of pulsating flowers;
touched by sweetness
at full bloom.
This wet morning I
last night’s genius,
do you remember, I ask her.
It was a good one-liner.
No, she says…
I was tired.
So was I,
lacking a near pen, paper sat
on the nightstand as my head rested in
a pillow, my body under
a warm white duvet, next to her loving,
and at that moment my genius got up, jealous,
waited, and then moved to the door.
It felt all right
to let my genius
walk out and away.
Though, I hope it beat the rain.
There was an attractive space recently filled,
which became an empty void.
That empty void,
became a great opportunity.
That great opportunity,
became a fleeting moment.
That fleeting moment of great opportunity of an empty void,
was then filled whole.
In the process of planning,
you missed the entire occurrence.
O now how the coffee tastes
so bitter at the bottom,
You, me; us we—forward or backward,
together we are the same.
Parts of a carnal body, whole—
built of dust, thoughts, and air;
no scar is without a measure,
no action still unmoved,
shell of human being outside,
ghost of us within.
We are compelling a kind,
eyes peer to see;
from Franklin and Nicollet to NE,
Middle America to Middle East.
Still, forward or backward, we are the same.
with cream cheese melt;
how you entice
it is early in the morning
and I am hungry,
into my stomach
Of a rich land,
Dripping to velvet tongue;
This Lai sweet song,
Moving with the wind, touched by the hand—
Fickle love’s passing fate,
Seen a wretched cold world;
Sweet birdsong of the wind,
And a blouse lay unfurled.
Caught in the action;
Kept taut on a rope.
Thoughts of reading a text by *S. Heaney,
Bits and pieces of dewed Madrid,
With heavy inflections of Hemingway,
Scattered about within. Bull horns
And drink, and women, and sex. Smell
Of skin, fish parts, and molded excrement.
Emitting and emoting the pawing presence
Of death; Protestant and Catholic,
Rebellions over said claims.
There the air held hot, as one without water,
Lacking, in a vast desert, as a drunk’s hung-over
Morning plight, -head-spin, praying for the noise to fast die,
Lavishing in Great Lakes of the mind.
He spoke of letting it go, as in
Sobering up, as in really feeling this event.
He had been fearing the gun holster
And lack of action in present. Admiring the man
Who hand-gripped the cold barrel steel, afraid to notice.
But all those bleeding bulls, and fish debris, and local
Women, and spent shells counted. Dripping their sweetness
On his fingertips, wet, as the spilt thick
Ink of his pen. Language of stink
And movement. Surely he felt a bit
Satisfied as he sipped a beaded glass of beer
In the city center, in the summer, 1969,
In Madrid, as he wrote his free-verse prose. As he
Let his words come alive and go.
Sipping hot Chai Tea,
When bitter came sweet.
Numbers change degrees,
Perspective saw discreet.
Early time of day,
We met along the way.
Present here now sit,
A life made of odd bits.
Notice slight turn of head
Sparking bulbs in the mind;
Wait, watch, and reflect,
Faint to smell of Dandelion.
Supple as shone flesh,
One acknowledges dewed must,
Affective thoughts to pass,
Words spoke, open mouth trust.
Touching each endpoint nerve,
Appointing minor tasks-
Let eager subjects be served.
Sit perked straight up,
Lace bound tight round back;
Pictures opened doors,
Imagined forms one retracts.
That fiend- the mind, moves fancy to bust.
That fiend- the thought: human nature of lust.