Ceremony
oligen orgen skips through the giant step
horses into Potidaea
as orders taken, given. your hands
across my escalating
surface. unrolling
her
slight
resistance. as
i grow dependent on the flow
and pressure. here, faint
ridges. your soft uneven. catch,
drag,
time,
deposit. yours
until lazy again. until we depart,
until we let loose
the battle. they had
been born into Potidaea.
//
slight
until we depart
until we let loose
the battle
they had been born
into Potidaea
(her) this very moment they were (surfeit)
by this(her) those having learned it(her)
// 153β
Ὀλίγον
ἐγεγόνει
ἐν τῇ Ποτειδαίᾳ
ἣν ἄρτι ἦσαν οἱ
τῇδε πεπυσμένοι
serious ontology
is fan service. you who are about
to read, please understand. he will be born
the dirtiest ever poem — a thrusting savior
delivering so many ins and outs.
our she-body-battle is hare to meet Rocky.
his being a-lie-high-hive — abs flashing
in gold lamé underwear — running
mascara like horses. out-of-bounds
kissing, destination sen-
sa-si
//
O Socrates —
which i was —
as he says
how do you thrust into —
were you saved from out of the battle?
// 153β
//
camp army camp
wild rabbit habit gone wild
and Chaerephon
being just such a maniac —
you leap up — leaping — jumping — springing forth
out from the center of a lute, vibrato —
out from your tightrope string —
out from her thorny mean —
both (of you) in the (briarpatch) habit —
and he is shining —
and he runs toward me, like a hare —
and of me —
as my most inexhaustible lover —
he takes hold — of
my hand —
// 153β
Χαιρεφῶν δέ
ἅτε καὶ μανικὸς ὤν
ἀναπηδήσας
ἐκ μέσων
ἔθει πρός με
καί μου
λαβόμενος τῆς χειρός
//
shall we
go
down
to the oracle
again
black milk glass
i look down at the body
to see what shape its in.
earth-born son, turquoise slap
of my mother against the golden-
bangled mother. i let them come.
my dark tongues flickering, my heads
Cancerian fire. every tip would touch you.
the shoulders of a bull, eyelashes lower
over tender pools obsidian. im a cow.
a ticket to the fight. my velvet
suit. warm press of skin.
i drink, i let it come.
dragging behind its un-
translatable blade.
//
Socrates: (in Charmides, cont.)
and in that same spot
i (they) take hold altogether of many
those (on the one hand) unknown by me
those (on the other hand) the most thoroughly-known
// 153α
animal event (at the school of Taureos)
into the animal event
i have been dragged and well
indeed
every year the same, i guess, except
this time
its me
and like the bull, whos horn, whos unbroken
rage
your hand anointed
when they seize the bodied, lashed and harnessed
nerve by muscle to
the craters edge
as trampled roses bruised into the pass
will grind in
to mud by mountain makers hooves
in magenta-black menstrual blood
my terror
my appetite
//
Socrates: (in Charmides, cont.)
and well indeed into the wrestling-
school of Taureos (where bulls are offerings)
straight down from the temple
of the Queen (of whom nothing is known)
// 153α
καὶ δὴ καὶ εἰς τὴν Ταυρέου παλαίστραν
τὴν καταντικρὺ τοῦ τῆς Βασίλης ἱεροῦ εἰσῆλθον
news of orchids
Phaedrus:
isn’t it overgrowingly (huper-phuos)
(in) other things
and also by the names (honomasin)
joined (together) (eresthai)
οὐχ ὑπερφυῶς
τά τε ἄλλα
καὶ τοῖς ὀνόμασιν εἰρῆσθαι
//
yesterday, in the kitchen, our friend whos out
from prison, was sharing gossip about a junior
being caught and being sent to aranjep
over kampung coffee and orchid media.
and no, they never tell me how it works.
the violet news arrives always from inside
the shackled parallel, the humbled inflorescence.
recirculating sources its own mystery.
war-salvaged rumors from the streets are white
like mouses ears that dream into my peers.
we build them nests from all our mixed-up hair.
the silver blacks the blonde. the ashen thatch.
the trees trail overgrowingly through tails
and tubers until, tangled up, the bearded roots.
to found us here. among inmates and outlaws
and songs, as clove tobacco blanketed our evening.
did you know, they blow the breath of dust
until a fungus makes the faerie home?
a thinking blink is how they move from there
to here, a mayfly mask, the wake to name a wink.
the jungle knows no law, leastly, my wooden sanity.
and when reports an owling bloom, my nervous cell —
i dont believe in walls, i saw you on the battlefield, and
i dont believe youre dead, how could you trust me.
so we have come to be present, by the previous
of evening, out of Potidaea, from the army.
and as having arrived, through time, gladly
i go. and two-thirds of the words are backwards slang.
//
Socrates:
we have come to be present (hekomen)
by the previous of evening
out of Potidaea from the army-ground (stratopedon)
and as having arrived through time
gladly
i go
upon the together-dwelling (sunethes)
rubbed-throughs (diatribas)
ἥκομεν τῇ προτεραίᾳ ἑσπέρας ἐκ Ποτειδαίας ἀπὸ τοῦ στρατοπέδου
οἷον δὲ διὰ χρόνου ἀφιγμένος
ἁσμένως
ᾖα
ἐπὶ τὰς συνήθεις διατριβάς
//
🌒
underneath a circle
the face of the moon
sheds her shimmering veils
until the night sky
goes quiet again
to give the charm or bite the leaf
a river coursing swift or deep
through horn or through ivory
at around noon
grey eyes toward the ground
in swastikasana underneath
a circle of blue
(from a prison cell)
//
Phaedrus:
how (ti) does it shine (phainetai)
by you
O Socrates
the logos?
τί σοι φαίνεται
ὦ Σώκρατες
ὁ λόγος
//
🌑
commandment
the clay was in your hand. life turned
onto the skin. a fountain was desire.
i dipped my fingers in, day after day
to taste this young and yearning body.
you didnt have to tell me even once
until my garden was creased and crinkled.
as later fell, we were unfolding it all
together. the sweet milk of a whisper.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
(love) (ask) (erota)
// 234ξ
ἐρώτα
burlesque empire
to cross the Rubicon, where left meets right,
we found a body. being unrecognized,
we hold it side-by-side her photograph.
the printed animal in black and white
was captive to the scene: how Bettie used
the furniture, her pose and what it meant
to her, her legs and what they wore for us.
stilettos pointed out the stars. surely
they were not hours in bondage to a fault.
the leather business never skins enough,
as keys to pleasure play the vault betrayed,
and suits around her salivate like wolves.
the burlesque empire folds itself around the twain:
a missing woman tangled in the pin-up queen.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but if
(on the other hand)
you still long for (potheein)
anything
leading (the way) and holding (it) (hegoumenos)
to have been left aside (para-lepein)
// 234ξ
εἰ δ᾽ ἔτι τι σὺ ποθεῖς
ἡγούμενος παραλελεῖφθαι
finish fingertrap
finger
finger
finger
finger
thumb
finger
finger
finger
finger
thumb
finger
finger
finger
finger
thumb
Rachmaninov
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
i
(one the one hand)
really
enough (ikana)
by me
practice (nomizo)
the (things) having been spoken (eiremena)
// 234ξ
ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν ἱκανά μοι νομίζω τὰ εἰρημένα
axios
my monsoon, in decline, lets run again. the cocks
roll thunder. high on this island, cloud-blind, some soft
grey ankle socks deliver me. wherever
cast ironies become a blanket feast. the cold,
like snow, but i belong to it. and where i sit,
i am not alone. i am the least
interesting thing about me. morning is a word
upon blue lips. change comes from a beast behind
the oracle. meaning takes a midnight train
to hear the tightropes hum. like details falling down
a face, like curtains swaying in a drift. if
i fail, then i forget. and being neither of these.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but there must be (dei)
not even one (medemian)
harm (blaben)
from itself
and help (opheleia)
born (gignesthai)
by both (amphoin)
// 234ξ
δεῖ δὲ
βλάβην μὲν ἀπ᾽ αὐτοῦ μηδεμίαν
ὠφελίαν δὲ ἀμφοῖν γίγνεσθαι
//
no post again tomorrow
for routine medical & traffic.
enjoy infrastructure. x
🌘
tasty vs stinky
if the (un)father(ing) flew
a pulpy, creamy poem
to feather they were not
a man, what then would
i eat for dessert?
being care-
ful of the spikes —
and mind-
ful of the blast radius —
a durian
released by my small hands,
to share between my friends.
frozen, blended custard; topped
with darkness (chocolate) crackling.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
nor
for you wishing (boulomai)
to be unnoticed (lanthanein) by others
(is it) similarly (homoios)
powerful (dunatos)
// 234ξ
οὔτε σοὶ βουλομένῳ τοὺς ἄλλους λανθάνειν ὁμοίως δυνατόν
//
feet
and her funny expression
the way is borne between
two virgin sisters:
a line for little kings,
a line for little beggars.
if the way feels very long,
sometimes the truth
is this: turn yourself
around to see her face.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for neither
for the taker (lambanein)
(is) the balance (axios)
of equal grace (charitos ises)
// 234ξ
οὔτε γὰρ τῷ λαμβάνοντι χάριτος ἴσης ἄξιον
myth of a hermit crab
when, among strewn stones, the roar, sea-rubbled
coral, drubbed-featureless bones, by the vast
intelligence of salt-lung-water, currents, swells
and cycles of one planet to another
precious, semi-circle moon
when, of intertidal spine or ladder, a rambler up
and down the baking sand, the beach, which burns
my feet, the purge of undertows, the surging rips
and sneaker waves
behind, above, on wind a hunting wing
when, a shadow moving in, to halt
the camera, home, returns me to my knees
knuckled, imprints of gravel on red skin
engraved by seashell shards, held-back, worked-in
to kneeling, as if eons, there, to wait
for when, if ever, the sun can
be still enough to catch
the nestled-in extend
a tentative feeler, a tiny
bristled limb
when those barely let
light breathe or gills retreat
between the lens and
a shuttered eye-
stem
the how-less
greet
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but the loving (one)
would not urge (keleuein) you
toward all the loving (ones)
to hold (echein) this thinking-through (dianoia)
// 234β
οὐδ᾽ ἂν τὸν ἐρῶντα
πρὸς ἅπαντάς σε κελεύειν τοὺς ἐρῶντας
ταύτην ἔχειν τὴν διάνοιαν
//
🌗
rude wisdom
true story, when i was nine or ten
my father, at the time, sat me down
as fathers do, to read Plato’s Apology.
there had been a situation at school.
it was a public school and i was new.
it had to do with bullying and needing
to choose a side. well i guess a child
encounters force beside deliberation.
after i finished reading, he asked me
what Socrates would do. it was not
really a question. and i was no fool.
i said, but papa, i am not Socrates.
this morning, i woke up from a dream
about an oil spill. well the sign put forth.
it grew like coltsfoot in the broken step
where id removed an unbelonging one.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
well i guess (oimai)
// 234β
ἐγὼ μὲν οἶμαι
//
the daddys issue
some days like i become your magazine
some days like i become your loaded gun
these days it makes no difference which (oil spill)
yes i read your letter yesterday and all
the days before, your hollow men, your dump
truck spat into my bed, and im not sure
it got there but i wrote you on the third
to say, how dare you write me when you never
learn to read a single fucking word
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
whether id recommend (para-aineein
for you
to gratify
all
the not-loving (ones) (me erosi)
// 234β
εἰ ἅπασίν σοι παραινῶ τοῖς μὴ ἐρῶσι χαρίζεσθαι
//
oil spill
on genealogy
for when you’re here, have this of me. as time
lets go of us, a song escapes the circlet in
a stranger coming home; eventuality.
under covers of moonlight, the folding pages
yellowed in memory, a gnawing book-
worm spins the orphanage; mulberry leaves.
some shadows at a funeral see less,
and lesson me, nightmare and burnt-off limb.
to hold a hand in grace; fatherlessness.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
equally (isos)
if you would really ask (eroio)
me
// 234β
ἴσως
ἂν οὖν ἔροιό με