Plummeted Cache

Plummeted Cache



Supple muscle; soft
and slipping gently

the lipids sluicing through
the flummoxed skin
palatable in the purpled
tenuous strings

crescendo, bleeding color into me-
the flattered feathers, scaled
& separated, arranged, used,

red flushed, clothed,
set to the enameled white

meticulous in its execution of all sense.

Scene

Scene


This is not color: this is not green, this
is not young grass in rain, vital;

the world is not as it seems.

Perceptions formed by the holy
trinity, the clandestine communications,
the plunging electricity, twitching-
the language more precise with practice
than choked, petty words
between you and me.

Abstracted reality, in biology.

This is not color: I cannot find a parallel
to this, a tubed substitution labeled

“Used Fall Grass, Drowning”,

it cannot be reproduced, to hang, painted.

Apart From You

Apart From You


“Nothing exists except atoms and empty space; everything else is opinion.”
Democritus

“It is only in the world of objects that we have time and space and selves.”
T. S. Eliot

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSgiXGELjbc


Black now, as the bright center of the earth;
still as the moving tides be moved,
the liquid center, the drip, drop, gush,
the birth pangs borne for you.

Slow turning, the whipped heat flowing
over the face, the opaque, diaphanous view,
able to see a reaction to your action-
the white veils subsuming, growing.

Unable from here to conceive, the
when, why, how, what, where

only aware of the immensity, the beauty,
the energies and potential, the gravity in you,

missing the drag down, the unrelenting press.

The point from which all matters open,
your wide arms extending to me,

hoping to have the whole world in your hands.

Stipulations of the Prey

Stipulations of the Prey


“I'm afraid that if you look at a thing long enough, it loses all of its meaning.”- Andy Warhol


“Sex is more exciting on the screen and between the pages than between the sheets.”- Andy Warhol

Posture set: this bent arch of my foot set; this
stretched bone below the lucky sinew, set; this
dulled artificial red on my lip, set-

everything in me settled, prepared for the length
of tonight, the calculation concluded and checked.

Because you will be ready
to spring to me, the energy
put aside for the effort, doled
out in exacting amounts,
to assure me, and you.

The intention of your gentle wispy fingers
evident as they caress across my pure white
wrist, the stone cold and thin pulse buried
so as not to tempt you.

My perfection to your taste,
distant even in this intimate
stroke, this indiscernible
blush- the betrayal found out
in the flood of forbidden fruits
ripened;

so you fall to, with my implicit approval
in the unfolding silence-

no cry necessary for your satisfaction.

Cleaving

Cleaving


“ And the man said:
This one, at last, is bone of my bone,
and flesh of my flesh;
this one will be called woman,
for she was taken from man.
This is why a man leaves his father and mother and bonds with his wife, and they become one flesh.”
Genesis 2:23-24


“An artist is someone who produces things that people don't need to have but that he - for some reason - thinks it would be a good idea to give them.”- Andy Warhol

Solemn passing the palate of meat lain
on the frost glazed counter, observing
the flabellum flanks inside out, the thighs
still bereft and de-boned, the chest cavities
excess ripped up, pressed flat, the vaginal
rarities exposed in the raw red gaze.

All the others, as I, so unsure
of how to discern through the cryptic
layers- the thin veins of white adipose
tissue and tinged muscular channels, pink;
and too, the precarious grain, the flecked
plastic, blood-dusted.
The foreign smell impressing us with
the metal pulse, taste seeping in to our
greedy tongues, saliva thick: characterized
with the opaque eyes, the clumsy, slow
motions necessitating assistance, the
craving impulse nagging.

In the halo-glow at the market-
sacred, superb, its divinity ours,
revealed kindly in pure entrails, visceral and used.

Patrons hoping, in thrall,
swaying gentle sometimes,
for now hung, balanced.

The Donna and the Dove

The Donna and the Dove

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6Qmr4Xy4HM

“The one who ate my bread has lifted up his heel against me.”- John 13:16


“Judas, is it with this kiss that you betray the Son of Man? ” –Luke 22:48

I wonder at the blunder
of your desire for her;

were her arms thin
and supple and soft
and very white
so that as she held you
once you could not bear
but to divide your self,
and not for ours but only
your own stake?

Was her virgin mouth
rounded and red like
an apple, cleaner than
air as you pressed her
lips unseen, calling
your veins into existence?

Was her conception greater
than your lofty place of ascent,
her promise too true to hold
your own…
was it worth it to bring
everything down closer?

Oh! My God, what did you do
in developing a negative of your
own image, in creating what you
had at once forbade, and uplifting
our dying layers of skin and hair
and blood desperate for release
through the gravity of the grave?

Who will imitate you
as you remain unseen?

Who will judge the word
that was spoken, spoken by
you into silence,

and see you convicted of idling?

Annuals and Perennials

Annuals and Perennials


What this is about
is shooting up and spreading down.
it is mostly about growing
and whether for the sake of
self or to commune
is of no consequence
so long as you move up and down.

What this is really about
is finding room in the earth and sky.
It is really about
the metamorphosis and flowering
and the slow regeneration
through the annual turning,
through the slow moving of gears,
the grinding of matter,
through to the conception
that life springs out of life.

All evidence implies
that death and passing
carry the vindication;
the guilt and innocence lay on it.
Everything begins here. Everything ends here.
We know, after all, where it goes.

What this is about is finding room.
It is about the metamorphosis.
This is about springing up and spreading down
with the idiot notion,
the conception, that life comes out of life.

Promethean Viscera

Promethean Viscera

“And I have known the arms already, known them all-/ Arms that are braceleted and white and bare ” T.S. Eliot “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

To lie naked and pale
with the small breasts
thrust upward, and
hands tied behind my
back, and to dissect the
core of me with keen
talons, apt beaks until
I am raw and free in the wind:

to know what love is meant
in harm.

What contact, close or no, now?
With these two hands limp as fish
and netted down, with the lung as
a gill, too close to what is cherished
for any good to be done.

Such a
strange
lover I
have been,
to have
done
enough to
accept
this, and
to then
accept
your love
as some-
thing I
cannot
return to
you but
which I
will take
of.

I was too alive
to live off love,
I needed these
things that you
did not understand
but which you would
not give to me:

I needed blood-cells, I needed skin
I needed to take so much in; I left by you with
crumbs strewn on my lip, wine dribbling down my chin.

You only gave the space
between my hand and your hand.
You only gave the fragmentation
as I sat tied to the rock:
you gave as much as you took,
and I believe I learned so well from you.