Worlds

Impossible chasms, dissolving, in a tectonic shift so sudden
And swift
The twirls and whirls of firmer terra than me
Shake
Helplessly, overlapped and stacked neatly, like
an
Ordered carbon DaVinci orb,
Quirked and Smirked with
Speed.

Oh, where the disentangled arms, reaching forward: not yet, not yet:
Leaf from-palm and beat baby, stroking
The shadow away;
Seared sudden sun probe beamed focus,
On
Move Groove
Daily special,
Checked and charmed and
Scent sole
Scintillating meld of all things
Mattering,
Realized.

The carbon marble, joined and
churning.

Older Women

Reach in, reach in;

Reach down....way way down, past pretty boy phrases, and flip finger smiles.

Let him know a part of that part that's hidden deep; somewhere dark, and dangerous;
Somewhere where ink rarely goes, and then, only tenuously....tremulously, like
Untried cadence, and respectful pronouns, still capitalized.

That fire erupting and eviscerating part;
That claw back and fight-for-air-part that no one sees but him.
Let him know it exists, like you, still;

Past the fashion tips from thin cherubs who've never died twice, or passed one out of themselves,
After the stones you lived through in order to be able to say you did;
smug in their spaghetti straps, never fighting against gravity;
Past dire moanings of twisted pipes and pools of women-gut lives, seen, and patched up, and patted, rough girl style;
Let him see it shriek darkly and silently, shorn and torn;
Bereft and moaning, alone, later, Scotch in hand...stronger. 

Let him dig deeper....past the supersized selves and armour of flesh, floating and blanketing,
Hiding coal pit parts of you, mined and scarred, from eyes with no orbs, or worlds, aching to be run through, grain by grain, like those grubs you ingested to eat yourself back to acceptable, insanely.

Let that part out in terrifying bursts of sunlight and gloom, living Vogue cadaver that you thought
You might be more lovable as, shamed and standing there, with your woman breasts.

Let him feel that writhing, as you cleaned out the last bit of motherhood in you, like menopause,
Happier for no more goddamned bleeding, so you could finally love the fucker
And Feel Good, praying you could live through it - so you could live it, instead of
Dreaming.

Reach in, Row Wanda girl, he says to me,
And I pull out my own guts like William Wallace, wanting, at last
To acknowledge the succession of pikes, sans fish,
Winded and wandering, that will not meet
My eyes, even now.

Come, thin-Duked girl, he whispers,
Show them the cheroot,
The rolled gold,
The tried true have-enough, labouring;
The haunted smiles and gaunt girls, wizened,
Still not rich or thin enough, but smarter:
Relegated to the shrivelled and thin enough, at last;
Guilt free and
Fitted with darts.

"Yes", you intone to the phantom everpresent behind your eyes,
You think he might be able to
Take it all,
...and you let him
Adore the restraint, almost, but not quite, mouthing "alive", like a crash survivor, discovered. 

Stepping neatly and precisely out of the small flesh cave,
Torch aloft, feigning
Lady Lazarus,
You excrete

Pinache.

Glimmers

The finger points are reaching outward
Tentacles of light tentatively surging forward
As the glittering progeny are distributed, like manna
Amidst the soundless ink sky.
We look with hope to those distant star eyes...
Residual lives of burning hope - like ours: passionate, undaunted, fiercely loving and unashamed.

Wet Back and almost fell off the Fruit Truck again Hair Girl

Oh a Big Strong Man thinks
He loves a Fruit Truck hair girl;
A Fruit Truck hair girl, a Fruit Truck hair girl:
I said a Big Strong Man thinks he loves a Fruit Truck hair girl,
And he's tellin' all the World.

Smile.

Vision

Oh, sky eyes.
If only you saw more.

Perhaps you should close for a while.

Then
I could show you stars inside
To make your heart beat
Wilder than
Any lion.

You might
speak
Real words, then.
Sing songs loudly, fiercely, defiantly.

Love gladly, wildly, honestly, truly.

Finding yourself,
You would be changed.

Burned but healed.
Bereft, but lifted.
Robbed, but renewed.
Tormented, but tended.

I think you will ever only notice surface waves,
Smiling,

I will hum, close my eyes, and feel
Again.
I will see more, still.

Spring Rites

Green wonderful, wind surely around the metals and spikes - my fingers confusing waterfire; igniting liquid inner flame, scattering shot-like sparks of celebration in a peering sky: celebration showers; showers of glee and glow and song and search, spreading out in glittering, flaming searching rainbow arcs of quench.

Impossibly soft moss - like a sigh - spread out the wonder of love beneath the shaded canopy
of dappled wooded solid lungs, exhaling life into the blue ball garden.

Birds, trill a trace of "lay we down a verse, and song, and moment of continuance to you, whispering
live, and languid, ye lions."

Oh, wind, move the watering sky deep amongst the fronded froth of 'spring forth', beckoning sun and shared sand wind to your brief rest, 'tween times.

Harken to the running rivers leaping and dancing, swelling buds to burst the earth, sudden petal wheels, whirring.

Here is

Wild All,

Undulating.  Here am I....waving..

Ho Hums

Ye me le.
The birds cavorting remind me that Sergio still hums of the circuit Universe with a smile.
Blinking Winking, meanwhile,
Tinkers with the eyes we need to
See More.
The spreading current draws in, breathes out, shimmy shake and
Linear circular expanse, at once, all electric fuzz crochet breaths.
We are black wired and
Ready.
Come, Sound.

Emergence

Earth shakes itself awake again.
The yaw maw wah of bird cries reeling across the dimpled grasses waving
Lose themselves with the latest rain, melting into drops and drops and drops.
The birds droop, waving dripping feathers and swooping lazily into trench top feeders;
Prize fighters knocking about, before the fight for worms begins.

This year, I feel differently towards them.

My egg shell - built so assiduously amidst the dark and uncertain - has cracked.

I feel the fluid movement of myself as the membrane melts and,
Tenuously,
My quiet self
Emerges,
Blinking and trembling.

Tomorrow

In the deep quiet of the day's end
I walk into the night; uncertain, breathless, fired and impassioned;
I raise a haunted face to an ink-filled sky.
It blinks back at me,
Waiting.

sign posted on tree with small axe

BIGGALL'S WIGGLES
(fISH LURES AND CURIO ITEMS FOR THE
FISHERMAN AND HIS FAMILY)
tIRD LAKE FROM TA LEFT OF SNONKER'S
BOATHOUSE

SQUEAKED IN, ONTARIO


HEY, YAS! I JUS' HAD TO RITE YAS AND LET YAS NO
DAT DA ONE STEP UP NEAR 'TA FRONT
IS DERN NEAR A KILLER.
 ME AND MA WENT TO
BUY ONE OF 'EM LITTLE SPECKLED LOORS
WHAT LOOK LIKE PUMPERNICKEL LOAVES
(HERE DEY'RE A REAL TREAT FOR DA MUSKEY),
AND 'TA 'TING JES SEEMED TO LOOM OUT OF
NOWWAIRS, TO CAUSE ME GREAT PERSONAL PAIN.
MIND YA',
I BOUNCED A BIT, WHAT WIT' DA WEATHER BEIN' COLD, AND
                                             THE WISER'S
BEING WAR, 'N ALL, BUT STILL, YOU SHOULD
REALLY MEBBE PUT A FLASHIN' SIGHN NEAR DA
BIG PINE ON DA LEFT, WHAT TO WARN PEOPLE
                                             WIT, LIKE.

JESS BEIN' A CONCERNET CITIZEN. also, I
LOST MY HAIRPIECE, WHAT MA GOT ME, TREE
CHRISTMASSES BACK, AND IT SORTA' FEELS
LIKE A LONG TRIP ON A COLD NIGHT, IF YAS
KNOW WHAT I MEAN.....GETTIN' PERSONAL, LIKE.

sincerely, THE FIDDLIN'S.....WHAT LIVE OVER NEAR
                                                TA OLD ROCK JUT.

Bag Lunch, Delivered xo

The exquisite gift of someone bringing you lunch.
What does this bring?
…
     A picnic into monotony
…...:respite in the midst of the processed and mechanical: evidence of greenery,
        wild frond flinging and Amazonia roll for joy,  amidst the incessant steel of intellectual erection, realized.

And you thought it was just a BLT.

Thought for the Day

All the world's a Stage,
and the Earth is
Adam's Cage.

Optical callusion

Exquisite air absent matter...
Removed, but replaced within cortex flash:
Orb transmit;
Shudder-shimmer-shake..
Complete.
Enveloped within, without, in
Murmur murmured more against eyes, ears, mouth, neck, hand:
Breath,
Met.
...And still, a twirl-whirl-furl of stars inked white hot
In ebony sky:
Present, absent, present, absent,
Finding
Space
Matter meaning in
Current, realized.

Progress

The mist is risen;
I see its mysterious fingers curling slowly around the greening, waving trancelike
In grasses and fronds profusely undulating.
I feel the greening in me, wishing it
Sanely
In the soil's
Eyes.

New Day

We seek the matched exquisite inner unknown,
Finding Other, and
All.

Joy

Oh, to move the sky aside,
That I might kiss your
Eyes.