Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Poetry Year August 26th The Hurricane, For EMK after Bob Dylan

Pistol shots ring out in the California night.
The whole world was wrong,
Nothing could go right.
Oh my god they've killed the dream.
Here comes the story of the Hurricane,
The man the Republicans came to blame,
for something he would never do
Kept from a prison cell,
but one time he could-a been
The leader of the world.

A car in a river every one could see,
a woman name Kopeche a drowning reed.
Stories rattled and decomposed.
Two bodies there, one dead the other still living.
All the good cut loose in the fog.
His brother's eulogy might as well have been his own.
A gin flower's last seed wilting under the hot television lights.

But the fever had not quite run,
he still knew that they had more terms than one.
Kept from a destiny,
but one time he could-a been
The leader of the world.

Against an era and a President failed,
on a convention podium he railed.
The last liberal that anyone knew,
he was the last man who knew what to do.
But the ballots were all marked in advanced,
the whole country never stood a chance.
No surprises were just the surprise,
by a hollow actor they were hypnotized.

When the chances went down to defeat,
he just got up and went back on his feet.
Carved his name on the senate seats,
too many battles, but so few retreats.
Denied the dollars he found a few dimes,
it was the best he could do in these times.

So let me tell you about the Hurricane,
the man the Republicans came to blame,
but it won't be over till the bill bears his name,
because our lives are not an insurance game.
Kept from the Presidency,
but one time he could-a been
The leader of the world.

Within sight of his life long dream,
he was stricken down and crossed over that stream.
Left the world as the teabaggers scream
about some insane Hitler meme.
Don't you know that in the camps,
everyone had health care from the state?
They've just robbed the register,
they hope you'll understand,
that's what it means to be free,
in this Christian land.

So that's the story of the Hurricane,
his fall and rise and return to fame,
tangle with forces that he couldn't quite tame.
Kept from the promised land,
but one time he could-a been
healer of the world.

Poetry Year August 26th

"The Listening Room"

My ledger counts the figures,
figures of faces,
figurative language.
Rounded curves of "8"
suggest the one whose breasts were cut off.
Sharp point of "7" the one whose lower hair was burned away.
To make sure there were no lice.
"3" can slip both ways, breasts or balls,
or roundness of hips.
Of course we know what "1" suggests.

It still sears in side me, that first one,
my husband's blood spattering in my face,
his mutilated sex in my mouth as a gag,
while to soldiers, some not shaving,
took their turns.

Day o day o sang the 10 year old,
patting his banana clipped third arm.
He was too young, so he pushed the barrel,
between my hips,
where I am small.

Then they tied my daughters to the wall,
the pretty one to keep as a slave.
The other they tied
like "2"
spread eagle and out.
The sickness ones raped her.
Then they chopped her to pieces.
I still see her head,
hair splayed on the ground.
like "9"
I sat on a chair
and wept for two days.

Then my husband's family came,
and took the house,
because my son and husband were dead.
No men, no money.

So I walked. I think I was raped again
while I slept curled by the road,
like "5"
I am not sure.

Then I came to work here,
in the listening room.
The first week,
the soldiers came,
tied me to the chair,
like "4"
and raped me every place
until my every opening,
even where I piss,
like "0"

They were chased away.

So I have counted every figure,
been every number on this ledger.
I am not from some far away place,
with clean panties,
and nice packaged tampons,
who has only shivered at a story.
I am every woman here,
like you.

We will feed you,
and you are as safe here as any place,
because the UN is here,
and they know there are cameras
from CNN
the outside,
so they can't sleep on this job.

Tell me your story.
And I will put it here.
The swinging sign,
the smell of the grass roof.
Have some tea.
Let me record this,
so there will be no mistake,
no denial.
Tell me names,
it can't hurt now.

Here let me comb your hair,
this wash cloth is clean,
and this will dry you.
The tea is fresh.

This is the Listening Room.
I am here to listen,
because I have been there to scream.
My mouth open,
blood still pouring out.
Like this "6" here.
You cannot write?
I will teach you.

There are letters,
and each one reminds me,
of a story.
But the worst letter,
is blank,
because there is no story,
until someone has sat,
in the listening room.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Poetry Year August 25th - After reading too much tang poetry in one sitting

Mountains, moons, clouds and birds, – all crumbled in a heap.
Tang poets knew their moment well – wine induced remorse.
They've forgotten what they've forgotten – remembering it so well.
I feel the baroque carriages – bone built palaces there they dwell.
Five characters can contain a world – and excluded a world even wider.

Poetry Year August 25th

The great swan to the sea comes,
the yellow pond cannot hold her interest.
In the cypress tree the kingfisher watches.
From the roof of the wooden treasure he watches.
The beauty of the winged rise, compels the god to be wicked wisely.
I pull an arrow from the trunk, who hunted such a bird?

(after Zhang Jiuling)

Poetry Year August 25th

Tick and call me gamelon
hear the rhythms all day long,
can't do right, or can't do wrong,
it's just a never ending song.

Hot by the sun,
warm by the sea,
spray from the salt foam,
it's an island fantasy.

But then you look out to the faces,
in the not so pretty places,
the dirt the despair in their eyes,
still there after a thousand tries.

So take the happy pictures,
from the glossy airline features,
put them in your memory,
just a little bit like me.

Flown from the harvest lands,
down to the repast hands,
searching for your madonna,
that's become your mania.

So think as you sleep on her sheets,
that they are two steps from the dirty streets,
feel her tongue on all your skin,
realize she's poor within.
However well she coos your name,
you're just another boy the same.
It's a game you cannot win,
because you are still white foreign.

Don't you hear, or don't you see,
no have happy from misery,
no have rich from poverty,
no solitude from company.

Ticky tacky timp and touch,
you will never learn that much
the language of the beating drums
will never be your native tongue.
She'll fade like flowers in the sun,
and I will still be your only one.

One of the major free sex sims went Zyngo

Free Sex Empire is now in the Zyngo business. The thing to remember about all of the cock dumps is that they don't do it out of the goodness of their hearts, but because it attracts campers. That one of the largest can vanish is not surprising, because as a business model, charging for raw traffic, in the form of mall space, is a dying idea. Partially because more people are buying content on web sites, partially because, well, it's just never been a good road to getting anything.

Another sign that SL is saturated, when there aren't even horny new guys to camp a mall.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Lillie is on buying strike again

The new viewer constantly has people seeing me as a cloud. If people can't see the content I buy, I am not buying any. Period.

Poetry Year August 24th

The ghost of poetry stalks my meter,
a gait that gallops, lame, and halts.
Seized by moments of ecstatic spasm,
and lost by placid splay of rest.

I turn, and find you dressing in the moonlight,
I cry and beg you,
don't go out the door.
The stars that guide you are inscrutable,
burying deep your secret lusts,

That headed monster that I eat,
but that eats my soul,
and snaps my bones into nether shapes
wrapped around it for your reveries.

I straddled you like a horse,
but there is no return to here from here.
There is a swamp we enter,
seeping from your angry eyes.
Don't go out the door.
I witness you rave at the wall,
as your write your questions,
on my skin,
to some heaven.

I will take you through any door,
if only you will leave that one,

Poetry Year August 23rd

Rise and I sing a new song,
fall and I am a cloud with tears for rain.
Walled by worries, and cares,
I get drunk,
on the scent of liquor,
or the sight of tomorrow.

The mountains are more lonely,
their waters colder,
the years pass unmarked in desolate hamlets,
huddled around the giant's curling toes.

Exile it is among them a spirit,
that settles like the winter clouds.
Walk and recite your favorite rhymes.
On your return, I will play your flute,
and draw from you sounds,
that break the muteness of your habit.

Since ancient times the fall is sorrow,
but these are better than the spring,
because in the green there are false hopes,
while now the harvest is very real.

Call your curses by their colors,
golden flowers, blackened brines,
dragons that lust for other blood.
Rats that eat the votes that are cast,
and shit the votes that will be counted.

But once your gales are truly blown,
their rogue waves crested and carried away,
then settle to the work of plucking,
the fruit that waits, naked, for you.

(After several Tang poems.)

Poetry Year August 22


I follow the heavens of a glowing eye,
that stares in at the nearer months of heat.
The sun rises through the wood,
and even in the husk of summer,
it is spring for an aching hour of early light,
that touches through the green.

But noon, oh noon, she is cruel to me,
there is the fire in the south,
high upon the sky,
a vermilion bird that wings over,
snatching us like winged beetles where we stand.

Only the close earth heralds the change of season,
or perhaps the breath of the wind.
Around trees curls the yellow dragon.
Wisps of red touch from his lips.

From the living west it will come,
the autumn to lift this weight.
The mountains will be touched with White Tiger,
and love will rise as lonely petals seek
that last comfort of the dying dew.

North I stare at barren mountain,
as black as tortoise shell.
Soon to be clad in other tones,
as fleet crows circle nigh.

It is the year of my yin,
waiting, waiting, for a touch
of other essence.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Poetry Year August 21st

The idylls in the field of flowers, dotted suns
that spread across a sallow green.
I pick one that has turned to tufted seed,
and blow the bright parachutes towards
eager anticipated germination.

My thoughts are with them scattered,
to land in far corners.
Perhaps to grow,
perhaps to sleep
perhaps as an offering by some fey creature,
to a monarch in inhuman keep.

Perhaps to flower,
perhaps to rot,
perhaps pressed in book,
as forget me not.

The strands of our fingers entwined,
about the fragile stem of nature's vase,
support a shivering of a wind more sublime
than the the one enfolding seed in its embrace.

The contact shivers,
and my bones are rattled
by the front of coming storm.
That in my eye I see beyond this day
beyond this field
beyond this moment,
when to your seed I yield.

Poetry Year August 21

Winged victory, with face long smashed and forgotten
towers over us, as ruin does over forgotten plain.
Worn down by wishes, with compromise besotten,
the city on a hill, is lost under the rain.

A rain that falls upon us, and stings like acid on high,
a darker day is dawning, a sunrise dusk is nigh.
In distance the towers, made of glass and pain,
reflect the new colors mourning, counting up the gain.

Etched by ages are the marks upon her feathers,
remnants of the turning weathers,
Monsoon, tide, and storms that have writ,
their comment on our earthly wit.

But still she stands there, her shadow reminds,
imperfectly, our triumphs leave behind designs.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Poetry Year August 20 The Option of the Public

"The Option of the Public"

The humid haze that is the due of August days,
the love coming from other sun's skies,
take me to river,
drop me in the water.

On a summer hill they fought over words,
riven between the love of all madness,
and the madness that is love for all.
take me to the river,
drop me in the water.

How many candles for the lost we lit,
from the sickness overcome.
Death by poverty,
the sentence for that common crime.
So many on death row,
in every county, state, and town.
Drenched by death and illness,
in debt they cry and drown.

Take me to the river,
Drop me in the water.

He had a dream.
That all God's children,
Would get to that mountain,
that mountain we peer to
still on far horizon.
Is he atop it looking on,
beckoning to follow,
and reflected in that every turning pool,
that is the mirror of a body politic.

Take to me to the river,
drop me in the water,
and baptize me a new,
with a new birth of freedom.
We cannot hallow, we cannot consecrate this ground,
the legions of the lost to sickness,
have hallowed it,
and their blood is a wide deep river.

Take me to the river,
Drop me in the water.

From that river let us come to the air,
for that is what the air is for,
and pledge ourselves a new day,
where upon our own,
we war no more.

Between our desert of decision,
and our shining promised city,
is this wasteland we have wandered
for forty days, and forty days, and forty more.
For forty years I'm told,
and before that some forty more.
He went out into the wasteland
and asked for blessing.

Take me to the river.
Drop me in the water.

And if we fail on this day
to do our daily bread,
let me not come up for breath again.

Poetry Year August 20

Gather globes of red that shimmer in the memory,
beneath which cluster long blond legs, and waves.
They look out with blank broken smiles and call,
cat call, can call, all call and cross check,
for a trace of moisture that might touch their lips and lives,
and so free them for a moment to imagining imagining.

Cluster the vacant leers, that grope and grab for any touch
of time or mind, but wish most of more of all,
to take and force for little livid things
that precious touch of soul soft sincerity,
that held with the heart and mind would bring them satiation.

And so the dance of taking is transfered from this world unto that,
the meaning of the maze the same, though no rats run in it.
With hold, and hold back, tease against take,
Cold contempt the currency, for the ladies of the red light quarter.

A.F. Vandevost's spring rtw collection has a very clear target audience

Mick Jagger's female clone.

Phillip Lim should

just give in and design for boys. He already is.

Poetry Year August 19th

For eight years of eternal war the globe has burned,
the anti-Christ that struck on September spurned,
to this was piled another cataclysm,
without name or knowledge, without ism.

For eight years the soot spewed on high,
until wretched defeat was tasted nigh,
the tiny hands of bright decay,
stalked the cities of light and day.

When toppled the tinker toys of financial princes,
through the blood the poison of recession rinses.
The coffers of the anointed swell,
the unction spat from some mathematic hell.

The oil that greases the wheels of woe,
comes from our vaults, not some place below.

Poetry Year August 18th

The holy hymns your father's duty sang
that tided them betwixt the storm and drang,
that flew like banners before army's throng,
sacred world of war to which you belong.

Those spires that stab the borough's heaven,
the sleepy sounds, of divine inspired lies,
the 6000 years your God has only made,
the cities to waste he is to have laid.

The shattered walls and pillars thunder-split,
the ageless torment in infernal firepit,
the mindless slaughter and cacophonous din,
that is struck on doubter's torture within.

All these things your wars will now soon outclass,
as you wrench to hold Khyber winter pass.

Poetry Year August 17th

Gasp and grasp like dying diver drowned
Or rasp like king overthrown before crowned.
Like asp to breast impaled you claw,
all the world is sucked into sullen maw.

The ocean whirlwind swirled leaves,
the shreds of fatal dignities,
the dismember hands and arms do fly,
the parts of all your little lies.

To wretched timbers twirl and swing,
like dust the wind of your malevolence sling,
plastered to them the shards of light,
that once guided us through tender night.

Your name is maelstrom, made of city's scraps
Now haven for explosive traps.

Poetry Year August 16th

You spat on me and called me a whore,
a bitch for the love money abhored.
But your glances fell hot upon my face,
my face that is your sun and eager dusk.
My race that is rising wrapped around your prominence.

You surrendered that other essence to me,
that heart of what once named a seed,
until once proud you bent like winded reed.
That's all you were, another moment or three.

You buried your face in my musk,
you tortured your conscience in place,
you surrendered to unholy decadence,
Within your face the cravings warred.

You tell me this is what I am for,
only this, and nothing more.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Poetry Year, August 15

August 15th

These are the dying times, that is the passing away,
of all your coming to bes, and all your growth is decay.
These are the moments of light's slow deflickering,
from snapshot of genius to slurred imitation.

These are the places to where your souls go,
when from the grains of the body, there is no more motion.
These are the ages, of conflict and bickering,
Where what was always known, we no longer know.

These are the dying times, when powers are fading,
When out on the vast dark sea, you enter, wading,
And feel it's tide rise and fall, ebb and flow,
Until, with mercy on your minds, to your final rest you go.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Poetry Year, August 14th

rivulets from rain on high stream down the window,
and they are tears from some angel, who is as lost as this.
I know here, she has loved and lost for all epochs
that will every be from this moment now.
Her grief is ageless, endless, and no less,
for being immortal grief, whose time unmeasured by clocks.

How much suffering could one angel bear,
before bearing down her celestial wing'ed light?
How much loss can one soul save,
That she would be stricken in her flight?
How heavy now the air, crackled with lightning's rave,
How weighed by tears an angel lost,
for out of nowhere, and down to here.

She, she goes on, for lost to perdition,
the mortal whose condition,
was too haunted by the wounds of sin,
to give over to his angel within.

And for that angel, there is only to dwell,
in a paradise, that has become her hell.

Poetry Year August 14th

Every poem its own day
deep, dawn, noon, dusk, and dark.
The colors fade with every shifting of the words,
obscuring by clouds of distance,
life breathing meaning, that fills our lungs.

Every word its own droplet,
every droplet its own world,
filled with struggles for life and death,
more potent than any human war,
cells that absorb and rip asunder,
the very walls that bear in
the precious seed of life.

Every syllable its own language,
shaped just once, surrounded by its past and future,
heading, hurtling, towards its own destiny.

Every sound its own song,
as filled with all the melodies,
as there were ages in this and every other age.

Every stroke its own art,
a history from it's start to stop,
a slash across the face of very void.

Every ripple that sops the ink from brush,
every point that glows black or white,
every stubble that is filled with blank or verse,
every movement, for better or for worse.

Each of these will dissolve like dew,
for all I write, is filled with you.

Poems August 12-13

(OK so I'm almost from tall blonde Montana boy, but not quite yet.)

August 12th

It was a picture that dropped my heart through the floor to think of you,
not the flesh and blood presentation that fills the space and time.
It was the way you stared into some occult infinity,
cradling it in your eyes.

You know my love for you was always for another,
that some how you transmuted into your own spun gold,
a tall god of shining aura, that light that comes from the utter north,
curtains of green that shimmer between the leaden mortal lands,
and the bright realm we only imagine there is.

Now that light is fading, the way they say that pictures used to do,
but now they live on in twilight glow,
were I sit, hand on palm, elbow pillared to my desk,
staring at what never was, and what might have been.

But with a touch and click,
I close that chapter of my life,
a page is gone.

and like the last moment of the sun that is eclipsed by the towers,
of this my city,
my place,
it winks to darkness.

It is done, and gone, and ever more.

August 13th

Look up, and you are falling,
It stretches straight into vanish point eternity,
touches point the sky,
piercing, at least, the lunar sphere.

What great designs are made there,
what fields of ruin are sown,
what wheels of commerce are rusted shut there,
what lives are sent to debtor's toil.

Ah the edifice of emancipation,
defying the laws of gravity and man,
to give us this canal from sea to shining sea,
that conduit from laughter into tears,
from idle moments, into dry years.

These pillars the masts and sails,
of a vessel blown by winds of fortune,
sailing on a sea of risk.

It sails from this city, which was, once the capital of the world,
And it now still, only of an under world.
an ether world,
so aptly a never never land,
for this ship of dire straits that has sailed,
will never never land.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Poems August 9th-August 11th

August 9th

Riding a comet of other nights, beneath the roaring clouds,
grey quickening from a hail that splits the air with its velocity.
In truth the waves of din that shower up the tin drum roof,
of this, a swiftly moving car
Going deeper, ever deeper into the night.
The headlights peer into restless swirls of fog and bleak,
until the exit, many miles in coming,
slams into our vision.

Oh how silent I am, how my lips are pursed.
How much I have said, and yet long to say,
but will not say.
My golden years are short and shrinking,
can I should I must I wait, and give them over to you.

You distant from me,
as far away as the gray vault stretches up,
the sweeping spotlights of some distant town,
pillars to that infinity.

Can I with any grace give,
that pulse that drives me like a beating banging drum,
the banging drum of pounding hail.
That is within, not without. Within.

Cliches swirl through my sleep starved head,
I long
I ache
I would throw up instead, and say nothing,
rather than write such peevish trash,
in ode to what I feel.

Once when first we touched our eyes,
a softening gaze alighted glance on another,
you were all that was real, and otherwise,
I stumbled through a dream,
a haze,
a shower of cold alone.

Now you are so far from me,
though the veins on your hands are carved in the corner of my eye,
your features chiseled in my memory,
your eyes fixed out towards the road beyond,
and slipping nigh.

Into the distance.

August 10th

You know of course, you always knew,
how bad the contemporary poet is,
writing reflections and sopping sound
with the hemorrhaging of loathe sentimentality.
Clasping clawing on to moments that are made of kitsch collected,
and shoved sidewise through one ear,
and out the empty other.

You know, of course, you always knew,
how I would be given to these,
not flights of fancy,
but slogs of sloth,
a lazy turn of phrase to make
the cruelest emptiness of our life's journey.

For better rhymes we cast about,
for some chain of the trinity we reach,
but it our grasp is exceeded.

No, Dante died so long ago,
that his eternal embroidered poetic prose
as if made perfect by that other sun,
that spins about the earth,
moved by a love that made a world,
this world.

Or so it says in your mythology.
Mine has been lost in all the details,
to soot and incense in crag'd, should that be a word?
mountains that are etched by ageless rains
that sweep from the roof of the ages,
fed by that third pole of explorers ambition.

Into thin air has gone the breath of rhapsody,
and lyrics are cast in such obnoxious paucity.
That a single turn of profile can turn,
the music charts, into a circus.

Utter in any language that you know,
while there is still touch in summer's glow,
that the rip of ranting raving repetition,
will give way, again, to sonorous diction.

August 11th

Twist my body until my lips,
are plumped with a fullness of blood,
that ripens their shape to fruits of pure delection.

Bend my legs until I am a folded fan,
an origami abridged only of orgasm,
through that pressure you exert on me.

Torture my senses with teasing touch,
scrape your scruff across my silken surfaces,
rasping breath from rasping scrapes.

Tend to these the wounds you've made upon me,
ligatures enrapture and erupt where bonds of leather,
restrain my to mere feeble struggles against embrace.

And with this wanting I should feel,
your rape and terror of what is yours to steal.

Ageplaying continues on second life

The big move to the adult continent has done nothing. There is still pedophile play in second life, in public, and easy to find. Pictures on the xxx blog.

If your company was skittish about second life before, they should be now. The area these pictures are from is not blocked to age verified users only.

Repeat, any one of your employees could wander around and find this.

Here. Darzo Easterwood and Marty Anton went at it for a while. They knew what they were doing, and in public.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Poetry Year, August 8th

I know,
you know,
I know you know,
and so it goes,

This that private pang of loss,
a thorn in public side,
since it was won,
that first time I looked towards the sun
to catch his gaze.
I will never forget how he out shown the sun,
and I hoped the smile I tossed,
he would catch,
and like moth to lunar light,
be drawn to it, from his day,
into my night.

And when in distant morning glow,
he for the final time left, and had to go,
I was left, curled pillow fetal,
knowing nothing, but had to know.

Poetry Year, August 8th

There falling from the sky is death that is death that burns the eyes from light.
There raining from the close flock of planes buzz like locusts I've never heard,
There in marching columns come the bayonets of rape,
There engtangled in barbed spider's aerie the huddled herd of unpeople wait.
There in camps to be swarmed over by looter's tide,
There in villages to be sliced and slashed like so much meat.
There in coughing dins of disease and plague of woe
There in market meeting spattered to spots of pink mist,
There in dying dungeons hung to wall by wrists.
Here to where your lost souls go.

It is war, and let me think of it.
It is many tales, but only one story,
War is death, transmuted to golden glory,
only by the liars art,
in which every little liar does his part.
To send your sons to slaughter,
And make victims of your every daughter,
Each to be pounded in their way,
spread eagle in the gruesome splay.

There in small dark rooms with flag hung high,
The next apocalypse in words is drawn nigh.

It is war, and it is many tales,
but exactly one story.
How death transmutes to golden glory.

Set it in Hiroshima, Baghdad, Nanjing.
Lay the scene in Buchenwald, Kinshsa, or Flander's field,
call it war, or battle, or revolution by night,
it's all the impact of the rock, wielded by might.

Poetry Year 6th, 7th

August 6th

That rich earth you call your own,
a scent that permeates not just the fibers of your clothes,
but the fabric of your life.
This is you that I will remember.

That sky that hung above your head,
the lights like stars more burning than any of other nights,
that shine in your wicked glance,
and pierce in your withering disdain.
This is you that brands me now.

That wind that rushes across the open plains,
carries the souls of all who tilled these soils,
hunted on these grounds,
made camp by lucid veins of water meandering to the sea.
It drives your movements still,
and sweeps all before you in your eternal energy.

That flowering that is America,
raised on corn, and worshiping the sun,
is now to me directed.
I smile, as you call me your goddess of the sun,
the source from which,
a new harvest will be won.

August 7th

My eyes are blacker than the darkest pit of torture's devising,
my soul is darker than the the midnight that is rising,
my mind as far from daylight as the distant comet's swing,
by love more lost than any living thing.

But once I shined with all fertility,
But once I was enraptured in warm tranquility,
How did this happy state fall to revolution?
It came with her and your love's dissolution.

Her locks were golden and bright reflective,
her glance cat quick and so deceptive,
her mirth tangled round you like kitten's yarn unspun.
She conquered with out battle, without struggle won.

Fair of face, fair of flower, fair of all the graces you admire,
but how unfair the cost to this cold country berift of fire.

(Today's to come later.)

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Poetry Year August 6th

We stood alone on crest of sand ridden hill,
in this place that is so much mine as would that I could own it.
That peculiar taste of light of morning,
as it crowds through clouds herded on low horizon.
We talked, truly, this, and nothing more.

I know you think him rival to your affections,
that this walk an insult to fidelity.
I can hear you turn your back on me,
even over the phone.

I can feel the steam flow off your back,
even though you are far away.

Far away but under the same moon,
that is bloated as it rises through the moss clad trees,
far away but under the same moon,
as it bleeds out in me.
far away, far away in word and affection,
the sharpness of your tone cuts through me
through the front of my knees,
it makes me grow weak with fear.

I miss you so.

Poetry Year August 5th

You have no idea what I have seen,
nor what has passed my lips,
nor what words formed at my finger tips,
that shaped a denied fancy into idyll of an hour.
Leaving behind, in him, sleep,
and in my, a restless dream that calls for some soothing.

But that is another paradise from down above to look.
There is no peace, nor any justice,
only days that pass one by in another,
making so the meaning of a moment's passed.

I have stroked the air and carved arcs of fire across the horizon,
shaping figures into forms that dole out the petty pleasure
on seeing them there is such an ecstasy as only angels know.
Yet some how they will be, in some moment, gone.

And like me, a memory that is fainter than the trace of dew,
on that other morning to where our lives deny.

Have I waken? Not yet, oh please not yet.
Let me linger among these my edifices,
let me shape these words a few days more,
before they grow silent in my mind.
Let me sleep here, a little longer.
And then not to wake again, but my last memory be
a dream of which dreams are made.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Poetry Year - The poems I owe

August 1st

The sanctity of heart's design is my sacrament,
which you take to sacred lips as thee drink me in.
In this transported from this age that has fallen from poetry,
through prose, through dialog, and is left,
only, with exclamations. That lowest form of language.

But in the sensuality of your caress of kiss,
all that is new, is old again,
my garments take on the transparency of lace,
windows to my flushing flooding need.
Open to that joy which is without passing,
in the way that that which only the fleeting can be.

A glance transfixes like a nail through the eyes and into memory,
a touch marks upon the map the spot which is forever in one place,
a word whispered on the air, is the storm that is perfection to it grace.
I hope my face is this to you, and sets your heart's imagination, free.

Bless my face with your kisses,
bless my cheek with your touch,
bless my ears with your breath,
and never let them go from me.

August 2nd

The aching of the heart is mere cliche, would that I could dispense with it,
not the aching, nor the words, but with the heart itself.
I wish that you would plunge your hand through my chest,
pulling from its cage this beating, breaking, bleeding thing.
It gushes a roaring tide within my ears,
around my chest it binds with bonds of iron bands.
With each beat, it turns a key that cranks the closer,
until no air can enter through my mouth,
until you have kissed it.

Give me just one drink of you, give me just one moment
then let me sink in lethe to darkness dwelling,
happy suicide on the alter of your fluid mastery,
of these poor limbs which would dance,
or move, or lie, or come or go, or sit or rest,
all at your command.

Rip the breath from me with the hurling pulse of pleasure,
fill me with the future that is without measure,
then let me die in your arms, my beating heart in your hands.
Because that is how, at this moment, I truly feel.

August 3rd

Far far away, in the lands that are green rolling fields,
that are filled with spirits and with myth,
from whence came your ancestors,
hair spun of gold, eyes poured of ocean,
skin brushed with snow, lips blossomed with roses.
For all the pretty of your features,
your bones are cut of mountains, your arms encompass whole lands.

With them you encircle me, and take my virgin country with the ocean wave
that makes and maketh passion winged to the sky,
carried by clouds the bringers of the cooling water,
the birthing of life below, and within,
whose scattered touches, feel like acid on my skin,
but sustenance when they sink within.

August 4th

These rhymes pile up on my fingers,
like scattered bodies go after rapture in the heights.
I show the splendors of your faith in my reflection,
to give up all for a ring of gold and cross of silver,
if that is the will where fate should lie.

But it is not for this or them that I give these demonstrations,
I do not bow to him, or them, but only then to kneel and nod,
and kiss your hands as willing bride,
cloaked and clad in wedding white,
untouched by any past save that I share with you.