from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8
Pergola on fire;
the reminiscent coalesces
with breathless robes of doubt.
Honeyed covenants
perfuse,
lacking preemptive right.
Devout and impetuous,
demanding restless unquiet.
Premalignant perfunctory
consecrates, sanctifies
reams of abyss to exist.
Reminisce.
Resist.
You are dismissed.
a variation on peregrina (the rover)
Visits: 1077
from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8
Interbred, interspersed, and denied–
the Valkyrie children
go about
life,
running the wheel
towards death
as their godparents warned them.
They clench between their tight, mortal teeth
the rope of mistrust.
Of distaste
clothed.
Love!
Cog by cog,
the Rhinemaidens desist.
They cease their breeding device
to drink
from banks,
banned to hiatus
from scandal,
from what was torturous about
her id, his.
Greed. Love?
The rope of fate has become
sodden,
wet with the lust of drinking lips;
the rope of fate has become
frayed
by the maidens’ tease,
by glutton’s grabby paws.
Scorched by the fires
never to burn Valhalla down;
the embers
of the frayed, soaked, the charred
can no longer bind.
Succumb to the promise
that takes you
away
from you and your path,
and the rope of fate has been
broken.
Visits: 17
poem I in The Chelsea Chronicles
He is no child
and yet spring flows so amply from his loins.
Where has his protagonist gone?
The Shepherds of Drink wade in his songwriter’s swagger,
indeed, saber-toothed revelers inspired.
Noxious devotees vapidly denote the man’s strength;
yet he professes lark, and lunacy bites their flattering pallor.
The ladies in the gaggle coo.
He does not see them, his eyes glazed over by politics.
Drink drenches his tooth, incises his bliss.
For them, a bliss confrontation.
They float home believing they’ve touched rays.
And he slinks back to the Whore in the Ruse.
He fucks her, nearly loses his teeth.
Her hallow could not care less for his demonic need.
He’s a franchise, nameless and green. She, a cunt, the Sistine.
Truly he seeks to touch them,
but returns to his own puddle unmoved. This
Buddha strangled
sits naked
on the floor
of a stranger’s apartment
demonically smoking cigarettes, skinny and hungry.
He waits for the possession to pass
and for the world’s blasted love to return to him at last.
September 2005
Visits: 19
poem IV. in The Chelsea Chronicles
I sit at coiled desks of copper,
with a mind more vivid than a walk to the window
could possibly enhance.
I’m observing you, surrounded by our fetishes.
The scherzoid of bells and whistles
suppresses my uterus.
Easy, like the fishes.
We’re trapeze artists,
simulating monkey bars-
only with love and pears soaked in cinnamon.
Emotions that look like hairy stars
run radiant spears straight at my forehead,
and puncture through the third eye
and out the cuffs,
dousing the room with undrinkable brilliance.
A room for rent here.
No longer inhabitable by me, but for you, a crane-
uphoists your knickers into an interminable fit.
An alloy of frankincense and catatonic blurbs
keeps frying your batter around my legs
and nibbling on my knees, and on my ankles-
’til they’re full of hounds traipsing tails back to pounds.
Flamingos and pomegranates wade in the basin,
fluffing their ears up to hear the humans
braying in the other room,
exercising their age difference,
cloying at mismatched likelihoods that common absurdities,
Gemini births and penchants for sex
might iron them together.
Cocker spaniels and harpsichords
crash their feathers together
into an uproarious tune,
better known as “the alabaster twist.”
Who keeps sticking meat into Grandma’s chocolates?
Bayonets continue their slumber ’til April
and parchments re-align the harvest
for lascivious, the luscious great grain.
Drumbeat of left wing, gracious paradise
memorizes the Chelsea.
Visits: 74
poem V. in The Chelsea Chronicles
She’s placidly
slipping down from ecstatic
pockets
into the calm understatement of bliss.
Which
rides its own horse-
the threat of happiness.
Sinister treads the heartbeat,
regular and full-fledged.
Then your porcupine smile
replaces her with heart,
reduces ego to mud;
and life filters through blood.
The little and mister devilish
masters conciliation of the spiciest recanters,
then smears
monkey core with ticklish.
Don’t pleasure
the
killing fields
without protection.
You’re better off
here,
where honeysuckles proliferates
new visions of her.
You’ll need remembrance on the galloping trail,
to cradle your body
with draconian bliss.
Cool your blocks before stepping in,
so her feathers won’t hurt you.
She’ll dot your eyes
and you’ll cross her teasing contagion
with cramped ridicule and haughty marauding.
And finally, wherewithal will ensue.
Visits: 75
We named our anthill The Plymouth,
with a peculiar closed-captioning for shorter people
(and those who excel at limbo).
Remember how we draped, we draped the white lace doily over the top?
It did not mold to our muddy musculature,
but instead, flattered with that peculiar nostalgia,
of etiquette and quite intentional courtship.
In the tide we sat, and peered up
at our droopy, white awning.
We realized
that it would never be the threshold of daisies;
for daisies only remind us of not being petunia,
that is, of not being so small.
No, our deeply carved tunnels are of Oz-like luster,
so they don’t cling to our many-minded legs.
For we really only fit quite haphazardly,
if we fold our legs, up and under,
into an origami crater of make believe.
So, I saw your peach-fleshed fingers
pluck together
the doily cortex. And pull down.
Pulled down our spirulina umbrella onto our hairy heads.
Then, veiled by our innocent mistake,
like just showered kitty fur heads;
we laughed.
We tumbled and turned over as children somersaulting in a pool.
The unknowing delighted us, tussled our hidden hearts into unshackled joy.
And, forgetting about the confines of the love tunnel we dug,
we fell into each other, forgot ourselves in our kittenish pretzel.
Unsalted and doughy is how love
finally saw
the white white sky of blue
expand
into the smoothest doily of protection.
And in our gaze, we slid down, the warm icy slope of recklessness
into the very original white rabbit’s hole
of
impersonal and accurate reflection.
So onto our threshold, we finally fell, lighthearted and fluffy
as doughy, unsalted bunnies.
Visits: 18
Wrapped in outdated expectations.
The aftershock of having let someone crawl up
Inside your brain to nest with charm.
And in there, suckle at your ravishing blackness.
In the scheme of bygones,
We’ve let charity equal sacrifice
And become the changeling children of the asexual.
The deadlines for forgetting
continually pave our paths with ruthlessness.
For those loves still unforgotten
threaten, as if from a flaming star too close.
Even when sitting quietly, the naughty midgets speak through our minds.
Plebian thoughts plague our not so plebian aspirations.
A poor man’s thrombosis
will infect
your unscheduled passions, if not careful.
And you’ll become another fragment of your imagination.
If careful, you can eat your fantasies, bless your own God, and
neuter
judgment flat.
December 2004
Painting by Randall Paul O’Rourke
Visits: 1310
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.
Visits: 95
So what, leaves scurry across Madison Square Park’s stoned paths.
Unbending characters as they fall through the air.
Too dead already to leave a cicatrice upon their wombs,
They find themselves again alive in the afterlife
Giving voice to loneliness.
And the wind itself, which kindly aborts leaves
Before their deciduous infects the trees,
Maintaining its cyclic taunting,
As does the external world of interaction-mingling.
In its silence, we’re left to ourselves, to ignore the social.
We do not see nor hear, nor need.
But there, again. It submits to busyness.
With audible leaves who know quite obviously how to behave together.
No time for contemplation where the wind is concerned.
Leaves don’t chatter among themselves about social norms or seasonal etiquette.
And until one becomes its branch’s sole survivor,
not even self-awareness will it have.
No sense of being a leaf, a free mind to enjoy the journey it’s on.
Have you heard a leaf run across the pavement?
An unmistakably desperate scurry toward nothing
Because choice never existed in a life fated for death.
How could it have been sprouted with any greater purpose,
Than to die?
It could never truly be, with any being outside itself,
But only coexist with other pawns for the duration of life before death.
Why is the leaf said to be more alive, or alive at all while on its branch?
Only because it grows, until it doesn’t.
And so death sets in.
Are we as alive as the leaf?
Do you remember when you stopped growing?
Photograph by Mike Gutkin
Visits: 121
Sanity cannot have meaning
not as subject, nor as experience.
Insanity, at least, secured better references
along the course of history.
Gender, as subject matter, fed the monster
of revolt by making logic out of nothing.
If not geometric, our love stories belie reality.
And since angles exist in matter,
love must have form and thus equation.
Cracked open, love does have four legs
and three eyes, like anything.
But it need not see nor ambulate
to be recognized
As the great obsession-objection of man.
Photograph by Tom Clark
Visits: 70
Sweetened lightning leaves streaks
Of your essence on my skin.
Paper memories leave us behind,
Panting, and wrung out of words.
Our future, pivotal and immediate, trusts the moon.
Still, logic betrays beauty with expectation.
Have you ever seen a shooting star
Through the lens of impatience?
Chameleons do not change
For the entertainment of others.
Petition my heart, not as a dying entity, but as renewal.
September 2004
Photograph by Tom Clark
Visits: 136
The hesitance won’t stop my lumps from becoming horns.
With horns, my third eye gets swallowed up
and sinks back into the recesses of self-conscious predilection.
The devil may care, but demons are more palatable-
jazz animals with no kin nor faith.
Visits: 89
Fortuitous berries stain our mouths furry
with Rorschach patterns, behavior fitting
for hedonist artists, derisory
and eating less until at last quitting.
Naughty plans release our minds from pining
for cream with our plate of appetizing words
for freedom from our elaborate stages,
for our way out of archaic attachments.
Springy noodles bounce out of the sky
into my motor center, and you know where from there.
You’re digesting them now; eat your fill.
To please me, to please yourself if I dare.
Dare ensnare, enlist you to my side
of this fanciful life second we get.
Come play with me, give yourself latitude
to be and not care, to care so so much.
The moon will bring you to tears.
Gigantic phrases energetically tease me,
flying by my apartment window in boldface fonts.
Subliminal by daylight, brazen by night,
they scream: “Write, write, write!”
My fishing net lays limp by my side;
but I refuse to trap them, to box them into my mind.
I’ll let them fly free to flap off their meaning
and drench my neighbors with their passion globs.
My miniature ledged Buddha goddess turns her head
away from me to wave control goodbye.
I think I do, too. But freedom keeps getting bigger.
Just when my notion of flying becomes unreal,
I die again and rebirth into more sky.
Only dregs give understanding of bliss.
I did not know you then,
but still I met you for an unexpected rendezvous
outside of pure chance, and inside of self-actualization.
And in between, life happened, struck me love.
I’m an eagle-watcher, go-getter, Earth Mother,
more feline than femme, mirage than mate.
Visits: 12
Forcing you onto me will not a child make.
Forgetting nothing about the foraging nights,
we scurry forward into the cluttered earthquake
of leftover bee bodies and diverted flights.
We choose the bushes without needing to hide.
painting by Susan Bee
Visits: 243
1
romeo and juliet
Eyes eyeball paths
Into crosses of
Sidewalk mayhem.
2
sentimental foes
Purple dove lips
Watch my approach
With careful petals.
3
drag queen
The strong lady wears a skirt
On my doorstep,
Beckoning my strange sunflower.
4
mandate
Kitten with claws?
I’m tiger with tongue.
Let’s meet.
Visits: 10
