Saturday, May 23, 2009

C G Poem 73

fairy tales finish
crept-checked brought
unable alice

Friday, May 22, 2009

computer generated magnetic poetry poem 71

zigzag were ye

exclamation sighed near
writing turns

Thursday, May 14, 2009

computer generated magnetic poetry poem 67

twinkled trials
slippery moon
possibly lose lady

Friday, April 3, 2009

5 Tibetans and a Woman

In those after yoga moments, I would want to write about those hands for days.
And those other parts, piece by piece.
Reduce you to a sum after I turn me down to simmer.

All of them?
could you possibly
say about my
you’d ask.
(so much)

In those after-yoga moments; the ones I am forgoing now in place of newer moments involving real touch and not pseudo-feeling, you are finally here –
well in there, while I am here, because you cannot expect me to write you with accuracy if you watch –
and suddenly you are here. The fans have told me it is time to prepare. In two swirls, I hear the water and with it, the door. Hall on. Haul off.
Those toes, without pit (pat) meet the floor in creaks from old bones or old wood and you want to sleep (it is late) and I want to write (it is late) and this right here is the root of our fundamental difference.

Lay still
and I will paint you
in fine ink
with fine letters on

In those after-yoga moments [I am the mourning] when I lay heavy and breathing
(belly, belly, belly)
corpselike but warm and still breathing
(chest - no, BELLY, BELLY)
I think about nothing – the gravity of the situation, the sweat beginning to form but frozen in that moment after conception and pre-birth; the water has broken but still no baby – and in nothing I think about her [the knight]
a satellite (two buttons & hello) away working, drinking, being (doing) and me just breathing
(belly. belly.)
against the music.

You say
you’d prefer
if I did it
with ball-point
bank pen (blue)
on a napkin.
You are practical.
I am internally

In those after-yoga moments, I give my self for parchment. I write in red ink between vain lines,
calling out to Greek gods as Christ has abandoned me to the sin (say some)
Hark! Calliope, Erato, Polyhymnia, Euterpe!
calling out to the earth as the Greeks have abandoned me to the folklore
Exalt! Sun, Moon, Fox, Rabbit!
calling out to me in my temple as nature has burned me
meditations on an ohm to channel Kundalini

And I say those words blaspheme
Helios, eros, Persephone, Artemis
These, my new friends,
Tree, Water, Fire, Ground.
You need more,
I say.
You are confused.
(it is late)
In the dimples
of your lower back
where I put my thumbs,
  my tongue,
where your skin gathers
and separates and allows
a superficial union of
our bodies, albeit small,
discreet and undervalued
next to those other places,
those substantial places
where two become just
the one by means of
divine multiplication,
a small bead of sweat grows
product of the sweat
I pour into you
and I catch a glimpse of us
reflected therein.

I taste the blue arteries (veins??)
  bud by bud
as neon borealis against the pink
the pink against the translucent white
I taste the hairs
   I taste the pores
      I taste the cells
         I taste the silence-
and where there used to be silence,
the breathing- the in and out
of life, mine and yours-
and where the vocal chords
used to be open, bypassed in breath,
their vibrations.
            I taste the decibels
I feel them in my bones
my digits, my limbs, my core
I feel them in your bones,
your muscles, your organs, your glands.

In the dimples
of your cheeks
that appear and disappear
where I put my lips,
  my own dimples,
where the heat radiates
from within
this fire combination of
my body and yours
originating from those other places
those substantial places
where you come together and
I come alive in the movement,
there begins some type of ending
that coats each nerve in wax
  and pins
to isolate and test,
throwing out the bad ones
and reinforcing the good.


A placenta misplaced
in the mag-glass oven of an anthill
slinks and globs
like the girl in class
                      with the small mustache
              and horrid accent.
I watch the speedy angle
at which her shoulders clamor from her hair
till she becomes the hill
broiling her own placenta within
moving now both inside and out
like amoebas
                       or flan

Blue (revised from Sept)

it was conceived inside
of spare whatnots and parts
near the joints

escaped from beneath
tooth-carved nail beds,
tobacco-like in texture
vine-like in form
provocative like
the itch of ivy
or seduction

the blue is creeping
from the tips
and spreading
up the fingers
up your arms
like i should be