready to be hung under this unseasonable sun
so sincerely unmeaning for any meaning at all
my simple chore, and not to drop or drip on them
as i un-wring the nubby cotton yoga blanket
disentangling from the rub of its late flood, to spread
and pin it on the line, adjusting ends to dry evenly
folding my prior load, i’ll tell you just what i find
my daily yoga tops, lavender python, yes really
sky blue, white puff, navy with golden stars, poly girly
turquoise-violet mermaid scales and hippie daisies
for yoga shorts, mens bamboo boxer-briefs, all black
emblazoned with italian-style logo, pasti lokal
for underwear, i’m mostly cotton, occasionally lace
synthetic demi-nude or translucent net; pink pastel
or robin’s egg with winking flowers and creamy camisoles
i barely wear a bra; that’s fairly reflected here
two oversized linen shirts, menswear, light blue
pinstripes, for my free-flowing shade, or undyed natural
two oversized soft flannel, menswear, blurry plaid
my cozy-in at night, for when the wind blows colder
their warmth imbued with an intense nostalgia
loose pants of rayon blend, tie-dyed in earthy tones
i buy these from a lady near our favorite resto
sweets for the maskmaker, as village mothers often do
he charms their socks off and gets us lightning deals
i mend them into scarves when seams rag, and re-up yearly
i fold it all, attending to the shape and size, to fit
into created places on the shelf; it doesn’t spill over
we don’t have too much; for every piece there is a tell
the other morning a hornet was sleeping on a pillow
and buzzing slushy, bristle or tickle, firecat feels real
but i’m a snow woman today, or if i’m melting
i’m doing what i do on any other day, heat swelting
i’m touching and holding nothing that isn’t here
and by the nothing that is or isn’t, who or where
being beheld or leaving somewhat damp, unfolded
//
perverse
like my uncle
x Hot Frosty
//
🌒
O sunrisen sand
lit warm on a surfer
for holistic kitchen
on bent-knee receipt
her despite respite
libris libraque
//
Socrates: (cont.) whether my fortune is to be some beast (therion) even more many-twisted (polu + plekein) and inflamed (epituphomai) than Typhon
// 230α
εἴτε τι θηρίον ὂν τυγχάνω Τυφῶνος πολυπλοκώτερον καὶ μᾶλλον ἐπιτεθυμμένον
//
leaves like stars
leaves like stars
for wonder gazers
scrappy chasers
a hot day, here
the emerald belt
for kept begonias
weathering arms
of atmosphere
heart of Antarctica
across the room
blurry
melting
pinkish
patient
//
selamat Natal 🌟
//
black wing
mirabilis volubilis
in shaded speculation
her open eye
her slanted sine
the wilting one
the violeting
the surface matte
the silver bell
oil drawn
from olive well
her shelter, solid
green muscle
//
not sore anymore
well and
//
those two
today we mampir at the house of Pak Mangku
his mother passed, so we bring beras, gula, kopi
in my black linen blouse, my undulant parang
sarung, my sober face, not quite smiling, leaving room
for her; the orchids have bloomed, a white cow has died
to follow, and a sherbet sky breaks chains at sunset
swallowing a lavender storm; all in a day’s wok
sometimes i fantasize about the afterlife
bad habit; my sister and my desister here
and here; but when i see the bulbuls and the tits
the fine-feathered egrets’ flight for patchwork light to graze
in full breeding plume, their eyes intently red
i return to stanzas that rhyme, like those two
memory washes the sawah; my season softer by it
//
//
corvid solstish
i saw a crow, but not a city crow
a forest crow, gagak hutan, Corvus enca
her smooth and perceptive, violet-black
matte iridescence, flew over me, up to the green
ravine; from there she turned her black eyes on me
barely here, it was the longest day of the year
a rain-soaked day; but the sun came out that morning
to show her shadowing rainbow and the waterfall
later, some kind of animal, taking a hot shower
stars thread the clouds like icy pinpricks of rain
legs still sore, reflection cooling skopein
ornithologoi, a poet’s favorite color; yes, tilting
//
here //
Socrates: (cont.) it appears to me really laughable, not yet knowing this, to examine (skopein) alien things (allotria)
// 229ε
γελοῖον δή μοι φαίνεται τοῦτο ἔτι ἀγνοοῦντα τὰ ἀλλότρια σκοπεῖν
//
the white rose
i. lazy lying
O love, and your elliptical necessity
O body, where my hand should or shouldn’t be
O pain, incongruous with poetry
O tease, who didn’t even taste her vegan sushi
and can’t you read your working girl is wired
how thick her lines, how dense the verbal flex
through tissue skin she moves for you like fire
if beggars reach beyond the solar plex
or if you crowny thorn her goldylocks
then she could drag your cross by silken hem
mantic romantic how you palmed her wrist
and when you nearly slid it in, sweet bitter
O yes, no, neither, both, if irony
is logic how she leaves the dead country
she only wants to be with you, for you, baby
and how you need it, and how your penstrokes ask for it
darling prevarication; but your him-hands
give quaking earth, they land so serious
and lazy lying on your big brass bed, and curious
you have her on her back, hand where you said
her wears a ring to be transcendent lay
for texture fascinates her fingertips
down to the valley, where she gives it all away
hits harder when the moon falls on a Saturday
//
ii. the corsage
my pulse is narrowing and turns the sky
around this death, heart over air, to fly
so cradled night, my infant, catching, fell
for contact, striking, stroke indelible
a wrist, a pin, the pale stem of a rose
her point, round by my red hand and my right
her subtle bite of blood at ivory jaw
our trinity of sunbeam into sleep
but here, i kiss the center, mouth for eye
i taste it, as i take contested breath
i turn it, making weighted what was white
i let it fly, and earth will finish the matter
//
iii. air terjun
on this island, there are many waterfalls
come visit; then your tree trunk thighs will tremble
and collapse from the steep trail of descent
we seek her from the bottom, not the top
don’t think about the arduous way back up
the rising hell, and you will ache tomorrow
but the future needs to take care of itself
not like some infernal baby, wailing
our path is not yet ruined by the trash
yet discarded plastic has determined us
our dirty fingernails pry it out and carry
made little masters of unending refuse
shaded by foliage as we approach
the whiteout sound echoes off slippery slopes
of mud-washed stone, grip held by cliffside roots
and every footstep is precarious
place focus, eyes on feet and hands on limb
the green ravine her delving argument
into this living hollow of the land
the cave erasing history of water
to where her falling flight consumes the air
by roiling pool, our temporary here
our momentary test, like ice for legs
the same knees wobble forth to undergo her
into the storm, the fight white vertical
her standing soaking mountain-height of light
defeats the gaze, sheer upright counter-thirst
and roaring riddle; if you reach your arms to touch her
her closer is the punishment of rain
she smacks your skull and plasters down your hair
her current pummeling your blinded form
her action belongs to nobody
but how she caught my breath and draws me near
and how much love precipitous you take
and how her emptying invokes my ghost interior
and how i fail again, her force compelling my return
//
for Faded Love
for his Crush
sheet swatch
tone cool
word trap, well,
i might
be stealing these words
sieve wet grounds
out of the sensual
and then slip
ka-ching
salt
ground deep
loose
and loosened
until lucid,
the lines
resolve
to something
narrower; a band
of orange
appears
in the clouds
i cannot make an object
to explain this,
with more
than sticks; the man
only
has eyes
for his Crush
//
🌑
//
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//
a mystery
to me
isn’t growing
on the wood slat ventillation
of our teak cathedral sanctuary
roundish, brownish, like raw dough
it has been for three months or more
the same size, surface of a dinner roll
the same place, distance from center
tender abstract seamless fungal
too high for me to touch
the holy infant
of poetry
//
pinkish //