Gasps
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
 
NOTA BENE: APPARENTLY, I ROCK

Thanks for the shout-out, Tom Beckett -- everyone: check out this talented poet's blog at http://vanishingpoints.blogspot.com/ (isn't that title great?)!. Amazing what encouragement does. Tom's Rah made me think, I should do either a poetic series of poker poems or "Dear John" kind of poems....Incidentally, in whatever "final draft" form "Karma's Shards" will end up, its title probably will lose the parenthetical below...

Saturday, January 24, 2004
 
KARMA' S SHARDS
(THE BELATED "DEAR JOHN" LETTER)



A pattern continues
Though the bluff transcends
The end of the game

All because
Once, we shared
A chair become planet

A pattern extends
Though the game collapsed
Losses marked by emptied poker stakes

All because
Once, you branded my
Flesh with your mind

A pattern insists
Though the table is empty
Gambling eyes long since evaporated

All because
Once, you taught
Lessons you earned with false currency

A pattern laughs
Though walls have fallen
Dust colonizing all, especially laughter

All because
Once, erroneous definitions
Were applied to "Compassion"

A pattern unfolds
Though there is no game
There was never any game


Friday, January 23, 2004
 
TRANS-INSOMNIA

....and passing a poet banging stones against my mountain because lightning is fun to play with, except lightning also hurts....and I still have to roll my own boulder up the mountain.....how to remain standing when one has paused to try to stop lightning with the left hand, while the right hand props up a boulder so heavy so heavy so heavy....

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

…..and cobalt-winged crow slits sky, something wriggling between its beak, black diamonds for eyes….and I still have to roll my own boulder up the mountain…..how to persevere with palms now bleeding from rock shards embedded through the pushing towards cloud-covered sky, even as the valley of men below possess a gravity inserting iron weights in the hem of my skirt….

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

... and look, you're all wet as the towel couldn't protect you and I'm sorry your shirt's all wet and your pants are all wet and still you just have to sit there and suffer the flow of more tears more tears more tears more tears and now your room is flooding and, oh dear, all your papers are wet and you have deadlines but your printouts have become tracks for black rivers….

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

…..your curls are wet…..I'm sorry your curls are wet…..and I'm glad you'll ignore this too…..but so sorry about your curls…..

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

.....and then I thought the flow stopped and for a while I was happy because sunset eyes can't help but hurt but then it's winter here so why would I think the rain would cease and now I'm wet and crawling back for your shoulder and now I'm wetting you again and I'm so sorry and yes please do be careful to make sure I don't harm your printouts or books or other pieces of paper that flood your writing space because I'm so wet and now chilled and….I apologize that you're now sodden because I just couldn't keep peeking out from behind the hair I'd tried so hard to grow as a veil…..and now you're wet too and I'm sorry but I can't leave yet I just need your shoulder just a little bit longer and there, there....

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

.....okay I go to sleep now ..... dreams, defer thy selves.....


Sunday, January 04, 2004
 
INFINITY

SPELL #10,000


For the heat has melted numbers until we are back at the first two spells I cast before I understood why I parted the veils formed by long uncut hair to inhale the violence of a scarred hunter:

                SPELL #1
               You will lose yourself among the forest of etched lines within my bleeding eyes.

               My eyes shall spit you out as the Golden Boy of Innocence.

               SPELL #2
               What you do not know about me. You ridiculous OTHER. You did not know what
               else I have become. I am The One Enraged By Those Who Silence Poets
               I shall flirt you into the silken depths of my bed and swallow you up.
               Then I shall release you again ... but you will come out from between
               my thighs. A Golden Baby who shall write poems to my

               Eyes


I am Babaylan. I have never been mastered by three centuries of invading colonizers or their religion. Breathe in the sampaguita breeze known by warrior cultures as jasmine. Inhale my breath into your veins to linger there, healing your ears now to hear me sing:

You shall crawl out from my thighs into a sunlight that shall not blind you as it enters your eyes to gild your spine. You shall blink to remember darkness as emphasis for wanting to leave a past in a benign space that shall lose its rage. You shall raise your infant arms to my heavy breasts. I shall suckle you into the man who shall frolic with me among "ice cubes and hot chocolate." And write ten thousand stories, all tales leading to the same ending despite the occasional dark: the golden hue of an Innocence we shall challenge amidst silken sheets, knowing we shall never lose it. You shall turn Darkness into our darling as I shall laugh. My Darling, I shall laugh. My darling terrain, I shall laugh. My darling Darkness, we shall laugh and laugh....


Saturday, January 03, 2004
 
MORE SPELL POEMS

SPELL #5


You shall keep my eyes focused on yours until I lose the memory of other eyes that shuttered themselves against the wine I wanted to pour. For a woman pouring wine into a man’s goblet is a cat showing its scarred belly -- archetypal and primitive, to denote that which should never be rejected but, in my case, has long been a gesture accepted by others only as a token to embalm from behind museum glass. I have been too precious to love -- while you shall not don a judge’s black robe to remain in hiding behind an ancient mahogany barricade. You shall empty then fill my eyes long exhausted from manifesting the dusty corners of rooms awaiting those so committed they become helpless at the mere description of a sound of a certain beating pulse.



SPELL #6

You shall eliminate the possibilities for more visits to sterile rooms guarded by those who sheath their wings in white uniforms. You shall prefer the land of the living for there is where I am still struggling, still not throwing my wingtips up on the same breath that controls the length of my poems’ lines. You shall make me laugh with tales of terrorism as I empty small purple bottles of perfume. You shall long for me to become your stalking terrorist, expert at bombs whose decimations create fields of sudden sunflowers taller than me in Italian high heels. You shall part your thinned lips over the implications of toe cleavage.



SPELL #7

You shall even begrudge your Corona Gordas as their once green leaves had not been rolled against my virginal thighs. You shall address that lapse one day by calling the mule from Cuba to bring you more, which you then shall press against the sunlit landscape revealed by the parted edges of my skirt. In that manner shall you discover on my pale flesh the tattoo of a ziggurat, an image of twin pyramids that symbolizes the flowering of all possibilities.



SPELL #8

You shall suddenly realize the slivers of fog I wear as scarves are constructed deliberately to ensure the existence of (blood-stitched) silver sequins, the result of Poetry’s dismissal of diamonds I earned wandering through hotels favored by a cruel-eyed man. Your breath shall learn to dissipate the mist that is my wardrobe by warming its way to the nape hiding behind the fall of my hair. “Which is to say,” your hands on my waist shall still my trembling to retain my body before you while your lips descend. The sequins shall be replaced by dew. All this, while I have yet to lift the garishly-painted violets hiding the unmapped ocean formed by my eyes.



SPELL #9

You shall want to be gentle but you shall be harsh because you mostly shall Be Desire. What you fear is that I shall weep over the ripped silk. What you shall learn is that a stone mountain was willingly penetrated by gigantic spirals of steel blades to form a cave that contains my inheritance from every single woman who has ever tasted unrequited love: unworn trousseaus whose silk together fuse to form a multitude of rainbows. A rainbow you shall recreate as a painting against my fragile flesh after a night in my bed. Bruises without regret.



SPELL #10

You shall begin to speak as I run out of words, even if you begin with “Bondage Humor.” The masochist pleads, “Beat me.” The sadist replies, “No.” You shall begin as I end. I shall end to begin again.


 
SPELL POEMS (A NEW SERIES)


SPELL #1


You will lose yourself among the forest of etched lines within my bleeding eyes.

My eyes shall spit you out as the Golden Boy of Innocence.



SPELL #2

What you do not know about me. You ridiculous OTHER. You did not know what else I have become. I am The One Enraged By Those Who Silence Poets. I shall flirt you into the silken depths of my bed and swallow you up. Then I shall release you again ... but you will come out from between my thighs. A Golden Baby who shall write poems to my

Eyes



SPELL #3

You are already roaming through the white marble hallways formed by my words. You shall find the niche that opens up to a hidden courtyard. Where rose bushes bloom my middle name with the same red that coats my lips. You shall burrow your face on a particularly large, vivid bloom. Ten thousand hours later, when you raise your face again, you shall find yourself waking to the scent of jasmine and my cheek. And as your hands reach for my long-uncut hair, you shall try to open my eyes by whispering what you’ve always really wanted -- from a woman.



SPELL #4

You shall lick the tips of my eyelashes and taste the nectar of the gods bottled for politicians as Chateau d’Yquem: the melted fusion of pineapples, honey, apricot, butter, a beach formed by black sand polka-dotted by coconuts that split when they fell to reveal white flesh and transparent tears, and a certain sorrow you shall heal.



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