.... numbered, archived, one whole season..... here.... thank you for reading.... start anywhere ....... -d1.
I am late,
like spring,
my branches draped
with March snowcover.
Icicles drip from downspouts
near my roots. I am an ancient oak,
independent of tardy seasons.
Saw me in two to count my rings.
I have seen spring arrive in arrears
more years than not. Seasons do not
own me yet I invest in sapling energy
since I must. Disease eats my sprigs.
Leaves will leave well enough alone,
insistent on nonappearance.
I am certain they will not show.
I am late, like Spring.
I yearn for equinox.
I desire chlorophyl-
filled fields, green,
envious like a painted
sky. I yield
to the equinox,
await my blossom,
anticipate my flush,
languish my flower.
I am late,
like spring
is late, the hour,
my prime, not yet mine.
_________________
2.
Can you hear the crocuses?
The hyacinths? The baby's breath?
Can you detect their gentle yawn?
Their awakened zeal? Their glory on the
heal of winter fury, their tender harmony,
their vehement outcry
their assurance, their authority?
Confidence is a redundant beast.
He sits patiently in morning mist,
legs crossed, diligent, a guide to
flourish, an usher to consistent
change.
He takes the lead. He maneuvers
from one stance to the next. He creates
a dance with Nature, ignorant of her
control.
Can you hear the sparrow
break into song? Can you measure
the significance of a long wait for
wonder and illusion?
Confidence is a magician,
a fake, a stagemaker, a pathfinder,
a conductor.
Can you hear the robin's mating tune?
I am confident that if you listen well,
you can sense the certainty of Spring.
Bring me
your lips and
I will whisper a maiden-tune
into them with mine!
It is time. It is time.
Reach down to ground-surface.
Feel the breaking of soil!
Can you hear the world revolve
1/4 of an orbit around a fireball?
Come close.
I will show you the
garden, vernal –
desired!
_________________
3.
I took a photograph the day
I tossed a penny into a bottomless fountain,
the discus-wish, my lament, a flip spent
on dreambliss. A perilous delay made
its way to a lethal surface. It was as if I had
photographed autumn's intent to represent
the virtue of hue, but this time, an unexpected
tint, a prelude to resilience, brought residue
to the top, like tonic or sparkling spring water,
his voice, my remembrance, an eruption
on surface dreams, a still life captured
by a lens.
Summer is tense.
Winter, bleak in absence.
Spring brings
air currents
current
into
view.
When I want to see you,
I release the image
into my hand,
polaroid,
apparent,
persistent,
wish-filled,
valid like
permanent
ink.
_________________
4.
I have never given up on Spring.
I have succumbed to the reckoning
of curiosity. Worms worm their way
into holes in surfaces covered by moss.
Insects inspect portals; the portholes of
trespassing – wormholes into deepspace –
tentacles which represent delving in.
Insects. Worms. Caterpillar moths.
When I was twelve, I danced a ballet.
Or maybe I was fifteen.
It is hard to distinguish
birthrights. We wore sackcloth,
woven burlap wrapped around our shoulders,
demi-plies, inched onto the stage from stageleft,
smoke sifted from the eaves, each direction produced
by an off-camera dilettante, and we stripped
the fabric off, our arms wired with cellophane
paper mache -- bright dignity! Primary
palette colors, secondary accents!
Wings to fly! Wings to fly!
Wings to fly the butterfly dance!
Ah! The chance
of Equinox! Ah! The spin! Ah,
the mating! Ah, the querulous
revolution of seasonal questioning!
No, I have never given up on Spring.
I have never given up on Spring!
Bring me my Pointe shoes!
Hurry! Hurry!
_________________
5.
Oh Yes! Oh Yes!
Some of us wear exclamation
like the Wind, reticent, fluid, native,
intact, innate, born!
Oh Yes! Some of us wear
ready-to-land easily-laundered
flightsuit costumes with ripcords
and some of us don't play chords at all
in diminished
sevenths, flatted fifths,
augmented minors.
We are not
definitions of
music terminology.
We are leapers from air-
vehicles! We are pollen
blown from a flower-pistol -
We are fertilizing air!
We are fertilizing air!
Oh Yes! Oh Yes!
Some of us wear parachutes!
Some of us wear garments to protect us
from the fall!
I am one, though often I am Eve
and I wear nothing
at all.
_________________
6.
I am naked as a jaybird,
clothed only by the reflection
from a lamplight.
Moths hover my
flame. I name them
like pets.
I am only clothed by a
faint aura of forgiveness.
I have elected to relieve myself
from my skin, layer by layer, silken
discovery by silken discovery, pattern by
pattern, no matter the designer signature.
I am unclothed.
I am totally nude.
I am under the lamplight
of inspection.
Judge me for my skin texture.
Judge me for my exposure.
Camera angles don't mean much.
Catch me at dawn when the residue
of lighting makes its way
into your iris.
I am quite fortunately undressed.
My silken robe is at my feet.
I have no desire to retrieve it.
I am a dreamnymph comfortably
rid of unimportant superficial skin.
I have discarded the burlap.
I am naked as a jaybird.
WYSIWIG
_________________
7.
What You See Is What You Get
It is Best We Don't Forget
List Goes On and On and Yet,
Bet is Off Or On, We Let
What You See is What You Get
Pave Our Way to Debt on Debt,
Let Us Just be Fair and Just,
What You See is What You Must.
Ashes, Ashes, Dust to Dust,
Desiree, Love, Lust to Lust,
What You See Is What You Get,
Spring it On Us, Bet by Bet.
What You Get is What You See.
Me and You and You and Me.
Speak it out Repeatedly.
But, though, Please, Let's
Never Fret.
What You Get Is
What You Let.
_________________
8.
OK City, twistah-sista,
funny, we're not in kansas anymore,
beat kacchung ta beat kaachung ta
keepin' rhythm with percussionist-tyrants
like da gods who've got control of da scene but
listen, miss, if you have an inkling of what i mean,
lets dance to a rapture.... You play the ropes,
double-dutched in synch.... I'll attempt to determine
weather (sic) ToTo can get us released from the spell of
a wizard.
I have never trusted street salesmen,
their booths set up for a con. I don't think we should
worry about Glenda. She is the Good Witch, of course..
But she has no power over miracles.
Let's jump! Spring it up!
I'll dance to your tune.
Go! White birds heard
on the radio.
_________________
9.
Spring is not a better season.
Autumn competes with breezes.
Summer is the bank. We owe him.
He owns the mystery of perfect circle, the
balance of an arc, the visibility of beyond
horizons, the clarity o definition before
Autumnfall, he, the Devil, he the Adam,
he, the denial, he the arrogant dismisser
of warmth, he, the particular shawl-donner,
cold to a possible change of aircurrent, he,
the dryness, the darkener of transparent hue,
He, the Fall,
the disparity,
the variable,
the denial,
the forever-
disappeard,
the precurser to
frozen skin.
Spring is not a
better season,
or a worse,
but it is within
its barriers where
we attempt awakening,
verse emerged from
derelict burials.
I will give you my sweater
if you will give me your wintercoat.
Let us trade
protections and fabrics.
I will allow you to view
through my eyes if you will
permit me to sit on your shoulder
and speak hear through your ears.
We could possibly partake in a
hummingbird medly, painted with
japanese strokes on rice paper.
Spring is not a better season.
It is the very best season, bar none.
Spring receives me, opened, petals
bare, fruitborn, receptive,
vigilant, determined.
Spring is the only season
Spring is the only season
desired. I lust for her
luscious sweater.
I don it on bare arms.
I charmed her out of it
when she teased me with it.
.
Spring is not a better season.
It is the only season.
It is the only season.
It is Love.
_________________
10.
I have partaken of Love's feast,
complete with courses, first, the appetizer
tease, next, the soup to sip, warm, inviting,
afterward the salad, crisp, enticed with endives,
olives black like holes in hand-drawn eyes, later,
a main course delicate to partake, sauces drenched
to satiate a Queen, and I have gleened ideals from
corners of eyelashes while maids made their way to
serve, their aprons laced around their middle-belly,
svelte as sliced mahogany, sand-smoothed into
wood sculpture, seasoned with salt, peppered with
accented herbs, warmed-up by a blow of breath!
_________________
11.
We are off to ring in spring
with margueritas, salt on the rim,
Mexican guitar accompanying,
my eyes undressing him,
a toast to resurrection, Love,
our waiter serving enchiladas filled
with melted cheese, hot to the tongue,
poetry scribbled on napkins, passed
back and forth, my feet sandaled,
a flirt with a boot underneath the table,
able fingers caressing palms,
our colorful flair decorated with
winks and lip synchs, singing
Spanish tunes in 2-part harmony.
We are off to ring in spring,
our rite to celebrate the equinox.
Clocks stop when Love arrives.
It is always spring in his arms,
and oh the charms of this senorita,
jalapino-spiced, delicate!
We are off to ring in spring
at an outdoor cafe!
And oh, the way the flaminco
will woo us!
_________________
12.
We return from partaking in
seasonal mysteries, cyclical,
our mission, musical, our
collective voices.
We usher in yet another
turn of earth, turn turn turn
a garden bed with a pitchfork.
We watch God watch us, awed
by our smallness. We are
worker ants. He is the
landscape architect,
the botanist.
We prepare our bed for seeds
to be buried in wet soil, fertilized,
stamen and pistol, stalk and
sepals, petals coming soon,
coming soon,
stigma, style, ovary,
ready for reproduction.
Photosythesis is
sexy. Come with me
and I will be
your perfection.
Let us combine
to make
earthmagic!
_________________
13.
Force me to walk a path in a public square –
allow the crowd to whip me with reeds
until my skin bleeds, my blood, the remedy,
my blood dripped to my feet, a sticky walk,
a ridicule, a veritable abuse! I am not worthy
of heartbeat or breath! Put me to the test!
Murder me by a stab into my hands,
a sword pierced below my ribs!
Hang me on a tree so all who suffer
can identify with me! Make a mockery
by crowning my forehead with thorns!
Hide my desolate bones in a tomb
sealed with a rock and I will vanish
to be reborn on the third morn', my
gift to you, my gift to you, my death,
my rising, my death, my rising!
Spring me from imprisonment!
Sacrifice me now for I am humiliated
to be human!
_________________
14.
Adam could never understand
his role in the garden.
He was fooled indirectly
by asp and feminine will.
Adam was an outcast,
his companion effected shrill
language, demanded her position,
a siren, unearthed by lonely need.
Adam was a pushover, his mate,
a con, ousted, though
the garden lives on,
overgrown with
weeds and
choke-vines –
no chance of survival
for the ignorant.
What did Adam know?
To taste the fruit, his
sole goal.
What did Adam know?
To taste the fruit.
To taste the fruit.
Mmmmmm.....
To taste the fruit.
_________________
15.
I am Eve.
I am married to Adam.
He elicits warmth in my garden bed
each night when light has dimmed,
each morning when darkness breaks
into a tension of tongue and tease.
I am Eve. Adam is a fool.
Adam is a saint, the first Christ
who saved me from his very snake!
He brought me out of the garden
so we could indulge in sin.
I open my heartlegs, wait
for his Second Coming.
_________________
16.
They have set the base to pour
concrete into Eden. They dug it out
like a grave, stretched plastic between
poles and posts, eliminated soil
with a backhoe, tomorrow the filling.
They will execute the death of perfection,
level the dirt until it's covered with asphalt,
mark the spot with a tombstone etched in stone.
Born date. Death date. Cause of death, unknown.
Where did the tree of knowledge go?
Where is the deceptive snake now?
I don't know but I know somehow that
we should participate in the digging up
of skeletons, let them run rampant through streets,
meet Eve halfway up the hill, make a plan to use
machinery, a jackhammer perhaps, to break up the
sealing in of a miracle.
Eden is being imprisoned.
Release the city! Allow her to breath!
Her inhabitants are sufficating!
Hurry! They have set the base to pour
concrete into Eden! Hurry!
Let us take to the streets
to protest and save her from
the burial!
_________________
17.
Alladin appeared to Eve.
She rubbed his lamp 'til he believed,
his spirit appeared like magic!
Vernal vigor
suffers allowance.
There are many more topics
than a change of seasons.
_________________
18.
It is all a myth.
Cain. Abel. Lilith.
No truth
except this....
All truth lies within
the eyes of the perceiver.
I will be a believer
of Love, the apex,
the joy, I will not be
decieved! I will believe
in Love.
_________________
19.
Mythmaking is the taking of history,
complete with valid facts, usurping the
surreptitious quiet, dark secrecy of
characters and melding them, validly
into a storyline, all for the cause of
a moral.
Revisionist historians depend on
mythmaking. Revolutionaries, powerkings,
queens of salutary conclusions, storyboards
composed by advertising giants, mystical
matters reconstituted for a new season.
MTV comprehends the elevation of
gossip, NBC revises daily reports,
CNN has content management software
installed with a space for non-descript
citizens to reply in public eye.
Mythmaking is an art. Ads to promote
an ideal, feel-good sensationalism.
Stratas, strataspheres.
Truth is this.
Spring is no myth!
Eggs can be painted with blood or
despersed by semen, seeds planted
yielding dirt beneath nails.
Someone falls
off a cross every day,
no matter the way the sun sets
or the time behind mountains, hills,
skyscapes, his or her blood staining
the ground we walk upon and this is good.
This is good.
Spring is no myth.
It appears vigilent within
a quarter rotation, Love reborn
with a jonquil.
Still, my heart entwined with yours,
recipients of wonder and delicate
awe!
Trace life with the surface of an index finger
around a circumference of a facial profile!
Touch me with your myth!
I rise from below silt and residue to become!
Each myth is young! Each, vibrant!
Spring sings silent
songs which long
for play!
_________________
20.
Each preceding year,
I have flourished with the
equinox, this, an annual ritual!
I arrive once more
resurrected by music
composed under your eyelids,
performed by a sunbath!
