The Large Hadron Collider, the world's largest atom smasher on the quest to discover the 'God particle,' has smashed its previous record for particle collisions.

6 in the morning ode to the sea swell and the setting moon

 

Now let me speak to you of wetness

Moisture

Flow of creek

River

Sea

 All life

might spring forth from water but what of the wetness of

Spirit?

What of the space between our legs

The place where heaven begins

Where water pours forth

often to bring joy and pleasure?

The precursor to child birth?

Child sprung in fluid and blood and clean clean water

Wetness surrounded

 womb and now

in womanhood.

The wetness that just is there

Resident.

The amniotic fullness of

longing.

Yolk suspended in viscous clarity.

 cleansed

 alive

 pulsing

 swimming toward some unknown form

 of ecstasy and  release

 squeals of delight that often resemble falling rain or

 the wail of wild cat   mourning wife or mother

     the call to prayer

A cry to Christ or  Allah   the Buddha crossing river

The dew drop in its fall from cloud.

The mist rested upon limb.

Steam vents rising through forest canopy.

A face seen in a puddle sky behind this face.

Squall dark ascending.

Vertical water descending.

Waterfall that flows from the hearts desire to a pool

of clear passion.

Revived by a sparking of blossomed garden.

The faucet opened by the hands of myself

as I reach for this transformed spirit.

released by my sorrow.

My Wetness met by tears shed under night sky and full moon.

 Face covered in salt my black

 shirt stained with white rings of dried salt from this crying

Flooded marsh.

Torrential current.

Spring .

    Take this piece of blue rag cloth  I roll up the edges as a sow bug rolls out of

        danger

   I remember laying down on the stark wooden pew bench in a church

     scented with myrrh and terror

    I remember watching the baby jesus looking 

     at his effigy

     on the cross

     the bleeding

    of wine and host the din and the bla bla bla of choir rolling up the pages of a missle thin

    thin

    paper with tiny words that meant nothing.

  Now I take the blue cloth and hang it on the fence with a prayer written on it .

  I’ll breathe into the gold.   I’ll give my breath up for the dead   for earthquake   tsunami 
  frost.      Extinction.

  For the lipstick red    sacred owl song  and  moon in exhaltation

  my  breath  belongs to a

           Manzanita 

   fire in winter    starlight     then night    then sky void of moon 
  then fox print along the morning path.

 the barn where the wind rests in the evening right before supper.

Ode to Will Amato’s Teeth

I was not given a glimpse of them
so quickly despite
yr mercurial wit,  yr wryness and swift
acerbic humor   how your eyes
willingly smile way before your
mouth ever does.

There is no agreement between them.

As the lines at the corner of your eyes grimace
and resist muscles twitch    a rising of blood
pulses.

I see you

as your lips begin to wrestle with your
reluctance to acquiesce to the pleasure
of a smile.

The exposure of one’s feigned amusement
all this   lay to rest    sullenness

dark
brooding.

Lost Bardo.
Plank walked.

My eye arrives to the tiptop of your lower incisor
slightly higher than the others
as if it were your first baby tooth
the first one to break gum and bleed.

Emerging in shocking disharmony.

Rebellious in the company of your other teeth.

As if it were the first skyscraper in barren landscape.

Yet, as this vanguard clears

Undaunted, periscopic

The air and it’s climate and determines

Safe surroundings

a 

courageous grin unravels

and sparkle flashes from within your

black black eyes

erupting smoke stained ivory.

Surrendered.

Whimsy’s muse.

Red House

 Coming home

 from radiation this morning

 crossing town in the rain

 up Market Street across the Civic Center

 I listen to Jimi Hendrix in my car turned up loud to

drown out the din & the  cacophony of city morning

  I listen to

Jimi play  Red House

 and the guitar wails over the sounds of the busses and around the trench    coated men crossing the street.

 Jimi riffs over the commuters weaving

 in and out

 over and

 across

the cable car tracks and the secretaries in high heels crossing

wet shiny streets and the bass line just now  beat  up  the

shuffle of a  homeless man

carrying  his burden of a lifetime down sidewalks busy

with disinterested workers and mothers with strollers pushing cell phones.

 Jimi made that guitar cry and sing wild moaning  as I tried to breathe in  the diesel fumes and bay water to

erase the smell of rotting flesh.

          Lily.

from Singapore with no time at all really, left opens  her  gown  and

shows me her blackened chest the sores that will not heal the rare cancer

they say is incurable she falls into my arms and I hold her  she cries and in unconsolable holding my breath with nothing I can do nothing pounding me in the head with a mallet.

I hold my breath

                        anticipating

the smell of the gown room in the morning

     sipping a large latte I hold my breath

as

a Chinese woman with her mahogany wigged hair and her blackened nose

rotted out to the cartilage

from a cancer found only in Cantonese women  sits  beside  me  curled  up in a waiting room chair with a big box of coconut cupcakes to give to the nurses .

This morning Jimi sang the blues as I sat in the gown room as the only woman there this morning without a wig on.

My black watch cap pulled down low over my head no shield for all the

astonishment of sacrifice and worry

no match for the absence of eyelash, eyebrow the soft duff of fine peach fuzz on my chin no more statement of purpose rather than style no more

ode to my vanity than a wish for warmth to come from somewhere

 there’s a red house over yonder and

 rain pounds the asphalt and traffic snarls

 as the guitar growls and leaps heights of fury and crescendo

 and spit fire the blues

 remain

 here

 resident .

04/05/06

Saturn goes direct

San Francisco

detail from 'a child's chair'

Saturn Square Pluto

I am analyzing everything. My placement on earth. My propensity for melancholy, evasiveness and solitude. I know fruition for me exists in spices and sparking flesh to fat and sprouted blossom and devotion unhinged.
I know my abundance resides in the giving place of the soul.
Loss and Pluto sleep with me now,. They are kindred and safe beside me . The Destroyer is my muse and my solace and here in my grief I return to my self. My path is lit brightly. I exist to be able to survive.
 I exist in order to bring the cauldron closer to the source of hunger.
 My small, inarticulate life, divides itself between the exalted cosmos and Innana’s meat hook.

I reach high and far for clusters of light and indigo.

My ode to loss and disappointment might begin with a song about birds, an annihilated ego, the miracle of Blue and Eggs and Creatures
That Dwell in Shells, that crawl out to visit the night sky in the safe haven of darkness and mystery.

Constellation.

         My ode to loss wears a cloak spun of scent, dried herbs, baking red    dirt and sea salt   evaporating  beneath a cerulean sky, under the  astonished caliber of heat and vapor.

 

My ode to Pluto, surrenders to the teeth, to the mandible strength, to the great greasy cosmic lips that smack and slather and savor the crunchy bits of my being, my bones cracking. My mind

Fiery and singed..

smoke

 rising, acrid, the scent of burnt hair and pine,

Awakened now by 

the scent of naked, lost loins, the inside part of me that has hungered and longed for and restrained it’s honey and blossom and pink.

My ode to Venus arrives resurrected in the juice and nectar of my belly beginning to bear warmth.

This Longing ignited, no longer confined to the protected heart

The cloister

Vanished

And now

my ode to life, begins here

 consensual

In this first spark of daylight as morning washes the forest below me in gold.

Baking bread on the first day of Spring at The Land

From bleak grey haze in sky above hills the color of khaki peaks dappled in light snow turning quickly to desert sprinkled in green.

The turning of morning and task into flying in the air in seconds and minutes how it all changes and if longing were at light speed would love come sooner than later if it came at all would it stay and root itself grow into something?

Become ancient and stable as mountain.

 Would one go from light speed to forest to meandering  paths that all converge into a confluence of place.

how can the sea can look like liquid mercury glass the day before spring.

earthquake weather at 4:20

the swell at moat creek just yesterday was
deeply perfect   now    she ... the she swell
lies down as would a newborn calf in the tall spring
 grass

no hint of wind the sea languid forest silent cat hidden

i think i might put a beer in the freezer to cool the 85 degrees
it is in my house i think i might put on Patti Smith Horses to
break the uncomfortable silence

a fly buzzes and bangs against the glass door

 it was eighty two degrees today.
l ast week we were deluged, without power.
 fires burning.
 tonight.
 owl singing. warm night. rosie snoring.
 pixie bob stalking the house.
 a tiny crescent of a moon shines
 like the smile
 of a a shy child.

Ode to Will Amato’s Belly

To view as profile
 O

 the spine
tender neck to base of back
kyphotic   curved and undulated
as a question finds it punctuation mark.

The small pillow of your middle
mounded above your pelvis

inhabited by all the exhales denied
churning and digesting countless cups
of coffee.
Cigarettes inhaled.
Balzac redux.

This place you never left
vulnerable for me to lay my head
upon if no closeness is allowed.
Therefore to put one’s tongue
in navel
discouraged.

If my heart entered your
Belly then you would have
to know me,
accept my quirky meandering
laugh at my redeemable
Infatuation
feign curiosity and court me.
Ventilated.
With intention.

I see only food entering this other world
this universe of ache and enzyme.

Was there a vertical line of hair?
  A column of dark offering?
Might I trace my finger along it?

Carefully
like reading a map.

Ode to Will Amato’s Eyebrows

 I recall now in claimed memory the
stillness of Ukiyo-e.

I unwillingly enter the floating world
as if I might translate
 there
the sublime
language of Kuniyoshi.

Regard the perfectly arched ark ed curve
each fine black hair
convicted to the order of bonsai.

The way the follicle arrives to skin
committed to it’s own architecture

resign me?

Lay me to waste upon
the irascible perfection
of their design.  

for carolyn on st patrick's day

 the Virgin Mary appears in Bosnia
as do the first leaves of Alder that grow along the creek.

 i rode a dark horse all winter.
 you made lightning and thunder
 pleasing the gods of paper and print

 i dismount.
      you bring a hay bale to the fires

 i fall.      clumsy&hilarious.
       you rise.  exquisite and fierce.

 we mucked about  the  muddy
 well worn path to
 sinkholes   out
 at Stornetta Lands.

          i find an arrowhead. not
   really but  i hear there are many out there i dreamt
                i did    find

      a truth told by water.

 forty five minutes later after talking about
 love  and men with  you carolyn

  we go back to  our cars 

  parked on the highway 1.

Themes and Chapters For My New Novel

I . The Expertise Of A  Bat At Twilight

    &  The Kindness Of Forest

II. Vacant Faith

III. Miles, Coltrane & The Green Flash

IV. Not Remembering Who I Lent

       Books to And Who Brought Them Back.

V. Snakes in the Garden

VI. Bleak Loneliness

VII. Wanting to Jump From High Places

VIII. Choosing All The Wrong Men As Lovers Always

           Fuck

VIV. Etruscans

V. Trees Of All Kinds

XI. Letting My Cat Eat My Dinner Off The Stove

XII. Cleansing And Wheat Grass

XIII. My Best Friend’s Lame New Boyfriend

XIV. Hauling Manure To The Garden When Your Tired

XV. My Skin When It Is Perfectly Brown and No One Is

       Here To See Or Touch It

XVI. Poetry Contests

XVII. The Bardo States

XVIII. Dada

XVIV. Jasper Johns and The Best Date Ever

XVV. My Mother’s Breast’s

XYZ . Surprising Yourself

Z. Why My Hands Always Look So Great When I Am

      Drunk.

yes

 

 I could talk to you tonight like this mad silhouette is speaking to the dusk

 there are a thousand million stars weeping tonight

 I see wings emerging from old women pushing shopping carts on blistered pavement

 I see benevolent fingertips touching some kinda stressed out heart of a rich


  child
  do you know
  about

  the nests hidden in thickets?

Do you know about all the furies of ours    o    do you think we can figure this out…

This sublime life.

 This precious wandering.

 These awakened wings.

 These opened thighs.

 This heart that would pose as a tidepool .

 This heart that would dive from the sky into an open sea.

do watch this....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eYSUxoRc0U&feature=related

 "Poetry is the mother tongue of the human race as gardening is older than the field, painting than writing, singing than declaiming, parables than inferences, bartering than commerce "... J.G. Hamann

prayers for margaret

A Supermarket in California Dub

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-7nEP_3YCM&feature=fvw

Blue Minaret

 
As I turned the corner to your street there was a different season resident
Roadside green
 trees in small insignificant budding.
Rain .
The swoosh of morning traffic sounding the path to your door
 always impeccable
 there
I left you theolonius monk  eno  fripp  oummou
And an esoteric little book written by a Nobel Prize Laureate
compared to Kafka.
There are existential overtones in the
 little package I
slid through the mail slot in your door.

 I saw a peak of  gold light in the stairwell

 I remember a time when I
 was welcome here.

I drove around the corner to turn up Anza Street trying to make it over the bridge
 before the storm worsened and as I turned the corner
 there it was.

I used lie in your bed in the morning
Pull away the curtain and gaze out at it,
 you would be making me coffee
 in your little French espresso pot that spattered
coffee all over your stove and would hiss at you like a mad cat
 over the radio playing NPR and the rattle of dishes in your sink.
Wine glasses.
 You would bring me a cup with milk in a coffee mug that once belonged to your mother
 the white ones with the funny 50’s atomic motif and I would place the mug on the sill and sip it slowly.
Laying on my stomach.
Alone in your room.

You busied your self with your morning ablutions
as the morning sun
      sweetly
 Illuminated the
 blue minaret.
  

o  burnt clover !

o  fire planet .

o  kindle&spark

o  bass beat &electric string wail

o  rhythm of the universe shift

o  precipice

o  collapse

o  uncertainty

o waxing moon   o eclipse     o sunrise

look

we are cloud behind a  cloud   no ?               flutter.

the rain falling behind a rainstorm                              flutter.

anarchy in her angry phase                                                    heart racing.

granite in her liquid state                                                                              forming.

sandy loam in messy compost                                                                                 heating up.

seed cracked in spiny shell                                                                                                         brimming forth.

You.

You impetuous universe ! 

have     you      broken

my  

back

wide          open?

all that is left here is a firecracker popping                 sparkle?

a melted popsicle                                                                        dripping?

popped popcorn                                                                                        crisp?

the poppy  bearing opium                                                                              oozing?

the absence of fatherhusbandson

the crash of dish drainer

the clattering of glass                                         shards.

falling catastrophe                                            reclamation.

the sight of dusky sky in

an exalted shade of

indigo.

20 topics for essays

1. the smell of soil in the spring
2.lilacs
3.thoughts on clutter
4.the gorgeousness of all things painful
5.faith 
6. how i felt when i found out henry rollins is gay
7.the magic of scented smoke and ritual powders
8.cobalt blue
9. the allegory of despair
10.on being a seeker
11. on being sought after
12.body scars and deliberate piercing
13.aleopecia
14.the physiology of the broken heart
15.the stunning silence of forest
16.cooking as practiced art of witchcraft
17. bones first hint of fire
18.scraping blood off the floor with my fingernails
19.silk millinery flowers and  the scent of my mother's hair
20.sterling silver and the elegance of my father's shirts

i began writing this blog in the fall of 08 at the moment an asteroid hit my little planet and blew it to smithereens.

oddly, i survived.

so now will begin the new stories. the ones i intended to tell in the first place.