Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

a pierced flow-out
baubles for emperors
no clothes today

wedding blessed that
did not last...or did it after
17 years and 3 bumps
in a pot holed road on
the way to Han Shans
lofty cave in the ten tai
mountain range............

i gambled with repast,
betting on my faith in nutrition.
i ended up eating crow,
egg on my face in the second row
of the vestibule, wafered by
two pews of nuns, blood spilled
from the sacrifice of hunger for myth.

the wolf and coyote wail, insisting
the moon is the catalyst for change.

i rearrange my beliefs on a rosary,
count blessings one by one, strangling
myself with a tear necklace.

i am famished.
i listen to the wind
as if it could feed
me answers.

wolfen sighs swallow up light
shadowshivers
gumless truths toothed
in hairless godlessmothers flight

the powder blue of joy
surrenders to the grey
of this cloudy day that
leads to my religion which
is to believe and take faith
in the God of Action Poetry
and the canon of improvisation be the "KEY".............

if the wind held answers
what would be asking the questions?
i hang wash to dry
under a cerulean blue sky
stretching arms up to catch the
wind, the smell of chlorine strong,
sheets snapping, and I remember
my mother performing the same
duty. funny, to have to come
to a 3rd world country to make
connections from long ago.

skewed telephone lines and there
is no answer but a dial tone
[erk] no dial tone. but a pulsing
silence.

.

here on the mountaintop
it's all desert
one wind blows
one way sway

nightbirds whoosh with willows
palm fronds extend hope
a wailing world
brushed in the sky

I felt the moon creep up
and attempted to hide behind
a full blown jacaranda’s
blossoms falling to pave
a road filled with desolation.
The moon softens the streets,
softens the mood, creates
a mystery, as if we really
needed one.

.

the jam gods throw down
rain smokes the pavement
on their feet, street heat
splice in a beat...

i improvise with arch angels,
bellowing windsong quests
in harmonics.

i extend my voice to falsetto octaves,
claiming the praise of mythical gods.

salvation is the mystic lie.
i will never be rescued from a hollow try
crying servitude, dying to wanton
hurricane eyes.

the voice is a magical instrument.
listen to the mimic of windchimes.

nothing is angelic
except the sound of a wolf howl
and pant -- we wail chants
beneath orion's buckle,

no-one to hear.
no-one to hear.

under the radiance of moon
i wonder how it is,
so small am i
so small the moon
so far away

the two of us in earthen time
my glance up
its lofty face bright in our shared sun

how fine the trick
how strange the coincidence
i laugh
at the mystery
of all

how many angels dance on the head of a pin?
a thimble would hold a million. his fingers
make my head spin, the touch is a light thorn
making the blood sing. and the beat of a heart
can thunder loudly, music drumming into
places previously left undiscovered.

.

rain falls harder as we
make a getaway........
children sing as we leave,
rain steadier and our enriched pockets full ....for now....

i can hear your rain
i can feel an earthquake
i can taste the za'atar sprinkled on a plate
hummous and olive oil

i am an earth rotating
between love and sleep
anger and surprise

i eat dinner with midnight strangers
and share jokes with intimate soulfriends

a word with sushi intent
raw amazement
how close we are

to do the thorn dance on a head
the nether head of thunder and drumming
in places we won't mention
how thick is the trick?