Author (#23)November 2005 Archives
Arteries of darkness
palm-first into the ink world
hearing the tissues of secrets
kissing the floor with every foot
I will walk into a darkness
and leave behind a gold chain
and a persimmon fruit
not remembering anything.
Sisters, medals and jewels
make me a parachute
for when I put my cheek
to the furry altitudes
of tree canopies,
radio make me a carpet
of the knits of your volumes
squeeze from your chrome
a juice for me to drink,
see me I'm thirsty.
There is a cloak of
cobra-print and clover
there is only one candle
in the sinister inner auditorium
and it is the flashlight of
evil eye
is it mine?
I will walk
on the highway shoulders
with one snake
in each fold
of my petticoat.
Can you hear me,
in the snow dunes,
trembling a rattle
of leopard spots
and alligator teeth?
Can you hear me,
in the stone city,
in broth and blood
swinging in the hammock
in the gingko tree?
10 PRAYERS TODAY.
Sang with the swamis today, the Indian word for "ecstacy" is a jumble of infant syllables. Autumn sun, all the girls in boots, I was laying on the sidewalk looking into Saul's blue eye under popsicle-color leaves. I called Thurston's name but he would not come out, that cat is furious at me because I travel too much to have him. I had detention at the Bins today, found an Elizabeth Taylor Cleopatra small old doll, a patchwork quilt, a threadbare T-shirt, two teapots. The Bins on a weekday is such a nice delight, all of the people making money off of selling junk cheerfully sorting elbow-to-elbow. Brux was there as always. He found a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. Two Russian ladies with a blonde girl found some nice sheepskin jackets. All of the shoes were undesirable. Pat found 150 DVD cases. I found some ridiculous records that I will help my friends accumulate.
I am going to Oakland in tomorrow, to give the people there presents.
Last night Meghan woke me up and said, "We have to kill the Nazis!" She was dreaming that she was working at a day care center as Asian Nazis ambushed it.
Tonight is the full moon and I want to be drinking the blood of tulips and playing pizzicato on the silk cords of the boat sails.
I want to act just sanatic to people who walk away from me mid-conversation in order to answer a cellphone.
Pope or pilgrim? I woudl sleep in a hammock of wood chimes, I would not be distracted by pastels if I slept in a field of blossoms, I think I could actualize the new jewels. I will plant all of my herbs in a star-shaped garden, I would ask a stranger to plant a few.
I hate all forms of masculinity. When I am dreaming, I think of a feminine world and men would not be slaves there. This world would be a great relief to all men. I remember sitting a summertime demolition derby in Michigan when I was little, with a very sad expression, it seemed very cruel and dangerous. Car races, air shows, speed boating, very many engines. The men who ruled had very limited emotions, zero imagination, they think war and work builds character. Patriarchy has climaxed in rape-style captialism. One big anal expulsion.
Summer strawberries, the warmth of bodies. Wedded to the road, I have annulled home, on Interstate 5 South in four hours...
I feel wrung out, into a puddle of thunder.
I said that one night, in another daze of experience, so full on flavor that I have forgotten every one. The feeling of that stone floor on each foot. Hearing the man with the white beard call out in ecstacy while we galloped in valleys of sonic ecstacy. The Grand Canyon yawning before me and my utter boredom, just trusting my eyes' perception, that I could take every timid horizon mountain between my fingers.
I thought "Call magic!" was the answer, and it's true, magic will visit you. It will rap its knuckles on your front window and offer your special sugars invented bees. Magic works, but it is a dagger more than a scapel, so never think you can do your fate a surgery. Even the caresses magic has made for me end up as stabs, big punctures into time and monuments on my memory.
Except singing. When I use the magic for singing, I abuse it and the rewards are spirit luxury. I will force it from me, I will call to all supressed priestesses in my ancestry, I will force every grasp and thrust out of pores and armpits, I will not open my eyes for 25 minutes and I just give bare and liquify and play dangerous games because when you invite that kind of state on your body, it becomes just wicked. After a show, I felt jittery and diabetic, I would hide, suddenly I could not even laugh because my emotions were depleted and I was a zombie. I could only smoke a cigarette and kind of speak in a foreign accent and maybe walk down the street and talk to a bum or find something secret. Maybe our tour went so well because I have some of the USA best marijuana and we all like that, except Danny who is just naturally. A police dog sniffed us in Louisiana, and I effortlessly conducted the exchange in magic, in communications of small currents far above the man grunts and crude body language. It was 2 pm, I was having hummus and carrot, it was an unexpected apprehension. The cop said, "What kind of music?" and I said, "Experimental?" Whoops. "Roots music!" The dog was efficient, a narc. He put his paws on the sill of the driver window, I was in the passenger side. I looked him long in the eye and my toe wrapped around the plant in my slipper.
You can't get a Motel 6 in Louisiana because all of the displaced live there, pacing in parking lots and walking to gas stations.
You can find an Icleandic wool poncho in Albeqerque for $2 and a shoplifted bathing suit and overpriced Mexican food in a glorified adobe alley.
You can put your cheek to a tree so old that it fell down but did not smash the well or practice space of the farmhouse where the kids and cats live. Atlanta.
In my most desperate act as an American, I collapsed at a rest stop in Wyoming. It was the morning, beginning of a 38 hour drive. We were the only people there except for a minivan with Republican party vomit all over it. It was especially vile. I was wearing a wool poncho, a Peruvian rainbow hat, Lenny Kravitz sunglasses and slippers with jeans. Unexpectedly, boldly, I ran out of the van and boxed my own poncho and joyously saluted the sun until I collapsed to the ground and the van carefully reversed and merged back on. I was paranoid about cops the rest of the day.
Grandmothers stroking my head at Arby's in Iowa and at the South Dakota diner, and looking into my eyes. Truck stop bathrooms, motel bathrooms, other people's bathrooms, bar bathrooms, art space bathrooms, no privacy for religion!
I am a nun building a portable convent.
The answer is easy: more freedom, be more free, energy is infinite! But to strive for that personally is lonely. I am not holy, I have only seen glimpses of pure liberty, and even that sight dilutes into a hallucination in my memory. But the taste of freedom I have is bittersweet; who else will really meet me there? I see the human traffic; there is metaphysical coagulation. This is no small talk. I feel serious about it, it is the essence of my longing, but that is the source of a really splendid hunger. But sometimes, get me right, most times I want to laugh and hug and dance and just talk with my mouth. My head gets heavy.
I feel wrung out, into a puddle of thunder.
I said that one night, in another daze of experience, so full on flavor that I have forgotten every one. The feeling of that stone floor on each foot. Hearing the man with the white beard call out in ecstacy while we galloped in valleys of sonic ecstacy. The Grand Canyon yawning before me and my utter boredom, just trusting my eyes' perception, that I could take every timid horizon mountain between my fingers.
I thought "Call magic!" was the answer, and it's true, magic will visit you. It will rap its knuckles on your front window and offer your special sugars invented bees. Magic works, but it is a dagger more than a scapel, so never think you can do your fate a surgery. Even the caresses magic has made for me end up as stabs, big punctures into time and monuments on my memory.
Except singing. When I use the magic for singing, I abuse it and the rewards are spirit luxury. I will force it from me, I will call to all supressed priestesses in my ancestry, I will force every grasp and thrust out of pores and armpits, I will not open my eyes for 25 minutes and I just give bare and liquify and play dangerous games because when you invite that kind of state on your body, it becomes just wicked. After a show, I felt jittery and diabetic, I would hide, suddenly I could not even laugh because my emotions were depleted and I was a zombie. I could only smoke a cigarette and kind of speak in a foreign accent and maybe walk down the street and talk to a bum or find something secret. Maybe our tour went so well because I have some of the USA best marijuana and we all like that, except Danny who is just naturally. A police dog sniffed us in Louisiana, and I effortlessly conducted the exchange in magic, in communications of small currents far above the man grunts and crude body language. It was 2 pm, I was having hummus and carrot, it was an unexpected apprehension. The cop said, "What kind of music?" and I said, "Experimental?" Whoops. "Roots music!" The dog was efficient, a narc. He put his paws on the sill of the driver window, I was in the passenger side. I looked him long in the eye and my toe wrapped around the plant in my slipper.
You can't get a Motel 6 in Louisiana because all of the displaced live there, pacing in parking lots and walking to gas stations.
You can find an Icleandic wool poncho in Albeqerque for $2 and a shoplifted bathing suit and overpriced Mexican food in a glorified adobe alley.
You can put your cheek to a tree so old that it fell down but did not smash the well or practice space of the farmhouse where the kids and cats live. Atlanta.
In my most desperate act as an American, I collapsed at a rest stop in Wyoming. It was the morning, beginning of a 38 hour drive. We were the only people there except for a minivan with Republican party vomit all over it. It was especially vile. I was wearing a wool poncho, a Peruvian rainbow hat, Lenny Kravitz sunglasses and slippers with jeans. Unexpectedly, boldly, I ran out of the van and boxed my own poncho and joyously saluted the sun until I collapsed to the ground and the van carefully reversed and merged back on. I was paranoid about cops the rest of the day.
Grandmothers stroking my head at Arby's in Iowa and at the South Dakota diner, and looking into my eyes. Truck stop bathrooms, motel bathrooms, other people's bathrooms, bar bathrooms, art space bathrooms, no privacy for religion!
I am a nun building a portable convent.
The answer is easy: more freedom, be more free, energy is infinite! But to strive for that personally is lonely. I am not holy, I have only seen glimpses of pure liberty, and even that sight dilutes into a hallucination in my memory. But the taste of freedom I have is bittersweet; who else will really meet me there? I see the human traffic; there is metaphysical coagulation. This is no small talk. I feel serious about it, it is the essence of my longing, but that is the source of a really splendid hunger. But sometimes, get me right, most times I want to laugh and hug and dance and just talk with my mouth. My head gets heavy.