Fantasies Charted

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.

 

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Rewind

The tide has changed the color of my sleeves!
Are you familiar with merry-go-rounds? Neither am I.
Do you know why the earth moves beneath us??
It’s just that yesterday wasn’t my birthday.
Not that I would care; but things are different now.
The spaces are filled with a different kind of icing.
That sparkles and sweetens the spackling for sponges.
Sponges soaked many times over by learning, sex and woes,
And  shriveled most recently, into disguise and forgetting,
Masses of calcified promise.
Wrung out into the immensity of universal pores,
Drained into every passing glance,
Sinking the curious many with wetness. Transcendent and fortifying.
But alas, the sponges live and spawn and giggle again,
Like unschooled fish, naughty caviar spread on aristocratic crouton rounds.
Feeling pregnant. Eating pepreroncinis by the jar. And grapefruit by the ladle!
What? In love, you say?
With who? With what and how?
You’re playing mind games with yourselves again, silly voyeurs.
Leave the sponge to her she-mania.
She’s not alone; you needn’t worry anymore.

 

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spirits

spirits

We have lived and loved
from the privacy of our reserve,
               that reactive space
               just above the surface.
We inhabit the physical place
but abide by the passions
that govern ancient spirits
               afar.

In the playground of the knowers,
the lovers, the givers;
we are creators,
the authors of life,
               monkey-barred minds
               and sea-sawed hearts
               with sandy-floored souls.

Fueled by sensation,
we are those to whom
fear is only a myth,
               a story told by
               the Others.

Photograph by Gia. Vindhyachal, India

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Soul Fluid

Soul Fluid

I wake up to you, my everymorning brew,
the image of your heated arms.
I tumble into sleep for you, my eternalnight pacifier.
I thirst for you, my essential soul fluid.

I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour your love
each and every precious moment I am granted,
for your presence to enlighten,
handfeed my creative pony.

My mane obscures your process,
keeping it behind stained glass
and just distanced enough
to satiate my always illusion of not knowing.
You substantiate my essential mythology,
giving of your ashes as fuel
with your purpose.

I meditate upon you
that is, to God, to the surrender of the universe
and all that is my truth beauty, that is ours,
and which is sought for by all,
and naught to be attained.
It cannot be, in living or dying;
the oneness of us it not to be understood,
but to be cherished, by all that is good.

It is in simplicity that I love you.
The only way that I can.
More and more through every molecule.

Feign acquiesce
for you, my essential soul fluid.
I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour.

Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez

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