"Last Resorts" a poem

last resorts

In seasons we are, little but ourselves
straining our strangers through mirrors,
and emerging again, as neat shards of retractable dust.

We poof, we pout, we paint.
And still we end up looking the same,
at the legends of same, in the blood of same,
from the heartbreak of same.

Sometimes the nights move into days
before we have the chance to reconsider
our actions, our wealth, our skin.
Motives slide into decisions.

When we do evolve, our skirts billow
with the freshness of reflection.
Nights travel without distress, malingering under shadowy gauntlets
of childhood bliss, of mountainous duress, of the sensory caress.

Passing in and out of breath, we sleep
with more awareness than we ever had before.
For our souls, because we want to create.

 

December 2004

peregrina (the rover)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.3 
from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

she keeps choosing the lot of them
who stretch carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain.

the lovers who would be,
yet never will lie with she
drift sideways before eyes, a stream
of misbegotten waifs, once men, now geminis.

if only they were hustlers
pinching hipbones for dollars
or pungent sailors flooding her
furrowed welcome mat with callers.

but no,
there is he
who hides behind his gritty teeth,
and there is she who shutters at her sigh-
he who gets it up, then fondles her all awry.

“why oh why?” says she, in shambles,
replacing her nugget with two-fold flies.
when other others would be fierce
and praise God for the chance,

the innocuous illusory
strangles on his own artifice
his disappointing middle tones,
her quiet venefice.

for when she polishes off the day
and he phones in sick, sneaking groans
escape her crevice,
tick   tock   tick.

back to john she’ll slink
to the bed of home,
to biting lips and parting hips,
her amplified hours to think.

she’s bespectacled by night,
fogged-in by day,
refuses to take her midnight mangy
out to play.

for mangy’s an overly unctuous mess
malignantly pawing away at,
awaiting the preliterate
dreams of too much to confess.

at three in the morning,
foreshadowed comings
impale restless futility
on her own Eratos,
primeval virility.

in purpled shadows,
she gnaws away at Lorca’s feet,
at the pernicious stanzas,
landscapes, Andalusian meat.

breathless in robes of satin,
she’s a helix in nomadic haze,
a frustrated flesh
impressing onto bedroom mirrors
her flaming maze.

the reminiscent coalesces
with pale harmonies
re-wetting the slivers of doubt,
her vagabond body regresses,
sinless,
into violet clouds and tears.

with record player rippling
spinal hips curve to spleen
lightly, a coiling eroticism doubts
the perfect fledgling caprice
and finally,
feckless desires decease.

she stops forgetting who she is,
what her madness is about
a priori, a lamplit virginal,
impetuous in drought.

“where’s mangy?” she slurs,
“mangy, come out to play.”
stays hidden between legs
devout fertility endlessly purrs,
clawing away at indecipherable prey.

she’s clear about the meaning of sex,
the escape from rollicking deception
into cherished abandons
swimming in conception.

yet the others are not-
the ones she has chosen,
and foolishly embarked on with soul,
are drowning in preconception,
sycophantic pricks, half frozen by control.

to them, she’s swimming in madness,
tasting of precarious delight.
they see only a delectable obscurity
of precocious smells and precipitate sight.

oh, how the keeper of mangy
consecrates fevered hours to think,
yet night after night, one must shrink.
leave alone with wakefulness
its empty violet shell, her ink.

she dreams of her limestone lizard
in soft snow moonlight,
lifting his lethargic peace to her palms
sniffing and licking in like procession,

feasting on roasted heart, dripping blue love
over their alms.

her dragon has forgotten
broken chains with buried lovers
left in deserts past, it seems,
miseries lost, traced over forever
by the didactic banks of salt and sand
…..she dreams.

night after night,
the honesty of well-oiled seams
debates the covenants of love,
choosing to stretch

night after night,
carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain, and thus

night after night,
finds herself always,
and again
alone
with aurora,
keeping stock
for indeterminate bliss.

peregrina leave, dismiss.
mangy come, exist.

Gia by Anderson j. Gonzalez

façade

Slowly and deliberately
Passes my tongue over your psyche.
Across bridged minds
Lust may swiftly pass.
Sneaking devil grins and blushing blunders
Purports the cages of formality
To fade.

What magnificent actors!
We liars accepting passionless blows.
Building careful yellow castles
Encrusted with self-made mendacity.
I am begging: beware.

Low tide is forever a mere transience.
An incessant oscillation,
Incapable of anymore
Than soothing and smothering,
Stifling cell by cell.

The drift of endearment
May spare the foundation.
But even so,
Incontinent granule walls
Crumble beneath shattering moans.

Seize the vital cliffs!
Their swollen pools agitated
By the daunting images
Of your luscious locks
Ravishing my being.

In want of a core violation,
An opening of long ago cloaked wounds.
Washed over
Into muddy pools of mortification;

Retreat.

 

December 2000

Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez

 

painting by Randall Paul O'Rourke

the elixir

Winding nights of life infuse our burgeoning blood
with confounded needs and unfounded insecurities.
A neat titration yesterday,
dripping sapphire desire into fidele base.
Tonight magenta clouds bubble through
my cylinder, begging for mutation, for your beaker of molten jazz
to saturate, adulterate, reiterate our implicit bondage.

 

June 2003

 

Painting by Randall Paul O’Rourke

 

Gia by Tom Clark Photography

the echoes of cosmic union

It is true; I have heard the love songs
of formless longing for form,
of essence longing for breath
and life longing for birth.   

My own life has been an echo of cosmic union.
I’ve danced the subtlest melody of courtship with ever deepening self
and a wordless longing for no more than divine unfolding
cradled always by the intimate peal of the sutras. 

I have been Shiva, I have been Shakti. And both I can never not be.
The map written for me is the same etched on the face of every soul.
I have met you here before, on the singular path of infinite celestial polynomes.
with eternal mind galloping through our every manifestation and choice. 

We were once of the same constellation, gazing at each other from across the galaxy
upholding a seemingly singular Universe. Until a new one unfolded.
You became the zenith to my valley, and then I the fog hugging your foothills.
I was the plum you once ate. And the mother of your cubs.  

I have known of the eternal realm of love,
it has even lulled me awake at night whispering secrets into the ears of the unborn,
kept scraps of my soul hanging on through the darkest of days
and mortared my poetic vision to a muse I had not yet met.

Even on my deathbed, I kept long-beaded mantras of faith wrapped about my neck
tightening karmic strands one by one into flesh of cosmic confusion, desire, and despair
blindly endowing my own fitful engagement to the legibility of future seekers
whose minds today eagerly read the last notes from my skin. 

It is true that I may be possessed by the madness
of unremittingly falling in love with the transience of the moment, any moment
of instinctually despooling the farces of trend and order
and knowing ecstasy to be the brightest umbrage echoing inside each breath. 

Yet I certainly did not know the flesh of eternity
until I tasted your face.
Until I unraveled my tightly held expressions of affection
into new forms of poetry.

It is not an easy truth to settle into,
as the bliss of true aloneness has been good to me.
As with all rites of passage, the recognition has destabilized me.
The more vast heart becomes, the faster mind unreels. 

And the sooner sanity becomes the last measure of bondage.
We can move into anything with our eyes closed
but choosing love over loss frees even the sleepiest nightingale
from her silent burden.  

Now that the cage door to my soul has been torn off,
I cannot look away from your face. It could be that I do not dare. But I do.
Every day I dare look at the simmering fragility of the world as is
and find the ocean of my sight pours relentlessly through your love.

September 2011

Photograph by Tom Clark

 

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