Sunday, September 30, 2012

Nobody's house—the depth of pastures. Swirls

After Cézanne's 'Mont Sainte-Victoire'
Nobody's house—the depth of pastures. Swirls
of water vapor, planes and shapes of trees
reflected by the bayou. She has canals
that move her blood, she has the lakes and bays

of deltas in her. I see the geometries
of her breasts and thighs, I can barely describe
her with different colors. There is a depth
to how the mountain is painted, a depth to her

that I can sense beyond words. She's a victory
of light over the land, she uses forms
to rule man's eyes. The depth of a blue triangle

has punctuated the spectacle, I can hear her
moving in this air. Her warm-pink flesh
has been divided into different rooms.

Octagonal off-blacks, empty pyramids

After Rothko Chapel
Octagonal off-blacks, empty pyramids
and eyes that don't gaze. Rays of purple suns
and nonreflective moons, about the shrine
the heavens move. The darkness isn't black,

but red or blue, the diamond stars are splayed
across the ecliptic. Waxing moons are letters
spelling the names of god, the colors worship
in the darkness. Eight sides pray the spirit

into the real, the light is made to realize
forms of love. The way the bench reflects
a natural white, the way her eyes were wet

with sighs. I meditate on the nothing
within, the power of the understanding
that's apprehended in this sacred place.

The halo of a Sundial—does the gnomon

After Rossetti's 'Beata Beatrix'

The halo of a Sundial—does the gnomon
know the red dove? Somehow time is blessed
with words and names, or names may turn in time
to things revealed. The light that paints the world

is like the spirit that is painting language
from her lips. Her beautiful and soft hair
glows golden, she has been my guide through hell
when no poet can do. I thought I desired

death and disorientation in her, I thought
she would end me. The sudden transformation
in reds and yellows, the litheness of her neck

and how she led to clarity. Beatrice
dissolved in the ideal, I wandered paradise
symbolized by a transfigured memory.

The way he renders light at dawn reveals

After Monet's 'Wheatstacks (End of Summer)'

The way he renders light at dawn reveals
the skill that he possesses. Red and greens
disclose her forms, the complements express
a magic that is manifest. The light

informs the world, distinguishes the things
from one another. I can hold the air
within my lungs and sing with it, I can
move arms and legs through light. I hear the clouds

close over her, turn her white light to pink,
then orange, purple, maroon. Shadows stretch
out like her moans, the blue of bruise extends

across the floor from the window. She is lit
as if she were inert, I cannot fashion
an artifact that does justice to this.

There's Sunlight on the path. I see the light

After Pissarro's 'Climbing Path L'Hermitage, Pontoise'

There's Sunlight on the path. I see the light
collect in pools, I cannot differentiate
between the leaves and shadows. Once the sky
seems ever near, sometimes I wonder if I

am not moving through it always. The blues
extend into my nose and mouth, the flattened
surface of the earth, the quick-white bark
of trees illumined. There are a couple buildings

in the distance, when the light recedes
toward the horizon it gets dull. I can't
make sense of all these colors without reason

or rhyme to give them pattern. How the eye
makes images! How she continues to dazzle
the artist with configurations of form!

Lovers still obscured—not pigments nor oils

After Magritte's 'The Lovers'

Lovers still obscured—not pigments nor oils
could disclose them. I think of the mystery
beyond the beloved, of what images
contain that is beyond sense. See them joined

together in a kiss, see that the veils
refuse to reveal their names. I can make
out the shape a bit when a darker shade
blends in around her cheek. I've been so kept

from love by veils and clouds, I cannot think
of what it's like to see her. When she tilts
her face and neck into the light, her sleeves

move over arms, the blue-grey of her eyes
gives me her love. The veils that separate
the subject and the object are illusions.

Are they lips or clouds? Are those small clouds

After Man Ray's 'Observatory Time: The Lovers'

Are they lips or clouds? Are those small clouds
the features of a warm front? Both her back
and the earth have valleys, I start to trace
the lines of her waist with pigment. The sky

is a large mouth, I wait for her to speak
above my game, for her articulations
to stir me here. See how the silhouetted
horizon is obscured! See how her face

is turned away! I see the curving lines
of her legs, the lines of bishops, of pawns,
of queens and kings. If only there were color

in her skin and eyes! If from those lips
a tongue emerged that began to bathe the world
in love! Or is this not a possibility?

Saturday, September 29, 2012

Pink and white and yellow flowers breathing

After Sisley's 'Foggy Morning Voisins'

Pink and white and yellow flowers breathing
before dawn, the golden light of Venus
in the east. A woman is moving quietly
underneath the oak, the world is created

by broad strokes of color. The fog is hanging
in the air without form, she is moving
on the sphere like clouds move. A fine mist
envelops her body as the Sun's thin rays

spread in the sky. She spreads her words out from
her lips, the names are greys and greens and blues
in gestures. I can hear her fingers move

around their stems, I smell the dew of plants
and breathe the humid air. O spirit of love
melt as the fog she breathes does in the day!

The church sat underneath the swirling blue

After Van Gogh's 'The Church at Auvers'

The church sat underneath the swirling blue
and resonant sky. The roof and the flowers sang
in pentatonic scales, the yellow flowers
had five petals. I could hear the ringing bells

and bees move in the air, the Sunlight moves
on the paths like the people. Window arches
open into architectures, the choirs
emanate a ritual. I am in love with her

and the nostalgia for a prayer. Remember
when she sang the aria? Lo! she appears
like rays of a star, her voice is of a mode

beyond this text. The pink flow of Sunshine
pierces the stained-glass window, I am in love
with the ascending melody that she sings.

You who demolish me, you whom I love

After Godward's 'A Pompeian Bath'

You who demolish me, you whom I love
in the bath. On the white marble, water falls
and makes a sound, I'm hushed by your soft curves
and hypnotized by tapestries. The horses

run around the dome, odd geometries
create illusions. Her dark eyes are closed
and she looks down, her hips are holding red
blood that has a language. Her blushing hair

invites me to her pyramids, the animals
desire her like me. Look how the Sun
draws toward it flowers, how the iris opens

to the spectacle of sky! Her sensual figure
heaves of porcelain, her soft, pale arms
disclose her side and illuminate the room.

Look how her body curves gently across

After Fuseli's 'The Nightmare'

Look how her body curves gently across
the bed! The white of her exposed neckline,
the way the nightmare sits. I put my feet
on the thin fabric that is stretched across

her belly. In her mouth I am wandering
like a spoken dream, her sleepy rounded thigh
is barely veiled. In the dark I hide, I rein
my will in pursuit of her. She is open

in her posture, above her sex and center
of gravity I put my weight. She dreams
of something, silence of night has disclosed

her to me in an image. Now I can sense
her warm breath, her sleepy movement and
haunt the unconscious she is imagining.

Symbols, letters, graphemes, images

After Magritte's 'La trahison des images'

Symbols, letters, graphemes, images
and representations, confused aesthetics,
supposed avant-gardes. The treachery
and vanity of programmatic modernity

makes nonsense of a calligram. The pipe
is not a pipe, a word is not a word,
a symbol isn't what it symbolizes
and no map's adequate. Just like my god,

my girl has no word, her body has no name
nor form, she changes. When I call her one
phoneme she wiggles out, she is not what

I thought she was before. Can a poem hold
her as I'd like to? This is not my beloved,
it's just a representation, is it not?

I thought I heard her music from the ocean

After Waterhouse's 'The Siren'

I thought I heard her music from the ocean
that I was wandering. Was she a light
that rose before dawn? Was she even real
or had I imagined her? I wondered left

and right, had lost the astrolabe that made
some sense of heaven. O her hair and harp
became my lighthouse! Her arm was a soft cloud
and white as pearl, the siren's fingers caressed

my ears with tones. Lost in the broad illusion
of the world, lost in the movement of love
disorienting me—my lit beloved saves me!

She sings me home, her eyes are the taut ropes
that pull me in, when my dim ship is lost
her spirit is what ends my suffering.

Love discloses knowledge. When I see

Love discloses knowledge. When I see
someone in love I am seeing their knowing
of the world. O all that moves is love!
O all my breath and thought is but consumed

by love's sweet music! Love itself has whirled
about the globe and spun its constellations
through my body. I'm feeling the vortices
of suns and moons, my body has a knowledge

in its heart of love. This music is singing
about a separation, about the measures
that can't be reconciled. Love shows herself

in lights and limits, in the watery clouds
that are mirrored by bayous. O sure love
disorients me in this infinite dream!

The soft rain of the morning paints a line

The soft rain of the morning paints a line
around the house in mud. I am awake
with dawn, she lazes in a lingerie
of light and cloud. I have observed the drops

of water on the leaves, her curving breasts
when she articulates words. On my fingers
are the colors of the sky, the brown trees
populate the horizon. The water collects

in pools and ponds, the birds are shuttering
in the branches. I can hear her quickly gasp
for breath when I put my hands on her and look

beyond her eyes. The thin, ethereal fog
dissolves as the Sun rises and I can taste
the pink and tan values of her bare thigh.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

I see my shadow. I look up at the wheel

I see my shadow. I look up at the wheel
of stars revolving about me, I try to name
the images I see or put a few frames
on representations. These ideas I steal

from heaven, I can hear the sound of steel
wind chimes resound. O art is but a game
between all men! I'm mystified by the flame
that licks the air and the marvelous skill

with which she moves me. Is she an angel
showing the way? I fall into a deep
trance beyond sleep. I hear an awful devil

turns the wheel, requires hearts to beat
in separate rhythms. I pronounce the vowels
of her name, close my eyes and move my feet.

With each quick breath her breast waxes and wanes

With each quick breath her breast waxes and wanes
just like the Moon, my feet wander the shells
in the dull dusk. I imagine the blood in her veins

and the muscles on her bones. Is that the scale
of Libra on the ecliptic? A black widow
built a nest in the woods, the soft white veil

kept her a mystery. I could hear the cows
from a half mile away begin to disclose
themselves through their song. The tall cypress shadow

confused the knees and roots, I'm starting to lose
the Moon in the leaves. Her two lungs can't contain
these words for love, she is my simple purpose

and object in the world. The Sunlight stains
the undulating clouds as her soft belly wanes.

The fan is on, the wobbling light fixture

The fan is on, the wobbling light fixture
makes noise with its chain. Venus is appearing

before dawn in the east above the pasture
filled with cows. I think I'm hearing the weather

change and shuffling veils—just the allure
of her is unbelievable. I pondering magic

to win her, rhetoric that might help conjure
the beloved. I look up at the fixed stars

and feel my motion, I am lost to the lure
of her soft body, words and thoughts. I come

to the next canal, I see the circling vultures
announce death. The morning star disappears

but wanders unseen in the demure sky.

There's three notes in the song that the birds sing

After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 39'

There's three notes in the song that the birds sing
most often here. I hear them moving above me
in the trees, I hear the worms that they bring
back to their nests. The Sun seems like an eye
that sees me, without its light I could not live
nor would I be at all. I am seeing one
or two leaves fall, I see how the mud gives
when you step on it. I'm feeling less alone
with your breath on me. I search myths to prove
a prophesy of weather or listen to the leaves
that move and make a guess. I am in love
with sound, none of the rhetoric deceives
me anymore. I am seeing through the curtain
her white body move and entranced I remain.

Love is the astrolabe of mysteries

Love is the astrolabe of mysteries
revolving here and there. Love is the guide
that leads through darkness, love is the one light
that orients me. Love is how I know

where east and west are, love is how I measure
movement in the world. There is no art
without love, there is no resplendent god
nor any meaning without love. I can't see

the limits of bodies without the light
that is love, I have no sure sense of self
without love joining me. There is no power

without a maddening love, I navigate
the world with its aid, I traverse the seas
and read the sky to know love's mysteries.

I'm watching as the low stratus clouds ride

After Wyatt's 'Sonnet 22'

I'm watching as the low stratus clouds ride
the wind and bring rain. As the turning day
is met with light, the birds begin to say
their names. The growing tree is what provides
a space for nests, the Moon moves ocean tides
into the marsh. The clouds get dark and may
expend themselves above us, I am always
seeing their changing colors. The clouds deny
the earth its Sun, their veils obscure the bride
from bridegroom. Like a carpet, the leaves lay
on the soft ground and the young squirrels are playing
with the acorns. I see her curving sides
and blushing lips. None of these words explain
her mystery—I'll never know for certain.

I sit beneath the Sun, the moving shade

I sit beneath the Sun, the moving shade
makes me a gnomon tracking the degree
of inclination. Like a plant I am made
to cast a shadow, like the stretching tree
I extend in the world. The water oak
is unidentified, the cows nurse calves
beside canals. The sky above is streaked
with cirrus clouds and a lone falling leaf
spins to the ground. From a single acorn
this canopy rises, the small white flowers
dance in the spring air. I was not born
to move and speak, but born to simply lower
my self before her. I am the seed within
the soil before the growth can begin.

I'm stumbling down the street and music floods

I'm stumbling down the street and music floods
out the door of this place. The thick brown mud
moves in the grooves of tires, the street jazz
bounces on the old walls and the buildings have
a language. There is a melody moving through
the gulf air, I am wandering in the New

Orleans heat. The night that the Moon was new
she read my palms and cards, the air was flooded
with smells. I moved intoxicated through
the streets and all I could smell was the mud
from the wide river. The big live oak trees have
expansive branches, she moves like a free jazz

through uptown with her running. I hear jazz
in the words of the street vendors, in the new
street car's rattling sound. The river has
its banks but breaks them, I can hear the flood
of rhythm moving outward. I'm moving like muddy
water over the sidewalk, I'm moving through

the Quarter in the morning. The light comes through
the ornamental wrought iron, the modal jazz
of overlapping conversation. There's a dark mud
in the Marigny when it rains, the paint is new
on a few houses. I remember when the flood
rolled through Mid City, where the city has

a lower floor. The Carrolton trees all have
these lazy branches that have grown out through
the power lines. I had a dream about a flood
of water bursting the levee, the awful jazz
of water in the grey carpet. I never knew
the mystery of the music, the way the mud

is used in rituals. The houses press in the mud
and move with the water table, the streets have
this dangerous quality. I'm looking at a new
image of her, the way she is moving through
the air and dancing. I'm in love with the jazz
of her shoulders and the way that her hair floods

her swelling breast. This jazz is a moving flood
like New Orleans, a music parading through
the thick brown mud that no other city has.

Her necklace is made of beads of blue glass

Her necklace is made of beads of blue glass
and the grass is green. The moisture that floods
over the land from the gulf falls on the peas

and the tomatoes. I have the changing mood
of moons, my phase is shifting and it has
a dynamism. See how the beads must depend

upon her neck? See how they move with her laugh
and change their color? I move my toes in mud
after the storm, I am examining the tough

branches that have fallen. She is the food
that satiates me, now I am seeing through
the veils of clouds and clothes. The objects tend

toward effulgent light, I am the river
bursting at its seams threatening to flood.

She moves through the room like a quick dream

She moves through the room like a quick dream
and I hear the floor's virtue. Her soft body
inhales the air and the scriptural lines

of her breast rise and fall. The broad library
of her being sings around me and between
the branches of the trees. I feel the dry

weather of the autumn, her eyes are wine
and body bread. The way she moves the candy
in her mouth and eats it, the mix of iron

in her blood. My vision is getting blurry,
I wipe my eyes. I want her to be mine
among the air. I wonder about the vanity

of the Sun or the sovereignty of love,
I wonder if this is only a quick dream.

The afternoon reflected off the fur

The afternoon reflected off the fur
of animals. The pasture has a prosody
of its own, the lazy bayou's contour

frames the light. I'm reminded of her body
near the window, of the sweet and sour
taste of her skin. Mysterious ecstasies

wander in the grass and I see the quick
bugs go from stem to stem. The sky has washed
its color over the world, celestial music

rains from the round clouds. She had to blush
when I spoke her name and the bold lipstick
was everywhere. I saw her body in a flash

of light from a god, a word about the clouds
explaining something and remembered her fur.

At dawn the sky unfolds, I start to read

At dawn the sky unfolds, I start to read
her in the leaves and breeze. The trees recite
a prayer and the soft clouds are making loud,

round vowels in the air. Her breath is writing
scripture in the light and the dozing heads
of flowers shimmer with dew. I am excited

by the light as if my legs were the stems
of blossoms. O look how the trees just sit
and hear the Sun! Look how she holds the reins

and bounces on the animal! Her legs are lit
by pinks and yellows. How the soil listens
to the rain, how she opens the wet slit

of mouth to speak! The heavens turn the page
revealing more of her text I've yet to read.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

It's orange in the morning. The bugs bite

It's orange in the morning. The bugs bite
my feet and calves. The clouds move in a line
over the horizon, I open the book's spine
and reveal the binding. She is but a finite

representation of a god, I perform a rite,
recite a prayer and grow up like a vine
on the brown fence. Is it her blood or wine
that fills my body? I breathe into the white

of her skin and the luminous waxing Moon
appears. I form a cup out of both of my hands
to receive light, I taste the salt of skin

and smell her living. The cicada will soon
resound in the maple, swell its chorus and
exist among the world without a sin.

I'd wandered around the field across from the school

I'd wandered around the field across from the school
a couple times with her. The porous pages I start
to read in the dusk, the Sun rays are departing
on the dull horizon. I put my foot in a pool

of water near the tree line, she's submerged too
in leagues of moisture. I feel the beating heart
of stars in the new evening, maybe it's the hurt
of history that is fluctuating. Are those balloons

or clouds in the shadows? She lines her eyes with black
and reveals her breast, I see the lights that lead
the Moon in its orbit. The sky is a broad slate

of black, she loosens the binds giving some slack
around my wrists. I can hear the crush of the dead
leaves under my feet and I wonder if it's too late.

There is no brilliance enough to contain you

There is no brilliance enough to contain you,
there is no script describing your motion,
no tragedy that's expressing your sovereignty.
There is no language adequate, there is no

phoneme from a hypnagogic state that
could map this out. I'm shuffling through the leaves
and bugs, the sounds of living things become
a music orchestrated by no one. O beloved!

There in the indefinite expanse of the heart
a dream communicates something, a revision
of a nonsense text. I know that I am loving

in the sighs of wind, I know that I am knowing
nothing. There is no brilliance to apprehend
you, though the immutable thirst won't go away.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

I'm hearing the strange music the Sun plays

I'm hearing the strange music the Sun plays
between the leaves of the trees, it is noon
and the bugs are seething. I need to have her soon
or I will suffer madness. I need to lay

with her under the wheel. We are but clay
tethered to earth, we are but sensitive moons
orbiting something greater. I lose the spoon
that holds the watery syrup, I can't delay

in my swift thrust for her. I move my tongue
to say her name, I move my hands over the smooth
limitation of her body. I am speaking the hues

that disclose her shoulders, I'm moving both
my eyes about her forms. She is the unique
orchestra of day, time's obscurant clothing.

She poised herself, wearing the quiet power

She poised herself, wearing the quiet power
of mountains. I observe the illustrated queen
in narratives that are conjured by the drunken
poets in the heat. I have descended lower

than before, I am the resplendent knower
dissolved in love. Her belly is the golden
pasture where I rest, where the trees ripen
in the afternoon and thunderstorms flower

in the atmosphere. I get the impression
that love is fleeting, the Sunrise that I hear
in the brief east is slow. Is she illusion?

Is she real? The ambiguity of the years
and vagaries of calendars confuse the station
of prophets. She is the power that I wear.

I watch the dazzling lights that trace a figure

I watch the dazzling lights that trace a figure
on the zodiac, the lights begin to produce
a sustained illusion. The images seduce
the disciplined man, her form is just so rare

that I can't comprehend it. She's obscured
by language and the names that I use reduce
her to static maps. The water is inducing
growth in grasses, the delta has endured

many a storm. I seem to remember a woman
wandering the cypress floor, I am tempted
to possess her now. I hear the mumbling shaman

on the porch, the sky is lit by the abrupt
lightning in the distance. The Moon wanes
above the courteous sod where she has slept.

Very slowly the Sunlight begins to paint

Very slowly the Sunlight begins to paint
her arms and shoulders, she is seeming to weigh
her thoughts like clouds. She gives the room a sigh
and I am lost in desire, I see the saints

that stand still by the churches. What's the point
of loving and of living? See how her thigh
is revealed by the raiment's contour, the high
and arching sky is assuming an ochre tint

and she is nude before me. I feel the color
of every object in white light, violets and blues
adorn the horizon. She stands within the door

and is outlined the way the planets pursue
the Sun. How is it my mouth has yet to savor
her body and to finally assess its value?

Over the improvised street, the balcony leans

Over the improvised street, the balcony leans
and the air mingles with oaks. Colorful food
is strewn on the leaves, she moves like a jazz
in the humid air and the way her thin blue jeans

are stretched amuses me. What do words mean?
What is this feeling I have? I'm as confused as
the drunks that wake on Frenchmen. I am bound
by no law, hear the nonsense of New Orleans

bounce off the road. I am dazzled by the harsh
sound of the horns, she said it didn't matter
how I smelled. The men had burned the marsh

and settled here, I gave her the round quarter
I found on the pavement. The church in this parish
resounds with prayer and moves with the water.

The wandering lust of planets, indistinct pleasure

The wandering lust of planets, indistinct pleasure
of luminaries in geometries. The light exposed
her body clearly, the posture that I choose
to exchange with her is love. The whirling nature

of Mercury and Venus, the spiraling structure
of the solar system, the way the Moon opposes
the Sun and overflows. She takes the posture
of moss on branches, she is the lewd treasure

of the desert. I am wandering the mystical
libraries, I'm tracing the pyramidal and exotic
surface of her breast. See how the horizontal

ocean is unmoved? The gnomon is standing stoic
in every weather. She moves without her veil
through meter and through measured rhetoric.

Compare her rounded body to the sphere

Compare her rounded body to the sphere
my mouth makes with a vowel. It's the actual
words that are realized, her languid and sensual
motion articulates love. Apprehend the austere

nature of the iris, the flowers are growing where
the water pools. She is taking the usual
words and manipulating them, we have a mutual
bond in this music. The way flowers revere

the Sun and clouds, the weather is the garment
of the heavens. In her I want to bury
my self and cease all of the pathetic movement

I've been obscured by. Hear the trumpets flourish!
Hear her lungs express spirit! She's the instrument
of order in the world despite her luxury.

As if I had no mind, I flailed my wild

As if I had no mind, I flailed my wild
and reckless arms about. The moving ground
seemed still beneath me, I stared at the blank
expanse of sky above. Is she my fate

or something else? I'm thinking of the final
words she spoke, under my hands the soft
and supple thighs. I see the threads of webs
that spiders make in the grass, I'm moving over

the earth in postures. I am observing three
birds fly from tree to tree, a single crow
sits on the fence. I want to have the pure

and true love of her as mine, I want to be of
heaven and not earth. I am feeling the hot
and revolving Sun express its intensity.

You're a fantastic rhetoric! You're the young

You're a fantastic rhetoric! You're the young
and bright star in the morning. I'm beginning
to know your course, I see you stretch the leggings
over your feet and ankles. The pictures hung

on the walls are of women's forms, she had flung
her clothing on the floor. The ridiculous virgin
exposed herself in the sky, I see the origin
of the galaxy in Sagittarius. Virgil had sung

of Dido, Petrarca of Laura, and Dante diagrammed
the spheres illustriously, yet still I search
for her without a clue. I'm feeling the lure

in every object, in my lust and in the program
of modernity. The water's surface matches
the light revealing its contour and purity.

In the early morning, I hear the loud

In the early morning, I hear the loud
sound of the squirrel landing its tiny body
in the grass. A couple leaves are burgundy
in the late summer trees, the wandering clouds

populate the sky. There's a drip on the bud
of the iris behind the garage, I am as moody
as the Moon. I would like to imagine the steady
water oak being immortal, I stand as proud

as a tree on the soft earth. She is a dream
I had that I can't hold, she is a puzzle
that I can't settle, I am hearing the sound

of her soft breathing. The body that I am
is inadequate, I udder mysterious riddles
and know she is the beloved I will not find.

I searched among the mud for the straight way

I searched among the mud for the straight way
and found it not, I couldn't trust the faculties
whatever god endowed me with. The prosody
of trees and birds hung like a rosary

on the neck of the world, the morning air was dry
and the clouds were pink. I have begun a study
of the undulations of her, I am not worried
about her limits. I've understood intuitively

the turning of the earth, light moves diffusely
through the atmosphere. I'm unable to deny
the warmth of the Sun, the passion of the sky

that paints a spectacle. Singing birds fly
from tree to tree, the pasture remains foggy
and in the dawn's remembrance I pray.

Among the wild, ungoverned heads of state

Among the wild, ungoverned heads of state
a passion reigns. The earth covers the stone
and grass covers the earth; as I've imagined,
dew moistens the ground. She begins to write

her being across the sky, the infinite
mystery of her disorients me. I'm alone
in the world without a course, her soft neckline
is white like the horizon. In the late

evening, I know my love for her is true
because of the mosquitoes. I am ruled
by these irrational designs, the Sun glares

above the trees and blinds the awful rogue
that's hidden. I rein the will in such a style
that deludes men and has been known before.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Make me not but love! Make me no one

Make me not but love! Make me no one
within your canals! Make love of my mouth
and nose and sense! Make nonsense of me now
and never, make scents out of nonsense. O love

absolve me! Love, deliberately remove
the veils from your soft body, reveal all
of your splendor and beauty. Make me not but
the hearer of your music everywhere,

in every name and sound. O make me not
but man! O make me not but body nor
make me but soul! Amuse me without thought

in the one song that is the Universe
in motion. Turn the song and make me not
but love articulated by your being.

Somewhere within this dream I'm smelling more

Somewhere within this dream I'm smelling more
of her in the ripe flowers, I smell in them
the infinite. Remembering love is everywhere

dazzles me endlessly, I see the mature
leaves of the maple fall. The weather's problem
with the trees goes unresolved and the more

I wonder about it the more I am unsure
of my self. It seems the branches grow at random
in the daylight, I'm found daydreaming here

and there of her. She has the sure allure
of riddles and koans, I'm seeing her stems
break the surface of the water. I want her more

than words, I want her like the thirsty fire
screams for heaven. The night is a broad harem
of stars, the moans of a woman from somewhere

in the distance echo. She is the penitent cure
for my ill, the salve to solve my system
patiently. Yet now I am wondering more
if this is but a dream happening nowhere.

The clouds are moving in a quiet Sunrise

The clouds are moving in a quiet Sunrise
above the pasture. The red coloring is
the bend of her rays, the night has unclosed

its eye. I wonder how the eye might use
the water as a mirror, I wonder how this
word creates this world. Once she had rose

out of the bed, I wondered if the wise
and tired poets lied. O how I miss
the presence of her, to be up so close

to her skin I could taste it! O pure muse
obscure me like the Moon in an eclipse
devours Sun! Make me to where the rise

of planets is my song! Fill nobody's house
with love and utter the words of a kiss
until the beloved is realized. I close

my eyes before the mountain, its immense
weight is obvious. The suspended bliss
of clouds move up, I remember the Sunrise
and take a deep breath with my eyes closed.

I'm listening to the frogs begin to sing

I'm listening to the frogs begin to sing
beneath the water oak, the coming fall
brings in dry air. I think I hear something

from underneath the leaves, a wandering bug
in the still night. Imagine just how pale
her skin is in the Moon, the lilting songs

she sings in love. I meditate on a rug
and prostrate myself, I pay the bondsman bail
to release me. I am but a mere thing

that wanders this hell, for what do I long?
The lotus stands, the fish are using gills
to breathe under the water. When she sings

I forget selves, like I've removed the tag
of me from my body. From within my cell
she kisses me, she is the glorious nothing

that sustains me! O hear the many frogs
from the low pond! Her love I hope to steal
with a measured posture! O how the bird's song
reminds me of nothing and everything!

Sunday, September 9, 2012

It's that feeling when you aren't quite asleep

It's that feeling when you aren't quite asleep
but consciousness is altered so that the light

suggests a form. Moving toward her I had bumped
my knee on something in the dark, the eights

were sideways on the wrong clock. I felt her hip
under my hand like an instrument that is played

by spirit. It began to rain in through the top
of the window in the car and she was kissing

me under my clothes. Within celestial groupings
I define scripts, I'm singing the phonemes of dreams

in a broad blue ocean unnavigable by ship
nor map. The signs and the symbols of dreams

are graphemes on the dome around my sleeping.

Love moving in absurd abstractions of form

Love moving in absurd abstractions of form,
love symmetric and incommensurate as it extends

about the canal. The river oak moves its arm
into the weather and the blue birds are playing

songs in the air. It's as if the music confirms
all of the mystery I have known is sacred

but also ridiculous. I find her words have charmed
my being so thoroughly, influenced me so that I

have no other object. She responds with a firm
and measured gesture, the pressure is dropping

and the clouds hang a low-grey with a coming storm
resounding somewhere. Love that is imagining

the infinite without itself in abstract forms.

How the sure silence of night is revealing all

How the sure silence of night is revealing all
the stars! Watch as the golden planets begin

to reveal themselves at dusk, observe the real
and epicyclic motion of Mars and Venus

as they retrograde. In some schools, they call
those planets personal. The dusk separates

the day from the night, the Sun is the tonal
center for a raga revolving. I'm hearing melodies

from east and west, the fixed sound of the wall
makes echoes of the birds. The open spaces!

How much can fly ideas! I've known the trials
of love and grown from it, the same sentimental

love that moves the Sun and the other stars.

The first man who wrangled the sound within his cries

The first man who wrangled the sound within his cries
into a syllabic verse is quite like the cowboy
that reins a bronco. I am now rewriting the verse
of the rishis and rivers, ladybugs and dragonflies,

the lizards that eat mosquitoes. A broad zeitgeist
wanders about me, is this warbling context
giving a meaning to sounds. I remember listening
to her quiet purrs, imagining that she's a cat

that sleeps in the window. How can I describe the sky
with words? How can I sing about her beautiful
weeping and moaning and do it justice? We can't

contain the infinite! Look at how the songs are
bursting at their boundaries, see how the vowels
express their consonants and make sense of love.

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning
my breathing is different. I am remembering

the dreams I wandered through and I'm imagining
worlds beyond this one. I'm hearing the music

of spheres and planets, the resplendent tuning
of stars and lovers and I am celebrating

the presence of the beloved. She's reclining
on the sofa in a yellow light that is

hanging in the air. The Sun is mentioning
her body with its rays, I'm starting to know

how love and faith converse. The reasoning
of trees and grasses engenders surrender

to the color the Sun brings with morning.

I'm thinking of the patterns of the verse

I'm thinking of the patterns of the verse
from Bengal, of the turning Ramprasad

and qualitative Sanskrit. The lights course
about my being like the movements of

intervals in a music. Language I parse
reveals her formal body, I'm seeing grammars

veil her arms and legs. Are words a curse
on our plain being? Is this language what

engenders suffering? The stars are sparse
because of city light, turn out the lamp

of your own corner. There is nothing worse
than breathing air without you, than breathing

under sky without your glorious verse.

I'm thinking with my intellect I am unable

I'm thinking with my intellect I am unable
to know as well as the heart. The Moon's a cup

to the Sun's prolific light, the earth wobbles
in its eccentric orbit and turns like the verse

of Faiz in an other language. She has a noble
and virtuous disposition, she smells of lilacs

and roses, of rhymes and meter. Among the rumble
of ruined houses and prior forms I'm whispering

perennial mysteries. She is the immeasurable
essence that understands words, the ineffable

nothing that discloses me. I'm becoming humble
in her irrational light, the madness of moving

has made me incapable of all but love.

The reflective surface of the water moved

The reflective surface of the water moved
the colors of the sky in waves. The music

of the cows reverberated, my beloved
was held separate from me, as separate as

the night from day. The simple stars dissolved
as the rich Sun rose bringing the day across

grasses and valleys. My lover's words are curved
with vowels and allusions, she's the illusion

that sustains me, the object I've observed
in this brief dream. I see spectacular skies

give color to the trees, the ideals conceived
in sūtra and in psalm realized. I find

the self I've lost in water quietly moved.

Her voice is low when the Sun starts to come

Her voice is low when the Sun starts to come
up in the east. I am thumbing through the books
scattered across the floor, the kerosine flame
flickers in the humid darkness. I'm reading a song
from the leaves of the trees, I'm slowly becoming
an uttered monosyllable. I see the leather
that covers her body, the muscle-car's fumes
and I hear the pistons turning. The way the horse
moves its legs and generously jumps has become
the way I hear her music. I'm hearing the intervals
in a specific modality, she's reciting a poem
from the North African desert and moving her hips
to the music of guitars. I am loving her who
breathes the air and is present, I begin to come
into the light of day, the warm Sun is rising
through blankets of clouds. Riverbanks give echo
to the rhythm of her language, to her lilting song
and give it resonance. I just do not know
the motion of her cycles or which of the pitches
she seats herself upon, but I hear the bayou
water flowing, the sounds of the frogs and crickets
in the trees. O love there is nothing but you
in this world of light and liquid, there is nothing
sweeter than your fruit! The vine-ripe tomatoes
turn a deep red from their young green, and I
wonder if there is anything to know but you?

She ebbs like the white waning Moon in the branches

She ebbs like the white waning Moon in the branches
of a tall tree. The clouds are obscuring the face
of a patient satellite, she moves in a curved path
through the skies and signs. The elliptical motion

of Venus is curious, I see the motion of calves
as they divide the flowing water. I'm disoriented
by benefic planets. Her stomach is rising like
the tide in the gulf, her breath fills out the bay

of her chest. When air comes out it's shaped into
a song by her mouth, her fine and subtle self
impresses me like songs do. I have expressed

my diverse feeling in the ever-changing phases
of her light, the weeks and the months that make
years, and in the branches of the white waning Moon.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

As she walks in the room, the movement of her thighs

As she walks in the room, the movement of her thighs
is met by the air I am vibrating with my tongue

in a wordless song. Before her I am a laugh
or a cry without sense, I am bound to her because

of synastries and alchemies. She is the rough
and disciplined judge I surrender to without recourse

to prayer nor fantasy. My self pierces through
the soft folds of her body, divides her flesh

and exercises muscle. I'm moving my weight
as an undulating music in her startling body

and she's speaking nonsense. There's never enough
of her to receive me, I no longer have a thought

when I find myself between her moving thighs.

I traced the darkened volume under her breast

I traced the darkened volume under her breast
with my thin finger. I counted out the measure

of the song on her body, I've become the artist
that breathes out love. I'm knowing the intimate

parts of her posture, the ideals that persist
in her behavior. I want her textured sex

moving above me. The way the old books thirst
for readers, the light thirsts for objects to illumine

and us to witness. I am falling in my trust
of her into a void, I am meeting a nothing

inside her. Without thought, I finally thrust
my self deep within her. She's curving her back

and lifting toward the ceiling her ripe breast.

Moving her breath out of lungs, she fills the space

Moving her breath out of lungs, she fills the space
with the sound of arias. I'm becoming enlightened

by her melody, I'm even forgetting the decadence
that reigns in modernity. O my love annihilates

selves, and rewards the lover with an abundance
of quiescence. I find that I am as inspired

by her warm voice, by the ways her body danced
in front of me as by anything. I am moving

toward her through the word, I've become seduced
by the object of love. I put my lips up to

her neck and kiss her collar, kiss her face
and eyes. O love you are the beautiful fragrance

that is the ruler and authority of this place!

I see the water that's moving around her ten

I see the water that's moving around her ten
expressive fingers, receiving them like the Moon

receives the Sun. I suppose the planets listen
to each other, I'm devising a dynamic calendar

and observatory where what luminaries have written
is read by the architecture. She's a simple prayer

I utter without words, the mantra that enlightened
the Buddha and disclosed the extending pasture

in the early morning. I am wanting to often
hold her like a cup holds water, to hold her

like the earth holds oceans, I'm wanting to tighten
my fingers around her thighs, express my love

on her nude skin that can never be forgotten.

I recite a string of syllables that express

I recite a string of syllables that express
a subtle feeling, a nothing that is moving

through my veins as blood. She is the wilderness
that I wander irrationally, the obscure territory

that I can't navigate. The sky is cloudless
above me, the blue stretches from one horizon

to an other. These words are only my guess
at her nature, I see the flowers that she wets

with dew in the morning. She is the poetess
that teaches the world, the doctrine that is blessing

the grass and nurturing it. O hear the madness
that illumines my heart! I'm singing a love

that is infinite and impossible to express.

I'm watching the light that covers her, looking at her

I'm watching the light that covers her, looking at her
legs, the backs of her knees, her toes and ankles

in the morning light. I want to paint the bather
in the foggy morning bayou, to envelop her

loving being in colors. The water moves higher
as afternoon advances, see the blankets that cover

her breasts and hips. I imagine myself as calligrapher
of her movement in scripts, I observe the dancing

of her muscle under veils. I will love her whether
it's rational or not, whether the verse is in meter

or some other brief pattern. I would much rather
be in her, have her be the resplendent light

that is defining me than move without her.

I repeat her name a few times just to remember

I repeat her name a few times just to remember
the texture of it, I'm seeing her soft blonde hair

wander the breeze. The sky becomes colored amber
with the approach of autumn, she is the warm clothing

that covers my skin. I gaze into the burning embers
of the fire and meditate on the voluptuous forms

she moves about the world in, the dazzling number
of names that she has, the ways she presents herself

and makes her presence known. The trees stand sober
in their love of her, their leaves begin trembling

with the coming weather. I'm hearing the timbre
of birdsong in the water oak and watching the color

of the heavens change in ways that I remember.

I want to be moving spirit, articulate stories

I want to be moving spirit, articulate stories
that move on her lips and are the songs of flowers,

the leaves of trees and smell of mud. Her geometry
mystifies me continually, I'm wandering a ubiquity

of confused and intoxicated words, and if I try
to free myself from it I'm only dazzled more

by brilliance. The way her arms move is artistry
of divine nature, it's the mandala I contemplate

under the water oak. She moves my dreams in sultry
veils and a secret choreography, her orchestra

perplexes rational beings. I want to be poetry
she speaks and a song that she smells, I want to be

the whirling verse she is telling as a story.

I'm hearing the rain move the way that a lover

I'm hearing the rain move the way that a lover
moves her breath over bare skin. It's the weather

that is a music over me, I am the mover
of spirit, translator of traveling water

above canals and pastures. The birds move over
the mirrored sky in the water, the cows sitting

under the trees are quiet. We forget the other
within ourselves, the awful and evil residing

within the Kingdom we are. Remember the giver
of oceans and squalls, the giver of broad blue sky

and the girl moving in waves, remember the fever
she moves through bodies. I am hearing above

and about my self a moist and beautiful lover.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

A poem for every day and every moment

A poem for every day and every moment,
a poem for every god and every world
that revolves around a star. A poem for time
and limits, a poem for measures and sciences,

a poem for a virtuous girl. I utter the poems
the trees inspire of me, it's like I don't
even write at all, I don't make any choices
of words nor thoughts. She is the sovereign of

my self, the ruler of my slow becoming
in the Universe. I move my mouth and hands
the ways she wants me to, my attitudes

and postures are her spirit manifest
about the real. A poem in every language
used and every name that I remember.

To watch your body make language of the air

To watch your body make language of the air
in the sure sublimity of Sunrise over the thick
and foggy Louisiana morning. You're revealed
to me in the songs of frogs, in the ways my body

grows and moves when it hears you. I prostrate
myself on the curves of your sphere, the curves of your
revolving planet in a dance. I am eating
the breeze that holds your fragrance, peeling petals

from roses in the morning. You're the object
I've realized through my poetry, the resplendent idea
I've muttered on my tongue for centuries

and wandered the four corners for. These signs
move in the heavens and begin to articulate
your mysteries like a script engenders words.

I love to apprehend you in the world

I love to apprehend you in the world
that moves around me as the changing weather
and turning day. I love to hold you like
the sky holds the light of the Sun, to hold you like

the earth holds oceans and rivers. I comprehend
you in the valleys between the mountains, in
the words I use and breaths I take. Your breast
is heaving in the evening, and I can taste

the salt of your skin. I love to hold you like
the night holds the Moon, it's you that I perceive
in things. I want to hold you like the clouds

hold water, or the chimes hold simple music
that the wind plays. I love to apprehend
you in the violent motion that we make.

I had a hand under her hair and on her shoulder

I had a hand under her hair and on her shoulder
when I entered her like a house. Living bone
supported both our bodies, I am bewildered
by the love we're in, it seems that I have gone
beyond the bounds of me. Look at the long curve
of her back before me, the nape of her white neck,
the sweat on her round breast. I feel I am starved
for her wet love, I greet the small of her back
with the tips of my fingers. Within her rooms I turn
and find her treasures, I am captured by her form
and her form holds my body within her. I'm born
into a love of her body, an appetite for her love
in every moment. Tell the stretching dawn to send
her over me like the Sunlight covers the land.

She stands up and she looks over her shoulder

She stands up and she looks over her shoulder
toward the dawn. The grass is as high as her knees
and feels the back of calves, it seems her shoulders

are writing out a script across the tall trees
with diacritical marks. I take her sinuous neck
into my hand, make music behind her knees

and with her thighs. I don't know if she expects
to see her god in the Sun that rises, the bones
that inform her body. Between the twisting necks

of oaks and maples is the Moon: white as bone
and nude before me. I am revealing her shoulder
in the art I realize, in the mysterious tones

of voice she inspires of me. O serpentine lover!
move your lips on me like a dance of shoulders.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Lover, the deer is wandering the pasture

Lover, the deer is wandering the pasture
and angels are on my ear. I'm learning that arrows
pierce the hearts of those like us, the lovers
ennobled with ludicrous task. Observe the nothing

in acting, observe the ethics of a stone
or tree, observe the evil inherent in man
and god alike. Lover, among the many blows
and trials of becoming is a final, absolute

loss of self in the beloved. Now the deer
lies in the shadows of water oaks, an egret flies
over the mirrored, grey water. Lover, the air

knows us and more, to be like the light clouds
and wander above the land! O love the time
is cruel but all my movement is for you.

Again, it was this weird and wandering narrative

Again, it was this weird and wandering narrative
with Dante as the furious chariot of Sun
was drawing a new spectacle. Her language moves
the world, it realizes birds and trees

again, again and again. Look at the beloved
hidden in every name, read all the sentences
and complete thoughts. Sometimes I think a fiction
is like a house for the gazing reader's eye

and it moves through the space. You're this story that
there's no exegesis of, I'm trying to find
adequate translations but there aren't any.

Forget dim lamps, above me the whirling stars
and luminaries are weaving a textured love
without the limits of these words nor thought.

Monday, September 3, 2012

Lover, I need you on me like the night

Lover, I need you on me like the night
is on the sphere. I need your muscle around
my growing body, need your choreography
of hips and shoulders undulating. The tides

move in and out of the bayous and canals
in a deliberate manner. Lover, I need you
on me like the air that is on the world
and circulating in weather. Put your lips

around the words I am, you articulate
my spirit with your dense sexuality.
I want the white of belly in my hands

as if I held the light of stars, I'm tasting
the infinite in her softened folds. A nocturne
fades as she leaves her lingerie on the floor.

Then she took me by the eye, she quickly took

After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 47'

Then she took me by the eye, she quickly took
me for what I was: a wildly obfuscating other
that's disagreeable. We stood and we looked
into the dull horizon, the onions are smothered
in the roux of an ornery, obnoxious feast.
I'm thinking about the blood that moves in my heart
and through my lungs, I'm thinking about the guest
of air inside my being. These words are parts
of sentences and phrases, poems that I love
and remember eternally. I am no longer me
but beyond selves, I am the love that moves
the Universe, I'm the tall and patient tree
that greets the Sun; all that is within our sight
is a brief dream that we realize in the light.

Words are misunderstood, all the maps that are

After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 13'

Words are misunderstood, all the maps that are
drawn out are faulty. I am moving alive
and through the world's mind, see the sky prepare
itself for day. I open my arms up to give
the atmosphere an architecture, to lease
my body as an instrument that we hear
to a far greater being. My heart has ceased
to beat, the veins can no longer seem to bear
the pressure of their passion. Music decays
in individualistic modernism, I fight to hold
the place of the austere, to grace the day
with forms as beautiful as her. I face the cold
and critical wind, at least in meter I know
I am understood. Or at least I think so?

Sunday, September 2, 2012

I looked into her eyes. The jealous storm

I looked into her eyes. The jealous storm
whistled outside the window, an obsession
with the clouds and her. Just look at how the Moon
revolves about the earth, how oceans lust
for her white cup. I start to feel I'm crazy
in my love and passionate art, I start to have

the object of my contemplation, to have
her in my hands. One cannot hold a storm
the same way one cannot hold words, the crazy
power they hold is a wild tempest obsessed
with nefarious destruction. It is the gross lust
of alchemical men she lights up with her moon

hung bright in the dark night. The soft-white Moon
is feminine, it rules the dreams that I have
in the overcast morning. I awake with a lust
for spirit in my veins, I am the storm
of Kingdoms over land. It's my obsession
to unleash a fury and disclose the crazy

passion of becoming. Love is the craziest
notion, the irrationally moving Moon
in Gemini, the cause of my vile obsessions
and mysterious wants. This illness that I have
that's ruling me, the intoxicating storm
that's sovereign of my nature holds my lust

in her mastery. We are but creatures of lust
on this moist earth, the inebriated craziness
of poisonous jealousies. I'm hearing storms
about the horizon, in the stars, in moons
that move about the other planets. She has
this quality about her that has obsessed

me with her body, I'm wanting to possess
her glorious boundaries, satisfy my lust
within her frame. This madness that I have
assails me daily, I am caught in the crazy
throes of love and loss. Imagine the Moon
without the timid stars, imagine the storms

without their squalls. I have a crazy idea:
that my obsession and discernible lust
is but the lunacy of moons and storms.

I'm acting as a man without a sense

I'm acting as a man without a sense
of rationality, I imagine her form
as more than what it is. She takes offense
to what I've said, my vulgar choice of words
ennobles her. She is the dogma I respect
and the institution surrounding me,
what I understand and don't. Is she unjust
in how she manipulates the world? Is she
an over-powering object like the bed
of love I'm falling in? The measure might
increase an hour to a day, I'm going mad
without her breast and discipline. The light
has nothing else to touch, there is no good
nor evil in this world of dazzled fools.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

I wonder if I start to hear the birds

I wonder if I start to hear the birds
is it because they're hungry? Do the trees
have pangs for Sun and air? The open bayou
stretches to the gulf, the blue-green water
smells a certain way. The malleable ground
is pressed underneath footprints, simple flowers

lie moistened in the dew. The little flowers
are open very early, the smallest bird
lands on the porch and pecks. The rolling ground
is walked on by the cows, it's where the trees
are growing now, it's what the moving water
wanders through. The skies turning over Bayou

Gauche are changing colors, the wide bayou
is visited by egrets that stand by flowers
in the humid air. When the clouds rain water
toward the earth, I can hear several songbirds
quiet in their nests. It's the patient tree
that grows without asking to be seen, ground

assumes its role and duty. Over ground
I move my feet, three birds fly over the bayou
and land near a young calf. See how the trees
grow where the fences are? The yellow flowers
grow everywhere in spring and all the birds
come out to eat the bugs. I'm seeing water

reflecting broad blue sky, clear and still water
as mirror of the heavens. Near the ground
is where I sit, under the trees and birds
that nest in the branches. You can smell the bayou
from the tracks, on side of the road grow flowers
and weeds and thistle, the love the roots of trees

make with the earth is wet. A cypress tree
grows in a triangle, its knees in the water
of the swamp are visible, the lilies have flowers,
the iris bloom so blue. My feet hit the ground
and sink a bit, I roam the moisture of bayou
and sweat my appetite. How do the birds

sing the beauty of flowers? How does the ground
understand the trees? How does the blue water
fill the bayou and so amuse the birds?

Whenever she starts to sing, I start to think

Whenever she starts to sing, I start to think
about the birds, their phrases and their tone
from in the branches. The way they move real quick

from tree to tree, I drink a muscadine wine
and sleep in the swamp. It is the birds that make
the most beautiful of songs, then I think of mine

and am embarrassed. I am beginning to look
at how the leaves are shaped, how they form perfect
symmetries and measures. The soil that takes

the seeds of oaks is the ground of a soft ballet
that dances in the air. The little flowers blink
in the morning light, they reveal her secret

music and fragrance. I walk to the riverbank
and wonder how I ended up so drunk.

I looked at my hand, realized there was a Queen

I looked at my hand, realized there was a Queen
of Diamonds. I am deciphering the obscure
language that she is, it seemed so obscene
the way she moved her mouth. She left the lure
in the water like a fisherman, and God forbid
the thought of what she'd do. My blood attracts
mosquitoes in the evening, it's a sordid
affair, there's dozens of them on my back
and tired neck. I need her royalty to bless
my body with love, I'm needing to hear her cry
when I'm inside her—O how she heaves her chest
into the sky with passion! I am sighing
when I am spent in her, our exhausted bodies
lie naked in the sheets still warm and ready.

I trained myself to listen for little gasps

I trained myself to listen for little gasps
between her phrases, she had the same name
as the girl from a magical novel. I walked past
the library a few times, fall leaves were tame
in the October air. Who knows the trials
of love more than her? Words celebrate the date
when she dissolved the mystery, unveiled
the puzzling glory of God. I am up late,
a poet of dreams, illusions, living a livid
and passionate fantasy—just imagining stories
of harems. I recite only the most vivid
tropes, the images of wild, godless fury
and meditate. The artist in me is playing
the instruments of love in a spoken day.

The light would turn her body into art

The light would turn her body into art,
a field of color, seething blues and blacks
that seem to jump from canvas. I put frames
around my works, put words around her form

by voicing them. I put my lips up to
her breast and take it in, I start to dream
about a Desdemona, start to dream
about touching her body. The light paints

the fields and pastures with a yellow hue
that changes every dawn. I want to move
the color over wide space, want to move

a brush across her hip. I have to see
the way horizons rise and fall, the way
the luminaries rotate in her movements.

I went over to my grandma's, picked a rose

I went over to my grandma's, picked a rose
from the bush in the front. There was a girl
I dreamt about when I was young, I lose
myself in memories sometimes. The pearls
she wears around her neck, I have to say
her clavicles are divine. It's the heart
that centers the Universe, the odalisque lays
across the bed. I am upon my art
the way He is upon some task, I'm none
before her dazzling beauty, there's no phrase
that could hope to illumine her. I'm alone
in this dense mystery, the Moon's next phase
brings heightened energy. I feel to know
her is to increase love of her somehow.

Her beauty seems now brighter than the Sun

After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 130'

Her beauty seems now brighter than the Sun,
but I've been fooled before. Her lips are red,
more red than roses, her thighs when she runs
are the most sensual lines. Her angel's head
is covered with blonde curls, her skin is white
and softer than the clouds. To kiss her cheeks
and touch her unveiled shoulders, hold the light
and graceful bosom close. It's hard to speak
about her immutable glory, it's hard to know
the endlessness of her. She makes a sound
that is beyond a music, I start to go
into a trance, lose consciousness of ground
and sky. Her formal beauty is as rare
as an orchid blossom—just beyond compare.

I don't know what's illusion, what is truth

After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 138'

I don't know what's illusion, what is truth
or fact or subterfuge. I know she lies
because I lie myself, my years of youth
afforded opportunity. The subtleties
of love aren't lost on her, aren't lost in the young
and lithe curves of her mind. I try my best
to give her all my spirit, move my tongue
with her as if she were words. Names suppress
the things they name, no definition's just
to what it finishes—now I am the old
and hardened man. I don't know who to trust
lest I may trust myself, a prophet told
a story of the lust she'd grown in me
as a sure trial—a fiction she must be.