Monday, October 29, 2012

Lover, the dream is wandering a nonsense

Lover, the dream is wandering a nonsense
that I can't comprehend. I wake at four
or five in the morning, the dawn is eternal
in the East. This hypnagogic state reveals

a twist of form, a whirl of verse, a vortex
of energies. Lover, the dreams of time
are a wandering river that changes banks
and fills the gulf with life. Floating images

and flying clouds, carpets, fluid tapestries
and geometric raiment. This surreality
is a program of tropes, her breast and hair,

her arms, her breath articulates asleep
and awake. This brief dream is a light
that moves as a script in the purple heaven.

The yawning life in the bark, the brown water

 After Borges ' Ars Poetica'

The yawning life in the bark, the brown water
sustains the leaves, the winding of the river
describes the delta. The lakes written by rivers
with elbows and arms that distribute the water

as if it were a language. The bayous sleep
and the pastures are quiet under the death
of night. How quick and senseless is the death
of the moth? How mysterious is the sleeping

planet, the wandering labyrinthine symbol
without a definition? The Sun whirls in years,
a dozen here and there, a thousand years
without a thought or language, without symbols

illuminating god. We've marked the Sunset
with an architecture, the ridiculous poetry
of mystics, the juvenile exercises of poetry
encumbered by a vanity. The wide Sun sets

on the flat water and I remember the face
of my beloved, the face that, like a mirror,
shows only my self. The dreaming water mirrors
illusions, makes ambiguous her soft face

and discloses her heart. The expanding breast
of the blue jay sings a song, I am in love
with a brief dream, I am maddened by a love
that knows no bounds! O love! O virgin breast!

Are we not but asleep? The unveiled end
is somehow veiled again, the Sun's the same
in any hemisphere. The bark is the same
at the beginning of the tree as at the end.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Lover, the movement of the turning stars

Lover, the movement of the turning stars
is reflected in the water of the bayou.
The cows are listening, the birds I hear
are living in the trees, the light of truth
moves silently on the ground. There is an art
to the way you breathe, to the way that you

move your eyes and use your gaze. Is your
allure beyond the zodiac? The fixed stars
don't move, the shaman practices archaic art
and describes a new calendar. The bayou
becomes a clock that may reveal the true
declination of the Sun's path. The wide ears

of frogs are listening and the owl's ears
hear syllabic phrases. I'm imagining you
as the light in pools on the floor, the truth
of an obscure philosophy. The yellow star
that brings the day to the pasture and bayou
gives my eyes your image, it gives my art

its subject. Clouds are wandering the art
of a blue sky, the cows must be hearing
the changing air pressure. Along the bayou
the grass is dying, the morning air is your
cold breath, the twinkling of the white stars
reveals the wetness of your eyes. The true

and sure way isn't revealed, I see the truth
escape like a wisp of smoke. An orange star
moves in the air above the fire whose ears
have heard the trees. I am in love with you,
the way you sleep, your dreaming surreal art,
I can't help it. I trace the lines of bayous

with my fingers, trace the paths of bayous
in the broad heaven, examine the truths
the shadows of the trees reveal. It's our
duty to move toward the only infinite art
that escapes expression. Lover, we must hear
the whispers of the luminaries, the stars

who move in love. The startling Sun is truly
revealed above the bayou, I can hear
the art that resides in no one but you.

This dull sweat, the scent of myself between

This dull sweat, the scent of myself between
the clothing and the seat. How the Buddhas line
themselves on the windowsill and the yellow light
peeks into her eyes directly! The angel's arrows

are sharp and pierce the outer surfaces of
the architecture. If the light were not directed
through the tall windows the art would not work.
I'm breathing and coughing, the coffee turns brown

and black in the bottom of the cup. I smell garlic
and cheese, the days are colder without you
to hold and taste, without your porcelain skin

and exposed breast. O how I breathe the weather
that torments whole communities! O how the dull
and damp light does not meet my appetite!

The rain is falling from the sky like words

The rain is falling from the sky like words
in sentences that don't make sense. The flame
of the lamp flickers, all this art is a game
between all people of all eras, the chords

of now are inversions of then. I check the records
of prior weather, the canvases in frames
on the walls of the museum. She has a name
that reminds me of nothing, I can't afford

to lose this immeasured spirit. Words are tools
that fix the future, set the earth revolving
about the Sun in patterns. She is in wool

or denim, the months are filling like the twelve
full moons throughout the year. An other school
of names and propositions goes unsolved.

Thinking about poems as labyrinths. Thinking about poems

Thinking about poems as labyrinths. Thinking about poems
as churches or architectures, as instruments
that divine the motion of stars. Thinking of mantra
and prayer, of word and name and of the graphemes

that make up calligraphy. Thinking of choreographies
in libraries, semantic puzzles and lewd riddles
encoded in nonsense verse. I'm remembering the beloved
in song and rhyme, in scheme and trope, without

an anthropomorphism or an extended metaphor
that dazzles the reader. I'm thinking of conceits
as docents in the elaborate museum of time

that we're wandering helplessly. O love remind me
of the world before sense, of the undistinguished stuff
that constituted the real before any man.

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should—
I'm the buzz of incessant mosquitoes in her ear
in the early evening when the new Moon peeks
out in the West. I'm the sound that irritates

her listening, that verse that has intoxicated
her being with nefarious purpose. I am moving
between the leaves and under the bark of trees
as if I were the blood of plants. My beloved

is deserving of more than me, of more than stars
and entire galaxies, of more than mere words
and phrases arranged in stanzas. I'm the static

that fits between the stations, I'm dissonance
between disagreeable signals. My beloved
tires of the repeating aspects of my art.

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should—
I'm the song she can't avoid from hearing on
the radio every day. I'm the ubiquitous media
saturating social networks, look at the memes

that rain from the ether, the reign of a medium
beyond the voice. She tires of the many ways
I move my body, I shape a sound with my mouth
and make her wiggle. The jokes I tell are all

the same as those before, innocuous sutras
and palpable psalms, erroneous prayers and mantras
littering the cathedrals. My beloved tires

of words and phrases, images and metaphors
that try to define her. Only the breathless sky
can capture the infinite being she presents.

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should—
I'm the inexhaustible song of birds, the fire
of suns that burns the desert, the unending song
of awful poets. My beloved is not persuaded

by litanies of tropes, by schemes or doctrines
designed for effect. I am the air that wears
at the stone and moves the surface of the ocean
in violent storms. My beloved is the land

that's shaped by water, the Mississippi delta
composed of silt. Each day I'm upon the task
of loving her, of remembering her names

and reciting them in succession. The recurring
dreams, recurring images, reiterations
express a moving love that is immutable.

The tilt of planets, the tilt of her bare shoulder

The tilt of planets, the tilt of her bare shoulder
under her clothes, the tilting motion of dancing
stars in the heavens. Listening to the tones
of birds, the colors of clouds and the devices

of nameless poets. Wandering fantastic mysteries
in epicycles, retrogrades and stressed aspects
between the synods. I have seen her out dancing
in the pasture, dancing in the wet brown paint

in obvious ornaments. She is like a script
that is written by a terrible god, a villanelle
of nonsense. I am beginning to apprehend

her awful secrecy, her dangerous geometries
and make calendars of her patterns. This love
I feel is a mad and delusional almanac.

The Sun rises and sets. It is October

The Sun rises and sets. It is October
again somehow and my fingertips are cold
in the early morning. Squirrels begin to build
a nest of acorns, the air is an orange and somber

color. I can remember the glorious clamor
of dozens of birds talking, the sensual folds
of her clothing and how she gasped in a wild
abandon when I touched her. The green, sober

vines were quiet, the oak was a tall obelisk
that pierced the sky without ration nor reason
and apprehended nothing. In the soft dusk

her skin was bare, there was no comparison
to her beauty. Yet, always I'm upon the task
of giving her a literal description.

The whirling air, the developing storm

The whirling air, the developing storm
in the broad ocean. The bands that warp and bend
above the waves whipped up by a churning wind
that spins above the earth. The water harms

the land, gives the mountains and valleys form
and regulates the temperature. I stand
in the morning air measuring a shadow of mind
on the soft sod, listening to birds perform

in dynamic trees. Under the undulating curtain
of cloud I hear her sing the warm and loud
song of a gypsy. O how I've longed to obtain

the beloved in an object! O how the mud
is a dark brown hue! The whirling of the rain
is a music articulated by the clouds.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Maybe Borges can teach me how to compose

Maybe Borges can teach me how to compose
sonnets in a fluid rhetoric, how to tame
the immense gulf. I'm wandering the debris
of abandoned social networks, the awful ruins

of circular libraries. In a labyrinthine mess
of philosophical systems there is a mirror
like the surface of the water at the bottom of
a well. These secret languages, fictive artifacts,

nonsense symbols and difficult koans populate
a marvelous universe that seems a dream. I see
the stars as gems, the grass as many dancers

stretching their legs. The tropes of a new sect,
these literary forgeries, a hundred and one
nights obscured myself from the true word.

Contrapposto figures, twice the equinox

Contrapposto figures, twice the equinox
equals the day and night. The humming cicada
sits on the wall and doesn't have an agenda.
The lizards eat the bugs, the paradox

of the iris grows. I put the light in a box
and try to keep it, the nonsense of Dada
or the fluid lines of a rose. The ripe vulva
and the soft petals, the awesome heterodoxy

of sex and love is displayed in the fall
of leaves in the early winter. It's the duty
of the earth to revolve, the resplendent skill

of the beloved inspires us. This ambiguity
in art, this anaphora is a violent hell
through which we wander toward infinite beauty.

Her beauty haunts me, hangs in the swamp air

Her beauty haunts me, hangs in the swamp air
like the smell of methane. Ghosts and ghouls move
in the knees of the cypress trees, above the Moon
progresses in tropes. She swings in a precession

of equinoxes, her nodes are moving across
the ecliptic in patterns. Skeleton's fingers hang
from the skinny trees and gray Spanish moss
obscures the branches. White plantation walls

show her silhouetted shadow, the bare skin
is met by a breeze from the oak. O how my love
is something to be feared! O how the occulted

Sun is deleterious! I hear the whispers
of owls in the distance and the muttering
of cicada swell their chorus in the leaves.

A couple poems designed for you, to make

A couple poems designed for you, to make
the unreal real, to make fantastics apparent
in the light of day, to realize mysteries
and claim the unattainable. A couple words

in sequence, the spill of phonemes from the lips
of a beautiful girl, the hair that falls and curls
in the humid air. I think of the yellow light
that comes from the lamp, the green shirt falling

over her thigh, the painting in the evening
that holds her ineffably. A couple lovers
wander in the infinite sound of a dream

and make nonsense of language. I am silent
within your sleeping, I am the unsaid
and unknown secret scattered among verses.

You always seemed unreal, like a cloud, a phantom

You always seemed unreal, like a cloud, a phantom
in the evening that I can't describe, a spirit
without a body, a nothing that somehow sits
in my blood and among the bayou. You are the custom

of my ancestors, the truth lying at the bottom
of the well that I can't share, you are the limit
of my seeing. From the broad earth I inherit
my feeling, from the rivers I get my freedom,

from the mountains I get words. I am the being
of trees and rain, you're the language that I trade
with the walls and birds. It seems they're agreeing

with the argument of the verse. The slight grade
of your back and hip has dazzled my poor seeing
and from nowhere I watch the changing shades.

A spectre in the poem, a ghost, a veil

A spectre in the poem, a ghost, a veil
of red and purple gives the Sunlight hues
and shadows. This moving spirit in the form
of a girl, in the paintings on the walls

and breathing in the museum. The oak trees
hold acorns, the squirrels are running across
the power lines. She's a ghost I can't remember
but can't forget, a name I can't pronounce

or a pronoun unaccounted for. The whistling
of the wind between the houses, the brown
of fallen leaves, the purple bruise I left

on her thigh. You can't bite nothing! I can see
her body moving in the light, the way
the clothing falls over her arms and shoulders.

I should pretend the image in the mirror

I should pretend the image in the mirror
is not myself and that the yellow lamp
is something I've dreamt. I remember the plump
pears and plums, the thunderstorm's dark furor

over the pastures, the cows taking cover
under the trees. I smell the warm and damp
skin under her hair and the humid swamp
is colored with pink and turquoise. She conjures

herself while I'm asleep, I am the instrument
of a lover I cannot know, I am the purpose
and the explanation. The pyramidal monuments,

the epics, the broad oceans each must choose
a shore to disclose. I am the argument
a mirror makes for love, a dark red rose.

I told him that the music wasn't when

I told him that the music wasn't when
you made a sound, it was when you didn't
act at all. I hear the chimes make noise
as if someone is playing them, I listen

to the clouds like words, I hear her breath
as if it were a god's. O to be the reed
that vibrates in the instrument, to be
the vibrant air that is an orchestration

of something beyond us! We have many words
for words and words for no words, we have lips
that shape our sounds. I told him that a music

isn't written, it belongs to no one
and it's divine. O how she moves about
the room is a sacred and ridiculous song!

Clocks in the dirt, clocks made of moving sand

Clocks in the dirt, clocks made of moving sand,
the pyres on the levee, the licks of flame
that aspire toward heaven, all these things
are calendars that try to explain her.

The tides that move in circles, how the spheres
revolve within each other, how the steps
toward the beloved become illumined. Planets
remember the earth, a simple pyramid

mirrors the constellations. This big clock
moves in the heavens, moves like a music that
no one is playing. I hear the tones of worms

and lizards in the detritus, in the mud
the frogs say words. Her eyes are like a clock
that holds me and gives my life a meaning.

The oak tree stands so tall behind the house

The oak tree stands so tall behind the house
and reaches its branches into the morning sky
to tell the time. A brown shadow extends
over the pasture, the Sun moves in broad arcs

and at an odd angle. I remember her skin,
the way she moved her lips, the way the time
seemed to not exist. In the yellow light
her body moved like a quiet music played

by gods. The exaggerated colors of the leaves
seemed without limit, it seems like the time moves
like a river or like a cloud, without effort

or meaning. The falling leaves are the minutes
of a clock, branches are arms and the shadows
move like dreams under a mysterious heaven.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

The flower doesn't think that it won't blossom

The flower doesn't think that it won't blossom,
the tree doesn't think that it won't make shade;
the clouds don't think that they won't bring the rain
that fills the bayous and lakes. The water doesn't

think that it won't quench thirst, the light doesn't
suppose some days it will not give its color
to the sky. The river doesn't think that it won't
flow, the air doesn't think that it won't assume

the aspect of a breeze. The leaves on the branches
of the oak and the nests the blue birds make
don't think they won't house life; the instruments

of the world are vessels because of the empty
space inside them. Why do men think of wealth
instead of love? Why do men think at all?

Her toes were on the wood. I saw the tips

Her toes were on the wood. I saw the tips
of fingers move in the light, the blinds obscured
the day. Her slips were of an ochre color,
or was it cream? I still see how her nose

had lifted in the mirror, how her neck
exposed her moving blood. The mattress wandered
on the floor and small the apartment held
no furniture. Her legs seemed like the stems

of flowers, like the lilies that are floating
in the bayous. I can't seem to express
the mystery she put in forms, the puzzling

grammar she articulated. I am bound by
the memories I've created, I wander illusions
pretending that what I have seen is real.

Confused. Remember when it seemed to matter

Confused. Remember when it seemed to matter
what we thought or did? I hear the television
mumble in the darkness, I hear the loneliness
of cows and clouds. Disoriented by

the mists of morning, I can't make a picture
as brilliant as her, I can't remove myself
from this irrational love. Remember when
it seemed to be so easy? I can't think

about her skin, about her words without
desire overtaking me. Lines of flowers
populate the sky like birds and pitches

dance in the fragrant grass. O love mediate
my self and others! Make me not a self
that needs a meaning, make me meaningless.

The Sunlight shone, the trees expressed a joy

For Kathleen McLeod

The Sunlight shone, the trees expressed a joy
beyond words. I observed the occult power
of her language, how the bodies lower
themselves on the horizon. Does the noise

of spheres affect us here? Are we the toys
of gods? She is the dew that gives the flower
water. See how the trees rise up to tower
over the land? When I was a young boy

I rode the bike barefoot, I picked the red
and purple berries from the vine, I moved
with laughter in the rain. The birds had said

something in the hazy morning, what you give
to me is beyond words. I feel the colored
stones you wear and wonder if it's love.

She seemed a dream. The hazy atmosphere

She seemed a dream. The hazy atmosphere
was luminescent, the horizon extends
beyond the cows and canals. It's her figure
that reminds me of music, it's her hip

and breast that warm my breath. The water sleeps
in bayous and in lakes as if it were
a body that was tired. These illusions
become more elaborate with time, I sense

that nonsense will prevail. The light attends
to surfaces of clouds, yellows and oranges
arrange her borders. The late afternoon

seems drowsy, a new Moon reveals itself
in the West. How its surface shines! The dream
is brief and the delight is a delusion.

How much more infinite a sea is man

How much more infinite a sea is man?
How might I have supposed that I could map
him out with graphemes or some numbers? How
does he extend beyond himself? The sea

knows every shore at once, knows day and night
at every time. The sea of man is not
the limit of a nation, he extends
beyond his borders, rises like a flame

against the gravity of earth. How much
more is man than a measure? I have seen
illusions and dreams, irrational poetry

that hints at his labyrinth. It is unveiled
that man contains the sky, the autumn breeze
discloses that his love is ineffable.

Monday, October 15, 2012

The canvas dress is gone. The oranges and pears

The canvas dress is gone. The oranges and pears
are in the bowl on the table, the fuzz of peach
is where I find my nose. Pink, soft flesh tears

with each bite, the sweet roundedness of each
breast holds the seed of something. She eats strawberries
in the morning, extends her white arms to reach

the apples in the tress. I bless this country
for its spirited bodies, for its trees and fruit,
for the weather that brings rain. The earth is married

to the heaven through soil, I wear a suit
of clouds and a necktie. The way that she bears
the weight of a body, I have an intuition

that she's beyond words. The spherically-shaped tear
falls and traces the contour of a golden pear.

She's dark. Her breast is round, her teeth are white

She's dark. Her breast is round, her teeth are white,
a sweater is tied around her waist. The gold
of surfaces reflects light, she has the tight

stockings halfway up her thigh. The many folds
of her clothes hide things, the long-flowing brown
of hair is like a tapsetry that is holding

her body in the light. She's the moving noun
that pleases me, the disclosure of her pink
library is dazzling. Her dark lips now own

my spirit, I am an instrument that cannot think
without her gaze. She is the poetry that I recite
in darkness, my cries and sighs that slowly sink

into the nothing. O I must thank the light
that shows her olive skin and her eye's white!

She extends her toes, the blue eyes in her face

She extends her toes, the blue eyes in her face
are piercing. I sing of woman and her arms
above her head, her postures, how she dances

in the nude. How the light illumines forms
and gives her body volume, how her hair
flows in warm curls like Sunshine. In the warmth

of morning, I get lost in the sweet affair
between us, nectar flowing on her waist
and her sticky-sweet belly. The window glares

into the room, the fruit are ripe to taste,
I move them with my tongue. Her eyes have forced
me to give up myself, it seems I have wasted

my life. When she reveals herself, a silence
falls over trees and obscures the Moon's face.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

What are the words and what do they all mean

What are the words and what do they all mean?
Which are purposive? Which are irrelevant
in the current dogma? Is man but a servant
of the beloved? The clouds that rise all seem

to be of fleeting character, the trees lean
into the wind and all the flowers that I plant
change colors as the year goes. The observant
stars make judgments of the iris, the broad ocean

reaches toward the shore. It's as if my mind
were the changing weather, were the wide arch
of heaven. Lover, your brilliant light has blinded

me completely. I can hear that birds that perch
on the low branches, the animals that demand
a meaningless scripture spoke without a church.

The knowledge of color, knowledge of faith

The knowledge of color, knowledge of faith
buried in a text. The riddles of victory
and confusion with the paradox of history
that hypnotizes us. She moves in a swift

line across the wood floor and she moves with
the spirit of the room. I'm in a purgatory
between fine art and something applied, the story
of the work is incomplete. At the zenith

of the sky lies the Sun, the seat of a religion
of light. I apprehend her body sensually
and destroy every doctrine, the mountain region

swells with the word. This meditation relies
on faith, on love without a particular direction
that soothes danger and disputes what's holy.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

The curve of her young body is an instrument

The curve of her young body is an instrument
that tells the time, her arm and breast measure
the hours, her neck and lips give the argument

for calendars. The Moon cycles with pleasure
above the sphere, the luminaries orient
themselves in ellipses. Leaves fall with leisure

to the ground and the light extends its metaphor
above the pastures, over the bayou's currents
and into the lake. The clouds move without author

in different colors, the Sunset quietly paints
a spectacle of heaven. How my love anchors
my heart to matter! How her face is lucent

in the Moonlight! My improvisation is spent
on making music of her pleasing instrument.

The music I hear, the movement of love

The music I hear, the movement of love
that gives the water being. The broad landscape
of bayou and canal, the gulf and its waves

make music under autumn skies. The ropes
that bind her hands, the clouds wandering above
our bodies in the grass. The curve and slope

of her undressed back. O is it all in vain?
The knowledge of love's trials? The awful fall
of breathing, how the leaves will die again

and she will be alone. I have the will
of trees and flowers, I sing in the plain
air and exhale color. The siren's spell

intoxicates me, look how the Sunlight gives
the water a surface! O light and love!

The rise of a golden luminary above

The rise of a golden luminary above
the horizon, the canal's diagonal slope
prior to morning. She moves without type
nor style, she populates the world's beehive

with her brilliance. I hear a gentle wave
from the gulf lay on the shore, a brown rope
has moored the boat. I trace the lines of landscape
with my fingertips and define this love

by color. The unfolding pasture and plain
receives the sky, the air does as it will
with water vapor, the stars rise once again

and sing into the night. O her hair falls
into young day! Have I not loved in vain?
Or am I under this fair goddess' spell?

The orange light of an incandescent lamp

The orange light of an incandescent lamp
has lit the surface of the wall. The door
is open to the sky, the smell of the swamp

turns purple in my nose. She has adored
me since the start, since the maroon and violet
birth composed me. I remember what she wore

when she disclosed herself, the colored palette
with pinks and tans. How she moved was an obscene
dance, a vulgar and voluptuous ballet

that brings forth decadence. The lamp held green
light out, painted the breast of the soft tramp
and gave her to the lover. Sets of phonemes

made up her names, the grass remained damp
with dawn and I finally turned out the lamp.

The planets and the Moon wander together

The planets and the Moon wander together
in the stars. I have quickly fallen asleep
in the early dusk, she seems to be the ether

that is the sky. I hear the spheres that step
toward the heaven and share the prophet's vision
of the Universe. The verses are what keeps

the system moving, love is the persuasion
of matter to the infinite. She moves her parts
in subtle dances, duplicates and recursions

furnish the space. The epicycles of her skirt
draw lines in the air, the gravity that tethers
her to this globe is mysterious. She is art

I cannot comprehend, she is turning weather
that nurtures plants and animals together.

She moved into the shadow where the bed

She moves into the shadow where the bed
has seemed to end. A white flash in the mirror
lights the room for a second, I have absorbed

the alcohol in the drinks. She is the error
that affects the operating system, now she spreads
her legs ludicrously. See the white light conquer

her body? See the necklace with its hanging beads
adorn her breast? See the colors of her closet
assemble themselves! I grab a single thread

of her shirt, she holds herself inside the corset
like flowers in a vase. My hands have grabbed
at thighs, at light and shape, I have upset

the balance of the natural world. Her limbs
are language as they move above the bed.

She looks into the mirror, examines the young

She looks into the mirror, examines the young
skin and fragrant hair. A light-green pear
is surrounded by oranges, the veils are flung

like shadows into the closets. I can now hear
her sighs as words, the way she walks across
the room in heels. O see how the stars appear

when the Sun starts to set? She gives her hair a toss
into the breeze and she opens up her palm
to receive light. I meditate on the loss

of love, on plain desire, on the blue film
that filters out the light, on how she sang
the aria at dawn. The oak trees were calm

when the Sun rose again, the yellow rays rang
as a choir and her eyes seemed ever-young.

I woke up in a sweat. I moved the books

I woke up in a sweat. I moved the books
across the room, the water bottle fell
onto the floor with a loud sound. The Sun came
in through the window and warmed my shoulder with

its yellow rays. I can see how her shoulders
reveal their skin to me, I can see how her
hips roll like the hills. The bed is covered
with sheets and colored chalk, I have tomatoes

and oranges for her to eat. The night has ended
with the warm dawn from the East, I love her
with my body, with the heat of my blood

and with my whole library. She is turning
like the stars above me, like the calendar
that counts the days that I can't apprehend.

O how she moves the spirit! The deft nymph

O how she moves the spirit! The deft nymph
has animated nature, the fruit I devour
in the hills and vales is hers. Water vapor
rises above the mountain, several glyphs

spell out her name. The clouds have choreographed
a dance in the heavens and a summer downpour
has bathed the ground. O how she moves in glamor
like the springs and rivers! She's a triumph

of the gods on earth! Yet, she is the doom
I'm drawn toward, the dazzling light abandoned
on the roadside. Love, I have only seldom

heard your voice, I've only held a fraction
of your form in my hands. O give me wisdom
to love her dance and song with burning passion!

The bee has turned the nectar into honey

The bee has turned the nectar into honey
and built a sweet religion. The maroon rose
has thorns, the doe in the pasture is the prey

of men. I buzz about her lilting pose
and smell the pollen of an exposed girl
in lingerie. Her shirt falls in a loose

way over shoulders, her golden-blonde hair curls
in wavy strands. I am the dormant storm
that lurks on the horizon, the soft-white pearl

of her eye peeks out. I have beheld the form
of gods, the fury of a vigilant prayer
and the shape of rising breasts. Her flaxen arm

extends within the sleeve, her back's thin valley
shows her spine as a corridor of honey.

Friday, October 12, 2012

He'd sit and hear her music from the window

He'd sit and hear her music from the window
and smell the autumn in the air. The poor
sound of the bees on flowers, the yellow color
of the blossoms. The water oak tree's shadow

sinks in the dark mud, the mosquitoes even know
the music of this land. The flat-green floor
of the pasture stretches out, I open a door
to the moisture and sing a set of words I borrow

from another poet. From right here, the view
of the canals begins to turn purple, the doom
of unreachable paradise sets. A blood-red dew

punctuates the surreal horizon, gray fog from
the night melts off. He'd dreamt she was a few
small flowers that had just begun to bloom.

I exhale breath into the open flower

I exhale breath into the open flower
that she is. The thick maroon veils seclude
us from the public, her wide hip is nude
in the moonlight as she beings to lower

her body in the bed. The thunder-shower
outside the window, music beings to intrude
on the soft mattress. Lightning throws its rude
blue light across her collar, I move slower

inside her and her sighs articulate melodies
in a French nonsense. I smell beneath the floral
dress her warm body, observe the prosody

of her motion. I begin to part the petals
with my nose and tongue, the flower's body
discloses a soft and voluptuous oval.

Without your body the fresh green leaves seem so

Without your body the fresh green leaves seem so
removed of life. Without your body the libraries
revolve like heavens, the stars form curving letters
above the horizon. Without your body the bluejays
sing mysterious songs, the irises are growing
toward the light. O how the Moon moves quietly
through the wet leaves! O how my love has waxed
like the light of a turning satellite! Lover, without
your body I cannot live! How might the stars move?
How might the bayous have the water that holds
the sky in its reflection? Lover, your body
is the air and clouds and the changing weather
expresses your spirit. Without your body
the infinite may never be apprehended.

The green of fresh leaves complements her fair

After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 127'

The green of fresh leaves complements her fair,
red-blushing cheek. The light leaves glorious names
on surfaces, the golden disc leaves its heirs
on lakes and bays. Yet, in the torpid shame
of a tired marsh I am exhausted of my power
by a seductive woman. Light dazzles her face
and eyes, the dyes of scarves ornament the bower
mysteriously. O love! these snares disgrace
the freedom of nothing! the limitless black
expanse that holds possibility! How she seems
to not exist! How might I live with the lack
of her soft sex? O love! I sing the esteem
the rivers have for oceans! O love! all is woe
without your body! The fresh green leaves seem so—

The grass is moving, the air receives Sunrise

The grass is moving, the air receives Sunrise
and changes its color. The bluejays display
their wings and the water oak's branches sway
in a moist breeze. The peach has a dull bruise

in its soft flesh, these veils of cloud disguise
the heaven from my reading. Stars are splayed
across the sky in grammars, meanings play
in cycles. The yawning calendars find moonrise

on the hanging leaves and the lilies of the pond
reflect navy values. How the weather plans
the movement of the trees! How turning seconds

measure out the day! How do words mean
anything? I am a light expression beyond
comprehension imagining a prayerful woman.

Lover, the failing light casts a shadow

Lover, the failing light casts a shadow
over the pasture. The bayou reflects a purple
hue and cows are wandering illumined clouds
like stars on the ecliptic. Lover, a yellow

sphere is waxing, the gulf is rising, tides
change with her light. Reflect on the image
of elms and maples and the little bridge
that crosses the canal. Lover, receive my self

the way the Moon receives the light of the Sun
to ornament the night! The sleeping calves
are meditative violets, the rolling layers

of color disclose love. Lover, I need you
in my lungs like air! I move about you
as if you were the variously lit room.

The contour of her singing—in her clothes

The contour of her singing—in her clothes
she hides her self: her breasts and hips, her thighs
that carry legs. In my minds-eye I'm seeing
the lilting of her melodies, the air pressure

changing with her song. The inversions of thirds
and sixths, the seconds rise and sevenths fall
into the valley of her back. I'm listening
to her breathing as if it were the signal

of a sought redemption. She puts her calves in
stockings, moves her feet in sharp, dark heels
across the museum floor. Her shoulders outline

the language of some spirit, the simple music
of the spheres that governs things. I wonder
if her song can cleanse the world of sin.

The lizards on the bricks were chasing bugs

The lizards on the bricks were chasing bugs
and the short plants moved with the frogs as they
hopped to the shadow. The birds were muttering
a quiet conversation in the branches

of the water oak. I am working now
with light and spirit, I breathe in the light
and serve as instrument to a moving, subtle
love beyond myself. I hear the clatter

of the chimes, the pattern that the water
makes when a leaf hits it. Her soft, white body
reminds me of a star, I'm looking at Venus

in the morning and wanting to taste the skin
that she reveals. Sitting still, I remember
the contour of her singing in her clothes.

The color of his garden started to change

The color of his garden started to change
as the Sun moved. Out in the plain air
the artist is upon some task, the artist
loses some of his sense. I hear the sentences

she speaks in the small room, her maroon lips
articulate the words, they shape the vowels
of her love. The forms of trees and rivers
give leaves and water grammar, I can see

the yellows and the greens, the soft-pink evening
reminds me of her folds. The quick impression
she leaves on my eyes! O lover I'm caught

by your flame like the moth! Release my self
from this gross body! He stood with the air
he painted and returned to senseless color.

The flat, reflective water is the seat

After Monet's 'Water Lilies'

The flat, reflective water is the seat
for subtle lilies. Where the iris grow
I hear the bugs sing, above in the trees
a couple birds are sleeping. Simple leaves

fall from the oaks alone, the blue-green color
of the water by the cypress seems to
hold the sky. Yet, then again the distance
draws my eye into her: she is a painting

I can't extract myself from. The green floating
on the water suggests a life, a being
of her nothing. The mirroring of the flat,

tidal surface is luminescent. I remember
her words as if they were colors and her scent
as if it were the light that dressed my gaze.

I opened my eyes and the dark impression

I opened my eyes and the dark impression
of purple veils moved. I could smell the bath
enter the room, the warm skin underneath
her hair. I wondered which illumined version

of the song was playing, if my delusion
had altered reality. Her simple breath
articulated words and became a path
up the tall mountain. In my dream, a vision

of the yellow light had split the willow's
hanging branches. She's broader than seas
and innumerable like stars, even the low

and tired clouds sing her. They are the sofas
of the heaven's light, the beautiful glow
of her wet skin beaming from the canvas.

The quality of yellow light is beautiful

The quality of yellow light is beautiful
in the mid-afternoon. She is in the garden
of my mind, she is rising like the sudden
Sun and obliterating moons. I smell the foul

mud from near the bayou, my trodden soul
is no place for grass. The sky beings to redden
as the dawn comes, the beloved is a burden
of weather over land, she is the all-powerful

giver of color. From violets, greens and blues
the day is born, the hours reveal the art
of heaven. I can't imagine anything greater

than this brilliant light that's beyond value
and envelops everything. Lover, we part
but are joined again by the reflecting water.

Monday, October 8, 2012

She stares at us! The fruit is spilling out

After Manet's 'Le déjeuner sur l'herbe'

She stares at us! The fruit is spilling out
across the ground. See how the composition
outlines a triangle? I'm thinking of the heat
she holds below her sex, I am fully dressed

by light in the broad public. Love, exhibit
your self: a basket of fruit, a round loaf
of bread, a conversation floating above
the gentlemen. She bathes herself beyond

the cover of the trees. There is no Ingres
in this, she is so delicately placed
before the light. That which is seen is not

a luncheon on the grass, but a landscape
with vigor. How does her form resemble breezes
I cannot hold? How her impression wanes!

Lover, the red lights in the window pierce

Lover, the red lights in the window pierce
the veils of curtains! I see the hotel
is empty besides you, the high waist of the mirror
reflects your hair. Give me your mouth because

I need it for my words! The soft white skin
reflects the light, the mirror reflects back
your open mouth. Look as your lips reveal
the labyrinth of a lung, look how your body

filters spirit. The fabric of dark pants
hugs tight around your thigh. Lover, your blood
attracts me like no other. You are truth

that I've waited for too long! A masterpiece
of pale flesh in broad brushstrokes, you bite down
into the shirt and reveal a vulgar energy.

A white so flat! The two dimensions of

After Manet's 'Olympia'

A white so flat! The two dimensions of
rectangular canvas, a vulgar orchid hangs
down from her ear. The black cat gazes out
and matches her necklace. One of her shoes

is already off, there is almost too much light
for me to make out forms. The symbols have
been reversed here, the canvas plays with depth
in its stark lighting. I can see the images

of other painters, I see how their postures
have intimated this. I am wondering if
she'll give her self to me like the white light

has given itself to her body. I wonder if
her eyes give more than flowers, I wonder if
she feels the same way that she once had.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

An instrument that tracks the wandering word

An instrument that tracks the wandering word
across the heavens, the instruments we use
to represent ourselves. The architectures
of the churches, shrines, and temples, of

her body in the light. See how the spirit
moves through her limbs? See how breath articulates
the lover's separation? How can I make
her into music? The flowers are instruments

of color and of fragrance, I see her hair
dance in the wind. The water becomes a mirror
for the sky as the song becomes a mirror

for the soul. I can hear the trembling sound
she makes when she is vibrated, the sighs
that aren't words but communicate something.

Lover, I can hear the crackling sound

Lover, I can hear the crackling sound
of kindling in the fireplace. I smell your
cocoa in the mug, the way the brown scarves
cascade across your body. Let me see

the fog come out your mouth the way the night
brings moisture to the morning. Lover, I
can see beyond your eyes, you're like the Sun
and in your white there is each different color

painting surfaces. Lover, the floor-boards
of the cabin creak and I see the lines of
growth in the brown wood. Outside the cold

is blowing in the trees, the birds are wandering
the early autumn sky. Lover, I need you
within me like the warm blood in my veins.

She's just suggested by the color of

She's just suggested by the color of
the light that rises. I think about the Sun
and how it moves, how the old rishi tracked
her movements. Think of all the scattered phonemes

in the past, the ripples on the ocean
that are the Buddha's sutras. I look out
into the distance, see the dim horizon
lose its color. The little flecks of light

that reflect from her eyes, the way her thigh
is of a certain texture. I can feel
her gaze the way the pastures feel the light

that pours through the blue clouds. She is suggested
by disordered vowels, I become impressed
by her form though I do not know its limits.

Tried to say she wasn't even crazy

Tried to say she wasn't even crazy,
tried to say she had a few ideas
I didn't have. I met her in the air,
or in a space that I'd imagined. When

she took a breath the whole world sighed about
the trees. I tried to say she didn't know
what death was, what I knew, or how to see
the light the water reflects. She tried to

turn her body like a cloud, she tried
to move over the land like weather. I
can't lose my mind cause I don't have one. She

impressed me with her madness, I had looked
in all the shelves of libraries. It's said
that the mad are the only true lovers.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Disoriented by the images

Disoriented by the images,
the colors bouncing off her, all the lines
and shapes that make the picture. The abstract
recedes above the pasture, I can see

the lines her calves make in the water of the
bayou. I can smell her sex as it moves
through the air like pollen. I can't figure
what the limits of her are, the mathematics

governing her motion. Love makes nonsense
of me daily, is the maddening agent
that ends my life. What is it I am becoming

in this whirl of movement? Did I start
as a coherent image only to descend
into a chaos that is enlightening?

The way the tree has opened up its arms

The way the tree has opened up its arms
to greet the light, the way the branches move
when breezes pass, the way the leaves make sound
when birds are moving. I can hear the nests

they build in the young evening, I can hear
the frogs that eat the bugs, the little lizards
that crawl above the roots. Now I have seen
the heavens turn, the planets whirl and her

bare breast, her sure white skin and how she uses
her mouth to speak and love. The trees are seeds
and lovers, beings with a heart that know

the calendars of light. I'm seeing her move
her arms, her branches in the morning and
her breath is a breeze that is making sound.

O love disorient me like a text

O love disorient me like a text
I can't decipher! Be the lines of words
and narratives imbued with meaning, be
a mystery. O love be like the sky

without an instrument of measure, be
the spectacle without a Sun. I look
into the blue expanse, the Moon has waned
and waxed before me. Love make me nonsense

in this world of meaning! The Sundial
is made to read the light, the grammar of
the spheres and heavens. O love intoxicate

me with your surfaces! Make me no longer
one self separated! O love make me
none but the whole turning Universe!