blood ingress

i stand at the ingress of time
to see
that which shines
most obliquely
you, the winter one

tragic asymptote
infinitely in proximity
but never meeting
the curve of my
absolute truth

i am a body
to touch

have we met before?

the distance between (us)
is inexplicable, fathoms of horizontal blue there are skies between us–

the tips of (fingers) fully
extended
wings of a winged animal
measured in meted evers

you (angelic) are the eucharist
and the euphony
evangelizing in a conflux
of lachrymal, damnable love

i taste black plum
blood sweetness in
conjunct, the chalice of
your spirit
it’s thicker than
congee the consanguinity

the devil’s lament

I

what gives a magnet

its magnetism? some-

thing

intrinsic in its matter

that polyglot of latent

meanings

something lucid in the dark mirror

and twisty, angled like mal magic.

II

i wake interior to the devil coil into his slough body arms inquest up length of supple shirtsleeve flex the lissome forensic flesh acme power wear his ossified bones make him specious female fall as tangential comet trail for

an amalgam of angel, 

a luminary cabal of

singular person

i ford inches of soul

to build (he)r lapidary

stone altar

offer hibiscus viscous blood honeycomb and hecatomb

to slake her dial murder to see if god is home place a collect call on my red telephone. i heard the angels snicker say god doesn’t answer devils worshipful you are of the angel sinner bloody hands never took a daughter in wedding they tell me hallowed things that could dissolve gold but i only want to know how to say i love you in hendecasyllabics 

III

and now:

everything you do is

an act of godhead

is liturgy-cum-legislation

has the impetus to

cle/slash/ave the in(visible)divisible

you can tear atoms

from

eaves of worlds,

severed so be it

so it is written so it is done

pharaoh et al amen

to Amun-Ra

IV

irregularities of light

prorogue

death a little

 

dying fool, the

half life

of a decision is

life changing

 

the full span of one–

world building

 

so imagine yourself

and the choice 

 

co-conspirators in            love

judicious as you live because

hereafter is not    conscripted

looking at       me       ready to

alter every                        thing

 

Maps

I

⌈ “as a convention, ⌉

an object’s image is said to be

at this (x) location

⌊ behind the mirror.”⌋

⌈ hidden from view,

the secret self the Id— ⌋

¿if a material (being?)

is opaque to the light, such

as the

d a r k

animal Id I’d hide

xxx

but

ego human and superego

god I’d perfect to avoid

an image

that is successively dark-

errrrrr

“the image of the object is the same size as the object.” how small am i?

 

II

“the image formed

(of Pygmalion with statue

or god with Adam from dust)

by light rays

that appear to come together

(in matrimony)

at the image rendezvous

behind the mirror

but never really do

(things fall a p a r t)  when fall is ≠ ∞

not equal to infintity; tone quality, on finite things. it is an anagram

a virtual image. 

a virtual ∞ (alt num lock 236)

a virtual image of infinity; alternate [universes] num[erous endings] lock[ed doors] 2 [people] 3 [is a crowd] 6 [66 the devil’s in the military detail]

a mage of verses, roses

rural finery

a virtual image can never be displayed on a physical plane (dreams)

III

“the other side,

where light rays do

not exist–

and where virtual images

are formed–         is called

the b↓

ac->ks- i de,backside

b-acks-↓                                             ck^

i-↓                                     a^

d->     e,          b^

of the mirror                              ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ ʇo ɘbiƨʞɔɒd ɘʜɈ

souls go here. and

the things the cannot

e x i s t

on the physical plane                      they go HERE too.

III

“when the (beloved) object is at the focal point, the image (of love) is infinitely far to the left and therefore not seen, as indicated in (b).”

but “when the object lies (naked) between the focal point and the mirror (this page is a surface for an angle of incidence light touch down on the) surface,

the image forms again, (turn, be love)

only now it becomes

virtual and upright (like a pop-up book)

as shown in (look and) (c)”

 

 

Disturbances

I

dark s*

after — de nocte

in the — (i.e. secretly) clam et occulte

i love, am loving

to love

* meaning substantive

i loved, i have loved

(having been) loved

 

(of time) i am to be i was have been am about to be in love

abhinc annos centum a hundred years ago i was in

love

 

 

cruelty                                                                                                                                to expose (a child to die); 

in damnation                                                                                                                       to leave (a corpse) unburied;

foolish                                                                                                            to turn down (an offer) 

animam abicere to give up (this) life

to disappear from sight;

die; (of time) to pass, elapse; to chrysalis

change, be changed;

to go to hell!

for a hidden, abstruse secret of incest

 

after dark in the dark secretly i love am loving to love substantively i loved i have loved (having been) loved (of time) i am to be i was have been am about to be in love abhinc annos centum a hundred years ago i was in love. cruelty to die in damnation, corpse unburied, foolish. sin: to expose a child to die (i am that child), to leave a corpse unburied (i am), to turn down an offer (of marriage?), animam abicere to give up this life and go to hell for a hidden, abstruse secret of incest.

II

when artisanally executed, the praxis of cipher existence escapes the sagacity of high order mystagogues. unseeable. it’s being a witch’s familiar to the senses; it’s a cacosmia that melts the eyes in their sockets; it’s a white vibrissae, a whisker catching the last dust of damask roses–dust whose osmagogue composition brings notes of burning soul to your nose (have you seen a soul cooked like a Peking duck? the flesh crispy? you hide that.)–yes, that’s what being invisible is all about.

if i am naked to even nakedness (that agathokakological political state which unfurls beneath Yggdrasil of mythic Eden)–then,

now you see me (clothes on)

now you don’t (clothes off).

if i am naked, i am disgusting. if i am naked, i am censored. i can hide my soul in plain sight. you don’t need to look at me unless i am getting fucked. in that case (the instance of fucking) i am fit to be seen and had like Peking meat. i hope your eyes melt, the flesh rendered to sumptuous grease, empty eye sockets smoking, glossy lips dripping like apples in Eden, choking on the invisible

womxn

 

 

Dark at 8

I

i stood at zero dark of aphelion, and beheld–

altocumulus at altitudes almighty. i went to the clouds to see the cobalt blue devil that lives in a vanilla orchid.

i asked her: to die, what does it mean?

“no;” she said, “the exodus, the taking away is the equinox of death and life: both”

is that the meaning?

“occur on a single day; and that day is an entire human lifetime. the season of fatal dark and final light is a candle: out it goes.”

so I ask, can you take a soul without killing it?

“that is a question for the haruspex.”

II

supernumerary finalities move the Ouija planchette towards existential ground zero.

what is your final fantasy?

what is the onus of ending?

weightless the world was a fogbound cathedral of English chalk downland; a white tellurian lacuna vanishing in fluid tides of time. superior to the world were towering gelid sarsens of ice; the jettisoned moraines that lie supine in a sarcophagus of quiet propinquity with the omphalos of the world. you had a book of stone, an incunabulum in utero of time. the oeuvre of existence was bivouacked in the fabulist finger of a goddess; and she wrote the saga of humanity’s existence in a stone baetylus.

 III

can a world–never to return–be turned on Pygmalion’s metamorphic axis of persuasion? can it be seduced from the underworld; and coaxed into making a circumstellar pivot? or pushed into the orbit of messianic materialization?

i’ve never seen an irretrievable planet retrograde in a protracted devolution towards inceptive grace. i want to see my stolen star, Venus, accelerate from exnihilo to rebirth. the appreciable traces of starlight can’t reach you at the opaque apex; your evolutionary anterograde towards optimal, final dark is inexorable.

your flight path is an irresistible slime creep towards sidereal summits.

look at the long torque of time, and her interplanetary revolution: she tears her glance from nadir antiquity–the south pole of existence–to look beyond the cloud gods, and what she can tell on her abacus is your infinite altitude within soluble time.

she’s looking at your heights (and by she, I mean Time): you levitate above your glyph like an umlaut; and your umlaut bleeds as if those two zeppelins (mere dots) were divots made by vampire fangs.

and so that is why she, and I, and the whole world, are looking at you. you’re the most beautiful irretrievable thing.

IV

look at the way time turns

to the person who waits on it for

the impossible resurrection

of love’s apotheosis; the minutes are indifferent, and divvy fate with smooth, unhurried hands. i swear, what will be, will be, no matter what we make of it.

when i get what i want from you it will be years too late. what will i do with a message from the graveyard all spun out in type on foxed, delayed telegram paper?

i know what: i’d track down your last known address, run down to your house, and see if we could buy our ragged lives back. upon learning you were really, truly dead, i’d empty the penny jars to purchase your soul. i’d dig up your grave with rivers sluicing down my face. i’d pull out the dismembered limbs of love, and sew them back together; and i’d stir up the dust and years like pale light falling as gingerly as maple leaves;

i’d leave the days of humanity behind in this our moonlit autumn

for another cipher existence, some place out of time’s flight path, and all because you wrote me. do you hear that? i’d do the digging all because i was summoned by a dead girl whose magic i can’t shatter, not even with the crowbar of ceaseless age. and who can tell how the years will pivot, or what life will yield for the sylph’s among us?

V

unforgettable and

i keep you on a planetary carousel: my orrery; the apiary of subsonic minutes is silent when you are caught in the loop of my uroboros. below the submontane strata, the clockwork is broken; the time is not ticking; and the celerity of solar systemic processes slows; the light-years cease; the pilgrimage of planets–their orbit–abides in prayerful repose; and i, clasping the Aquarius clepsydra of all refluent time, hold you frozen at the serac–i’m unable to relent you, my cacoethes, my sin.

when i have you caught in my anfractuous hoop, the cloud buffs roll off the sheer promontory; and there it is–love’s fecundity waiting like an ocean of eights; because, eight is the signifier of eternity. eight never ends.

8

 

 

 

 

Truth Values

Hey, Guys! ❤

I’ve been on hiatus for two years. I’m currently living in Micronesia. I have blue hair now, haha! I’ve missed blogging, and interacting with you guys. So, here’s a new poem.

 

Truth Values

the unit of power, the valence of red

when it is present in racemose inflorescence–that

truth value is

incalculably able to confer

immunity after the tradition of

winged scarabs

 

my predilection for premonition shows me sonar *

* *bell tones in

* * *an ocular dazzle of apple liquor blips and Merlot phosphenes. Arresting color

seizes me; !!!

and i

am poised t-

o  relinquish all

structural integrity–to crumble to decubitus at the door to your wor(l)ds.

the circumflex, that caret which ascribes a rising-falling tone to every word of meaning, holds mystique by the calyx until ultramicroanalysis renders the whole flower corolla as Lucifer who fell from Venus the star; the devil and the petals fall down

in rich, life-like textures of sound hue.

the photorealistic transcription of starched, chevron creases in your vocal cadence; and the heady dimensions of the nexus color–

color wrought of tertiary synaloepha and the exponent of evocation–these stereophonic tinctures cameo as the rubicon on your tongue: you won’t do it.

here comes the (mounting symphonic) moment

in which the manifestation of spring is an inverted corymb; sweet animus of soul

and the golden interior

reveal 

a truth value whose abstract specifications are made definite so that there are no questions of meanings, no probes searching for the contents of inscrutable semantic glyphs.

no; even

when faced

with zenithal negation, there is just:

suffusion of spring; daisies from the tumulus; and the incomparable psychological phenomenon of sudden and fatalistic love.

a god soft palate

i loved you once,

in the coagulated moment of

all my past lives.

*

blood is a math that ages much;

the way people do, it deepens

in body and color

on a years long journey

of polymathy

up a god soft palate.

*

 

i’ve turned mecca gold, i’m painted in

calculus grace. it’s so nice to see you (and your fucking Windsor tan eyes)

again. i keep meeting you even though

we’ve n(ever) met; we

seem to be hex-trapped in a tetragon of entangled fates and in this millisecond i pledge a melodramatic bitch’s scarlet oath that i’ve met you at least a chiliad times and it’s absolutely dizzying like January snow in Syracuse.

 

Dreams

Seaside fantasies of crushed velvet waves, cubed granular salt, and inky blue depths of silk, seude, and panda fur flood my mind. Tepid palm leaves trap equatorial steam and cause warm rain to peel the yellow wallpaper in my bedroom mind.

I pick up the phone, covered in pink, fluffy, faux fur. I call my bestfriend, Niobe, and we talk for hours about the beach house we’re going to build when we run away together. 

We’ve got everything planned. I can see it:

Seashells and barnacles tup with pure gold doorknocker earrings in our jewelry boxes; we stay up late listening to the ocean moan to god while we watch lascivious red light specials and dream about skinny dipping. 

In the afternoon on the next day, our golden retriever jaunts giddily as we chase it with a stick, laughing like lunatics, playing reverse fetch. Down in the baked, luminous sand we nuzzle our dog, Kizzie, and eat whatever we want–and I mean whatever we want. 

I hold Niobe’s hand, and wipe mustard from the corners of her crumby mouth, licking my fingertip sensually afterwards. I’ve seen a lesbian couple do this in an obscure movie.

On misty morning walks, we’re mistaken for lifetime partners and lovers as we sweep the gilded sandman from each other’s canthi. 

Together, we own exactly one bike that we ride every Thursday to the local grocers. The bike is canary yellow with a glossy finish, a large, brown wicker basket, and a shiny bell. Its a Vintage make with huge wheels and ribbons on the handlebars. 

(I name our bike Rita, after the Italian ice place where I met Niobe as a gap toothed, big headed kid. She had dimples and a satiny kiddie perm that produced sumptuous pigtails to past her shoulders. She bought me ice cream and we’ve been inseparable since.)

Niobe rides on the handlebars, her full bottom making a soft, inverted heart in her distressed blue jeans. I steer badly, inciting her mock ire. 

On a straight stretch of road, I stop steering , but keep peddling. I cinch my arms around her doughy waist, my nose pressed to her sweaty back, my fingers spread and preying for higher, softer ground; I search for her sweet fruit until I break her boughs; her leaves and scented, sap studded branches raining down on me as we collapse into the grass; sunshine, bike, and all. 

That’s when I realize that we are not friends. 

Because, ‘scuse me as I get blunt: sexual peaches ain’t for no apple-pickin’ friends; just like cobbler ain’t for bad kids, nor easter egg hunts after church in the hot sun. No. You been the devil’s help in Sunday service all morn. Your mama done sweated her lortdang press out and aint waiting in nobody’s hot ass sun for your bad ass to find a sulfur smellin’ egg in a bush.

So no, I don’t get to squeeze on Niobe’s pleasurable bubblegum bubble curves, Niobe tells me. She says no as she tenderly leads my rough, slim hands to all of the places I am absolutely under no circumstances to touch. She says she is a Missourian who believes in showing and not telling. 

It is here, that we have our FRIED GREEN TOMATOES rubicon moment: my fingers graze her chocolate dipped milk mounds, part her pillowy legs, bathe in sacred coves of pink salt stone in the quiet grass. The road is empty and we foment all alone like Mentos in a glass of cherry Coke.

We’ve got it all planned out, or at least I do.

Love Letter

Venetian wineglass reds and baked, love letter greige appear in photographic Vermeer splendor. Within gilt framework, a British rose is lined with mink lanugo and peanut butter and jelly umbras. Clothing litters the floor.

Pillow soft suedes of buff and bisque wrap round buttery dulce de leche integument; cakey stomach grades into chiffon breasts; cream puff mammeries taper into whipped mousse nipples. Dormouse hued areolas, cut from upcycled raw silk ballet slippers, are soft to the glistening tongue; saliva saké on satin. 

Amaretto almond liqueur sluices over velvet rope thighs; between the sex lines is a swollen cherry cordial; it’s suspended in cloudy honeycomb amber, wrapped within a lace g-string; a pearl of antique black truffle rests in a rustic mons clamshell of espresso semi sweet chocolate. 

The aubergine tint in the coital smell of lightly mussed linens; the mauve in sensual leather and vanilla musk; the clitoral wetness in petrichor and Dolce&Gabbana light blue: these smells show tangled sounds in human paint at bed ‘n’ breakfast noon.

Sappho’s Wedding

The star facet on this American cut diamond is a canapé frosted with supersensible beluga caviar:

friable eggs of dark light are wetly globular; they rest on the bezel of hope chest cantos. On her bride day,

Catherine-wheels of color pull karma from thin exnihilo and place dimensions of want within a jeweled safe box cathexis: this diamond.

Such a small stone harbors desires beyond the filamentous reach of felicific calculus. Right or wrong,

she’ll walk down the wynd in graywacke lace and gosling ivory; her gowany hair-trigger hexerei 

producing a greenhouse haet rose in the decanter hued grappa. Liquor the color of water will bleed if you look at it hard enough, and, miracle of miracles, you’ll see modern zymurgy: from water, brandy.