Jughead + Delphi = Forever

My radiant face is the sunny facade
Of the Adult Video and Book Shoppe,
Your capable hand clasped around my one long freckled arm
You've been here before
You are familiar with the heaviness of the door
That leads inside
I note that you're
Using just enough force to ease me open
Without unwarranted attention
From the sullen clerk
Careful not to
Pique the horsey shyness of the clientel.



A girl who drew down on herself the displeasure of the heavens

Have mercy!
I'm just a dumb beast in the spring time
With the dull animal rememberance of sex

Exhaling floral hormonal sighssighssighs

And blushing petals stick in your hair
Drifting yonder
To infect all around me
Awakening similar lusts
Exhuding an aura
Of pink harmlessness
Restrained only barely
By a famous blue raincoat
A Rose called Carnation
In my teeth

A May-time fire in my veins called MN
Raising welts in the fabric of my innermost
Guts
Flying always South
In dusty rural daydreams, lately
My fingers are velveteen field mice
I'm up to the elbow in the splendid icing
Of a wedding cake's memories
Sharpened marzipan teeth
Jaded claws on the greedy fingers
Of this will' O the whisp
That sweeps softly through all the local Friday nights.

It was all a dream:

Awakened by the wolf-cry of twin choppers across
The prairie streets
My vision splits
I know with the certainty now
That I am cursed
Sideways
Brought back from this reverie
To find the constellation Orion
His belt writ in glittering lacerations
Across my milk-white _ k_ n.

I am sure of what comes next,
An audience with the Oracle . . .
I am headlong in preparation,
Making myself so drunk that I cannot talk
And going to loiter on her porch
Not far from the Aerostar
While a sickness all in golden bruises
Affllicts me, I lean there /
On her pillars /
And track-marks and pinstripes
Emboss my body
Scaling down the masterpiece of femeninity
With Thursday Night's style
I'm overready for my audience

*Bellerphon Calling!

Obscenity is is a pair of knees
Hitting the grass so hard that Chlorophyll
Spills like dental blood
And OH!
Sweet green grasses,
Under starry neon signs
The only limit we knew in this world
Dictated by a chain-link fence lined
With faded pastel refuse
Always we were destined
To scale a God's mountain
My body in your kitchen,
Now that's obscenity.


I exhale just once more
You crave the hot/cold chocolate
Of my words
I dream of foreign pavement
And new crystaline pint glasses
That I will cradle child-like against my breast
As I dwell behind the stained-glass divder
Sentenced and destined by Delphi
To run on bridges forever,
Passing greater and more beautiful things as I go
Never to linger
As my feet will singe

And the bridges burn.

am I what we say I am?

We are what we say we are
By saying what we Are, we Are
Are we not, if NOT saying What we are?
We are what we say we are

By saying 'What? we Are we. Are
we not? can't we be?
We are what we say we are
Am I what we say I am?

Are we not? can't we be
what I say I am?
Am I what we say I am?
I can't be what we say I am

Is what I say I am,
what we say I am?
Am I what we say I am?
Are we what we say we are?

Pantoum

Hey treefolk, anyone want to do some writing challanges? I just learned about Pantoum's (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5786) and wrote one out. It was a flipping trip once I got into the groove of it. I say we each do one and post it? Extra points if it makes sense (lord knows my doesn't)


I get it now

A conversation with yourself that is
not supposed to be read but sometimes
comes out, rendering the mundane
tolerable in an otherwise dreary day-to-day.

Not supposed to be read but thought,
as if that is more of a challenge!
Tolerating the dismal routine of
mind inside self and self projecting meaning,

as if that was man’s one and only obstacle:
thinking about thinking self into obscurity.
Mind over self and self-withstanding pain.
Best thing about writing: paper has nothing to gain.

Like thinking of things that obscure singularity
discriminates nothing when penned on the page.
Best think about writing on paper: words are free
which, is also true for ideas wildly out of place.

Discriminating empty space, ink dries on the page-
I get it now, a conversation with yourself!
A proper position for thoughts tranquil yet untamed
for when they come, they flush out the ordinary.

melange-a-trois

on a CBC surfin safari she was sippin syrup with Gertrude Stein
I had a twitch, I was a nervous birth-down at the corner of heart attack and vine
Alice B. was sitting there, just a sittin', wastin' thyme and she said to me,
children of the moon recieve us! little darling don't bleed us
children of the moon recieve us! little darling don't bleed us
Ddrrrryyyyyyyyy
and Hhigggghhhhh
and waitin' for the spice to return, Ill make you some water if you'll get me the worm.
I'm churning out ashes that you put in an urn
cuz I'm curlin' out slowly like the fronds of a fern
caps-lockin' and poppin with adherance to code of the heard,
'picture me rollin and scratchin' inscribed under my neckbeard
not even withstanding stickers that read, 'keep portland weird'
(even if it does make for a good asparagus or overhead light)
moon kids skid stopping on short patience with tall bikes
they had torches sans pitchfork, atleast till the album strikes
children of the sun believe us, little darling dont feed us
little darling dont fetus
little darling please heed us;
a rose is a rose is a rose
but everybody knows that just isnt true
nobody grows right out of the blue
and I am not really you, but
youve got my thorns and Ive got your vine
sippin on syrup with Gertrude Stein

The Gorgon’s Will Be Done

I.

Today we felt the sea change.
Felt the current sweep the
heaver particles of sediment
from the depths up to
the shallow pools of the
Mediterranean Sea where
we garden, populating the rough
coast with immovable vigils
of stone.

“Born of the sea” our mother told
us, “with the spirit of Poseidon.”
“Scared under his star,” she said
we wouldn’t live beyond a century.
But here we are, legion and aging
pristinely. We lay in hideous wait
for an opportunity to leave. Then
it happened: we felt our future
change.


II.

Poseidon’s spirit
sure left its
stain: he took us
at the altar of
Athena. We were
fair-cheeked
and chaste.

O cursed be that
name, that
scourge of legend
who forces
himself on the
prettier young
women.

There was Tyro
and Allope.
Demeter then
Europa. As well
As Amymone,
Caeneus, Clieto
And melia .

He’s had them all
And desecrated,
More reputations
Than Nero has
Christians. That
abomination
of lust

sent us to
this island of
ruin where
no gentleman
dare navigate
its cliffs or stroll
its wastes.


III.

An admirer will come dote on us
today. Not my lovely sisters
but us, the wretched lonely. We
know from the sea and on
the shore where the gulls screeched
“he is coming and bears four
gifts on his horse: a cap, a sword
sandals, and a shiny targe.” We
expect he’ll leave

with three more judging from the
surge in appetite since that
night Poseidon laid with us. We
have dreamt of the children
that will spring from our abdomen
We’ve waited for this collector
To come free us from our
Pebbly prison—wait, what’s
That in our garden?

Is that our sisters we see
or our own reflections…