Verses/Curses
on the poet’s indebtedness to Black Thought
a wild hare goes
anywhere — quick
as wind. bears,
as scar, the scripted
mark of trickster; wisdom
of prey. knows never
to set dull footstep
in a question
that is only
a noose.
//
e.g. Black Thought, etc., etc.
telescopic text (avec "?") (8/x)
if doom begins to seem antipathy,
baby, you’re scrolling past the blues. that time
of year thou mayst in our humanity —
but not the Muse — behold, of warty gourds'
cosmic grotesquerie. and there’s the rub.
as long as tongue still holds a gentle fold,
i will elucidate your grim hallucination.
launder and bandage the decaying limb
of sense, of memory, of time. wed heaps
of conscious compost consummate the bloom
in star-swept dimensions of titanium,
where whorls of microplastics never end —
machine poetic, of pumpkins meteoric,
becoming metaphysic — tender beings,
fizzing histories apocalyptic,
chime and rhyme as flutes of pink kombucha.
we sing the tropical-epochal view
at end of universe, or two. until
séance à trois, with chaperone of grackle,
i love the laughing sky — let’s make it crackle.
//
i was thinking about Bob Dylan’s “talkin' world war III blues” (lyrics, recording) from 1963’s “The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan”. the song ends,
Well, now time passed and now it seems
Everybody’s having them dreams
Everybody sees themselves
Walkin’ around with no one else
Half of the people can be part right all of the time
Some of the people can be all right part of the time
But all of the people can’t be all right all of the time
I think Abraham Lincoln said that
“I’ll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours”
I said that
and the last few lines were stuck in my head. or i was puzzling around that turn, the deal of dreams. which it struck me is a fundament of poetry, the deal of dreams, whereas world war III is a war of dreams.
one result of my preoccupation was a trio of dream poems: “wild bird caught in an accidental cage”, “revving vibrators”, and “i saw you dreaming, painted”. then one in hyperverse, “like sifting through guitars”. hyperverse are these compositions built out of hyperlinks to the writing of others. i find it very fulfilling, putting these together, which are basically a postroll edited into a semblance of poetic verse… poetry that opens literal links into other worlds. thanks to Bob, and to everyone else who shares velvety words with the internet. your dreams are amazing. i am moved by you.
related, here’s Bob’s later song about dreams, “a series of dreams”. and here’s Bob’s grouchy response to something adjacent and yet opposite the deal of dreams, the Judas accusation. — “play it fucking loud”.
//
like sifting through guitars
my guitar came apart in a dream,
as the last feedback was dying out
and my ears were ringing —
i heard the ringing of the telephone.
red lights must be exercising their power.
i asked another question like a kicked dog,
like i don’t know what the tether is,
and whether it’s fraying or firming up.
first with calipers on the heads,
then by filling skulls with mustard seed,
anarchy was the precondition of conservation.
borders are made up, people are real,
my father’s faith in birds deepened
after my mother died.
i knew then that we were finally past
the power of miracles.
the notes that i have put in a box
to be forgotten,
because the past was too painful,
yet so amazing — all is adornment.
and someone walked away from me,
it doesn’t matter who.
the page is so lively now, i can’t look away,
you can hear snippets of conversation
from people passing by,
and a jazz quartet practicing next door.
the next day the sun rose at the river,
and the feeling began to drift away.
turning the page again
but devoid of real poetry, today.
like sifting through trash
and telling a story about it.
//
Waalaikumsalam, selamat tilem, peace 🌑
telescopic texts (avec “?”) (7/x)
suppose a parable is just like her —
desired and defiled in equal measure.
his chivalry requires a blushing knight
to guard the word, who is incarnate treasure.
i heard of one such rescuer of women.
who, for his lovely sin, was de-mountained
by crippled foot, and fated never nimbly
to climb again. but faith in constancy
makes deliberate gifts, arms built from hours
spent torquing tongs before roaring earth-core.
therefore, no purity of heart is borne
that lacks an alloy in the sooty forge.
thou shalt not fear the courage of your virgin
is the limping gist of this comparison —
her shining is at once translucent bloom
and armor’s lustre, welded by humble Vulcan.
//
p.s., and yes — to service chthonic Muse,
Hephaestus becomes god of cunnilingus.
i saw you dreaming, painted
in stains of sunrise
this morning, as the light
was lavender, before
the time of day.
your dream was, as you
would later, over breakfast, say
of me, and my sinking
country. but innocence
is how i, whirling
watch you dream. there is
a child, who teaches me
every graying day
( a serpent swallowing
the stick, i am, riding
my camel to Nusantara )
the taste of silver. salty
like tears of joy. bitter like
the finest tea, from misty
mountainous Java, fetching
( volcanic ridge meets light
at crescent — the fugitive
shatters, burning my eyes )
the steepest price.
a rosy shade brews golden.
your dream is denser
than a foreign country.
//
revving vibrators
how shall i welcome
you, into my dream?
like a begging bowl
to catch a metaphor
for only one thing.
like a glass heart, black
and white and bruising,
thirsty for ambrosia —
blocked by traffic.
under siege,
fleeing the tsunami.
waiting for rainbows,
parched grass bristling
with gasoline.
demanding miracles,
absent the wonder. numb
to their own tragedy.
so dreadfully the dawn
summons Iris
to quaking Trojans.
//
wild bird caught in an accidental cage
the tongue that dreamed
a frantic flute, that dreamed
a silent, silver bird.
my fluttering dream
would welcome you, if only
i could hold it still.
clap, so i can hear.
peck, so i can feel.
sing, so i can know.
fly, so i am real.
feathers or ashes
of dreams, after
the eruption.
tyranosaurus rex
in dreams, hunting
my calculated shadow.
a dream that paranoia
wears a mask, a dream
of making friends.
if making flying friends
were catching dreams, and we
could end in feather pillows.
the dream of never
waking up again,
wordlessly dying.
it was a dream
of being caught, inside
a dream of flying.
the dream that nobody
could see, but me,
impending doom.
the home that was
a dream went blind,
lost its front door.
dreams of being
alone, of singing
alone, dreams of
dreaming alone, dreams
of losing dreams.
infractions against,
invasions of dreams.
the dream of infiltration
into enemy dreams, the scream
of sleeper cells.
the pirates' signal never
came, as dream-boat
boarded, and lost dreams.
it was a dream of skin.
your breath was dusty
odors of incense.
the shadow of a longing
of a dream, believing
its beloved real.
make yourself, hate
yourself, to dream
a self to steal.
be yourself, for
yourself, intones
the oldest dream.
the dream that anything
is new, the dream
of bones, or boundaries.
the dream of tangled
passages, too late, on roller
skates, for failed classes.
the dreams of ancestry,
a mother-tongue, essential
tribes or dying gods.
a dream of brooding
heat, the barren
dream of sun.
of long-lost love, a dream
of driving faster, over
edges, metric destiny.
i dreamed a giant, quaking
my pigeon heart, in shock
trembling terribly.
it cannot move, breast-
pressed for dreaming, cannot
turn around.
no territory, why the blade,
and how? the clapping thunderous
winged suffering, of dreams.
where is the dream,
anywhere, anything?
where does it end.
the war we won
a dream, the games
we played. the ones
we sung, the war
we lost —
//
telescopic texts (avec "?") (6/x)
we used to call you man of twists and turns,
the dynamo — reckless, drowning, sea-rendered
until perennial blue, the one i knew
well enough to know, i loved nobody.
his thirst, prostrated, clutched me from below,
desperate to conceal from winged word
a history of suffering. a babe
buried his need in bosom of my nature,
drunk on the deep milk of disappearance.
his subterfuge despair was mythical,
until he made her fiction. he may not
remember me. but i keep by my heart
a wavy lock of sunset-auburn hair.
//
the big girl
on the way out
of your fiction, she
burns many bridges.
the sight of her
like melting glass
will stain your eyes.
designing traces
surrendering to cracks
she shimmers, like a mirage.
sends smoke signals
narrates a letter. puts an X
on your fantasy map.
driving a corkscrew
through your heart,
she taps the wine.
she passes time.
leaving as mercy —
her bare sillage
inundates the emptiness.
she loves to go
and will not be forgotten.
//
a twist on this.
among cats
we live between
a princessy queen,
a queenly tyrant,
and a foolish prince.
(Lalah, Jeki, Ismail.)
the purpose of cats
maybe, is to be
explicit and accessible
tropes of royalty.
(no kings.)
it is said, that cats
are the grandparents
of big cats.
and have
mysteriously chosen
a golden collar.
what i know is
a cat will love you
forever.
snuggle you
relentlessly,
every night.
and betray you,
for play — or if
they feel a little
neurotic.
i guess, cats teach
the fatal pleasure
of whimsical servitude.
//
l'essence d'Hermès
you think
it’s too much,
it isn’t.
two serpents meet
in a momentary
helix, around their
mutual cœur.
ils baisent —
he flies,
bearing
a message.
//
disciplines against despair // sweeping
no way. no, never, will you ever clear
each speck of dirt. sweep from the deepmost nook,
work toward the door. perfect the brooming shear.
work with, where possible, the wind. don’t look
at what you didn’t get. let be, grimy
invisible. sweep apophatically.
with care, share only with comrade dustpan
her mighty load, then dump it in the can.
enjoy the heaping sum of refuse, check
the weightless substance of the dingy scruff.
appreciate — that banished pile of dreck!
but even now, how floats the flaky fluff…
how, catching air, it drifts away — don’t look!
and, knowing not what has been tossed, or what
remains, respect the barren act. the dust
is all. submit it, and be done. dander
is for nobody. or at least, not you —
a sweeper calls the nameless, residue.
//
(a series, maybe)
gospel of crickets
new fiefdoms are forming.
comes the gnawing saw,
gospel of crickets.
authors of books
are finding nooks.
the map is bending.
curving, like body
being, of course, a place —
the terroir of carrots, roasting
with garlic, chilli and cumin.
longing, we remember
touch and savor, from when
our land was whole, and full.
but our landscape is broken.
parsed before it lived, engendered
as stark disability.
glass fragments are swept
heaped, and scattered, opposite
the old neighborhood.
hillsides sizzle, lost in smoke.
the multitude glitters —
bodies, on fire.
with gas, the lord is cooking
at his stainless steel reflecting pool.
he extols these terraced acres
as civil emptiness,
slate, aluminum, and hollow.
static, it echoes.
not like the night,
contrary and brimming
with her buggy heat.
a holy thicket is dying,
nested — the host of silver light,
drawing foolish creatures.
grievers in the dark,
crowers in the autumn,
langurs in the mist.
sutra sisters
weaving webs,
an insubstantial orb.
the lord is not a fool;
he makes the rule.
nevertheless, the ruler will
in muggy hedges, be herb-
tested. Dasein is to suffer
the sound of little kin.
//
telescopic texts (avec "?") (5/x)
can we remember together, after all
or does my voice harden the picture frame?
by being body, do i gather you
intolerably, or spread you thin as kin,
one stroking throb of summer esoteric —
you tickle me with feather of a peacock.
a gazer’s gloomy imagery is perfume
of incense, arousal at great distances,
long-smouldering and lit by tender match.
far from the proximity of virgins
there burn the verbs of love, arrayed
as galaxy of irretrievability —
before my eyes, you took and held my hand.
//
wa’alaikumsalam + selamat purnama 🌕
Aphrodite's verb for a meme-lord
don’t be gender-strung
brother, grinding in a corner
sexless repetitions.
go limp a little.
let be won a little.
let the sun a little soften
your margarine edges.
the men i know
resemble a differently-
tipped tree than you.
my men are fundamentals, lost
in parched landscapes, empty
of water, warmth, and mercy,
from where, i teach them love.
lusty giants bristle-trunked
and planet-stranded, are nipple-
slit and magma-branded
by fully-armored Mars.
but cold palms trembling
twiddle the ephemeral course
with your recurrent inkling.
you, pocketed by four-
fingered mercenaries, twenty-
four, seven, re-puppet the gifted goose.
smoke the flat potion.
blowhard the hollow motion.
worship the literal juice.
shout, as if spilled clout
were potency, your wee-
throated catharsis.
strong-arm, for and from
the haptic trill,
a lover’s pity.
you, lordly and viral, left your
deflated blubber on
the public bedside table,
honey— your woodless worms
exhausted into empty domain
of static, remorseless maw.
and tender pussycat,
she swat. then low-key, she
your factum, deposited
into her rainy-day, furry-frosted
milkmaid, snappy the snatch-
game crocodile account.
//
Æ.5 (butane lighter)
are you ungovernable,
and getting hot — like me? we’ll be
tempestuous, together.
ours, of cosmic squabs,
result in smoke-stained sheets
and purple bruises. of Mars,
don’t worry, baby
your revolver is magnetic.
let’s go collapse.
//
not a monkey, but
it’s true that books
can take you anywhere.
hunger roots you
firmly in a body.
reading, i become
voices in the dark.
poetry is
a voice, self-
lightening.
witness to ways
waves move, as their own
mostly hidden seasons.
everything independently
becomes a turning
Inferno.
we are sloshing buckets,
pitchers pouring
into rivers, subterranean.
all of it true,
at once.
Hanuman is only
a secret patron
of poets.
//
telescopic texts (avec “?”) (4/x)
this spotless glass is not the book of Adam.
the trinity you stole cuts like a knife.
to be uncrumpled is to be un-uncled —
un-uncled, i become the poet’s wife.
i am unhidden woman of the garden,
body un-ridden by the dust-bound word.
the queen of poet’s tongue, i lounge and lean
as music on my salivary throne.
the syllable you speak, my roundness is
her shapely immanence. our rectitude
is life of tree of life. so eat me, fallen
father of mankind, and know your foolishness.
speak again, brother, madly, as husband.
my honeyed bone un-spells your make-believe
kafir — he sees his wife sans négligee
who tastes the ripened fruit with naked eye.
(says ordinary woman made explicit,
who steals your spectacle to save your life.)
//
Sweetie and Frankie
she’s His new girl,
when Grace is busy
intensely mothering.
Sweetie is the chaos maker—
always (oopsie) closer than
she needs to be, to cocks
who are not Frankie.
it’s always
me, me, me
with Sweetie.
she needs to eat
out of your hand, until
she makes a war
of you, of Frankie.
she runs
to you. Frankie
sees only
immortal flames of rage.
yes! yes—
yes.
i see you,
Sweetie.
//