Eh, it was a rough monday

With relative ease
With quiet calm
Found in the thunderous words of a hushed master
An ancient, wise master

With smallish lenses through which I see
His lenses
His words
Making me believe
In the rhythm
In the language
Of this nation

Making me know something
Of the easy, subtle flow
Of energy and power
Passed between men
Between women
Between lovers and tutors

Diligent pupil that I am
Listening to the grit of the words
As they work their way
Out of his pen, out of his mouth
And I am sure he is making half of this up
Letting it be recorded as he thought It up
Never minding who will clean it up

Naked, raw, proverbial words
Silky, sultry, illustrious words
That make me fall in love all over again
That make me melt, make me sweat all over again

Trembling,
Shivering,
Dripping,
Anticipation,
I turn the page
And I read aloud
“Come, said my Soul
Such verses for my Body let us write”

Angor Wat

My head is pounding & my heart is racing. Nausea for the last ten minutes. Rotation. The room is spinning, spinning, spinning while I am standing still& I am feeling like death warmed over. A corpse microwaved to a semi-animate state. I cannot make myself calm. Down. There is a depression pulsing, quickly, ironically coming over me. Forcing its’ anti way into my system & I want to take revenge, take advantage of others of myself. Food in the room is making me sick. I can feel my body tensing, tightening. Bullet ants. I am hyper & bored. Sick & sane. The pounding in my right temple will not stop. But I cannot remember when this began. Has it always been there? Like the ringing in my ears? Like the well repressed southern drawl? Is this a physical retribution? Have my body and brain finally come to such odds that I am betrayed? Too much sleep? Not enough sleep? Too much clean food? Not enough clean food? Too much exercise? Not enough exercise? My body is disconnected. My body is heavy and puffy. Nothing fits. Nothing is right. Nothing is comfortable. I am sick from something. & I am sick from everything. & all at once the cliché is overwhelming. . . I am sick from nothing.

This is How I Sing the Body Electric

red faced dreams
come now to listen
come now to my side
swiftly, cautiously, with fleet treaded interest
come

sit silent in the moment
in the breeze of well spent dreams
silent in the pages
of ancient rhyme
and come well versed
to the bridges
to the ending of the ought

soft thought, well thought
second sight moments
aft Ovid
aft Virgil

aft and yet ere
here we are
in new spent money
in new spent dawn
drinking slowly brewing honey

fresh, new, spirit, of the moment
spirit of the now
nouveau, vogue, novel
this original
this impetus
this, this, this, and that.

A Question of Time

overcome,
partial to the feeling
between realms, waiting for moments of epiphany
as breezes turn to torpid winds
that whip round the corners of my frame
with hints of snow the air chills all that it touches
and still my sun-warmed face,
begs me to close my eyes
and sit for a moment longer
towards the coming
towards the speaking
towards the stripping
towards the morning.

Bring Your Chains

Here we pitter
Here we pat,
Here we turn our steps to dance
And here we dreamt of that

We stepped once
We stepped twice
We turned our lives about
And with steps as fleet as vice

Down the hall
Down the lane
Down to the hollow ground
And down to the river once again

Slowly pounding
Slowly growing
Slowly edged together
And slowly we are coming

And swiftly
We
Are
Dying.