Archives for category: Poetry

THE BALLAD OF

      PEPPER & WHISKEY

      an excerpt

            

“Harm’s way doesn’t

really bother me,” Pepper told

Whiskey and made an

arrow catching face with

both hands. A biscuitful of

remorse. Whiskey thought

about mailing one’s self to

where the bears are.

            
            

The bears were thinking about

fish, thinking feelingly. Pepper

felt a strong bird song rash

coming on and unbuttoned.

Together they reconstructed

the scene by dancing

backwards through

the map of muddy footprints.

            
            

Whiskey mostly rode crosswise,

ass in a splint. That is, after

the accident. This is during.

Whiskey loved Pepper’s birdcage

chest and river talk. Pepper

knew boats, was afraid of water,

happened faster in unnatural light.

            
            

Whiskey knew all this.

When they were

planning the lasso party,

plenty small trees needed

to find feet. None did. I guess

the upper hand is underfoot

and all the losing lost.

            
            

A bimbo possum in

a dirt oven is Pepper

and Whiskey’s common

ground. As is

the viscosity of

a graveyard giggle.

            
            

Goggles to goggles in

the circle of

the square dance, they’ve

got boot-polishing eyes

for each other. They’ve got

high tone alibis and a library

of single string fiddle tunes.

            
            

Pepper is banking on

next week’s knocked over

train candy. Whiskey is

dreaming Pepper as

a team of mules

doing card tricks.

Now, they’re bed-rolling

the riverbank. Now,

they’re a shiver

past the mark.

            
            

Pepper wanted Whiskey’s house

to be more honest about

its chicken feet, its

spending habits. A full

frontal clock tower two

minutes in gets Whiskey

all aghast and scholarly.

            
            

Angel Gecko is one man’s treasure

hunt, one man’s two-timing man.

I just see it like they call it out.

Pepper wanted Whiskey.

That set up the river and night talk.

Whiskey wanted a bucketful

and got more than.

            
            

Pepper liked Whiskey so

they walked down to

the river and kept changing

its name until they forgot

the “original.” Pepper

floated out spread legged

on the rope swing while

Whiskey cajoled the local

wolf man out of his coat.

            
            

A brawl, a fire, a spit later,

Pepper and Whiskey had

a feast , a swim, and a large

hole dug to bury

the evidence. God bless.

            

You can check out more of Jen’s and Mike’s fabulosity at www.horselesspress.org.

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That which you offer via the Black Madonna becomes a drink whose colors intoxicate me with details, with time and space. Without touching us physically you have found a way to show us a true world for touch. The Black Madonna and the chakras translate our bodies. Can you please tell me about possession?

I am open to possession in the work. Though I take care as I invite it, I do invite it. There is useful information in the slips, the many genres of entity-convergence.

Every book I have ever written has been a possession of some kind: alchemies and transfers, transmutations and swells. I give in; I offer you a little of this identity within me so you can take up space within me.

I have found unseen beings can continue to approach me as their guides or embodiable sites for re-allocation, threshold crossing, as I maneuver by invoking and involving myself in intentional possessions.

Recently, doing a mediation with Merlin, the verdant and mad prophet, he presented to me as a strange and hysterical, rabbit-toothed form. He was touching me and tickling me and coming off as a little bit creepy: kind of a jittery, drooling, cosmic accident. When I realized what he needed, I just looked at him in the eyes and said blatantly, with some force: “What are you doing? Why are you here in this observatory acting like a critter on your back when there are stars out there beside you in the darks of the forest? Why are you looking up and emanating this manic vibe when you could be looking in? You are here to be in there.” I point out to the crowded wood. I point to Merlin’s heaving chest.

At that moment Merlin’s face snaps into place and he looks like an aged prophet: the lines on his face like text on an old manuscript, rolling and rolling as it unfolds. He grows quiet. Now he is walking out into the woods that love him so completely. He is in search of the stars that are here on Earth.

I know in the unseen realms unseen beings come to me in their most feral forms so they can treat me as a guide by whom they are compelled to get further into the stuff of their desires, dreams, and identities.

I am interested in finding out what they want and need. I sort of lovingly slap them back into a calm state (like kink!) by practicing telepathy and high intimacy with them, by my willingness to be what they need in order to move on to a next step or state by offering them some logic that might make sense to them.

The logics of any current era or culture do not necessarily make any sense to unseen beings. How could they if they barely make sense to a Priest/esss who was born into them?

Keep going, please, in re the green.

On the day in question, was it because I eventually opened myself to affections with green ghosts that I became possessed by an odd personification within the geography of dead girl?

I suddenly don’t feel at all like my own name but I know very much that I am with it. I am turned inside out. Dear dead girl: what frequencies do you frequent?

Last week, when I heard about the girl who drowned in the mountains, I went immediately to a place along the river where it might have happened. I was looking for her, for proof she had left for me to find. I stumbled upon a rumpled and gorgeous field of tattered poppies. Their interiors were soaked with pollen. During the improv-ceremony I offered, among the enigmatic poppies, and let her know that of course I understood why she would be hanging around still: the keeners were calling her name in public!

Her human funeral was nearing. But I also wanted her to be aware that at any time she was ready to go she could (regardless of what she thought her family might need or expect from her). It is your right to go, dead girl. I threw petals into the tumbling river piece by piece.

Why, nearly a week later, did dead girl eject me out of my body? I have experience with possessions of many types and there has never yet been an entity that needed me to be outside my body in order for them to be within me.

While outside me, with her in me, it feels as if I am drowning in wild water. Is this an enforced churn in the seventy percent wetness that comes along with me by the nature of having a body? Is she causing an undertow, a tidal jolt? Am I drowning with my eyes open?

My hands are shaking uncontrollably. Purification methods by which I usually find comfort are too harsh or not harsh enough. When she turns me inside out, my subtle body is in my middle and my physical body outside of that. Then I have to perform psychic surgery on myself while being located outside my body. I guess being outside of yourself makes it easier to operate on yourself, but the sensation is very new for me and a bit jarring.

I sit with the question: “In the context of myself, to what degree is allowing me to be in grief about a dead girl of any use?” And now I am being shown by dead girl that the value of human grief is not contained in how it makes the human fallible or not, but how it can be responded to.

Dead girl has grief at her own passing. She drowned by being turned and turned in something, as a daughter of a Priest/ess, her mother has taught her to love: the river. As this girl’s grief runs amok in my body I can be responsive to her, and do so in a precise and cosmically confident way. It is her grief I am interested in responding to in my own ways (none of which are grief).

I pray for dead girl. My prayer is prying into her. “I need you to know my body is not your home, dear. It feels good in here because I have made it inviting to you. Though I have made it a welcome site, just as I told you when I cleared things for you at the river, you have every right to go.” I won’t attach her to this Earth. That is her role in her own cosmic evolution. I will, however, offer myself to her and others, infinitely, as extension of the Black Madonna. “I will hold you for as long as you need, before you go.”

This is my queer Bodhisattva vow. This is why I am staying: to facilitate you as you go.

Dear dead girl: I honor you as a Priest/ess of your own design.

The mother prairie dog has leapt the long way off the curb. Her body falls in a clunk. She is moving a bit too fast, gathering the dead body of the baby prairie dog in her mouth. The cars are rushing by and I can see she is shaking, dizzy. She is not able to orient to anything in this moment, in the wealth of all of her prey-intuition. In this moment she is not able to orient to anything but her dead child.

It is because she chooses to hold the dead child during these passing moments that she is unable to get back up onto the curb. She is willing to make that sacrifice. She will stay in the gutter, the interim, the bardo. She will be a crispness in the sodden art, an unexpected light flashing such forceful glint that she folds by her actions, into cosmicity. She will be some errant elastic in the centerfold between embodiment before the violent and violating event and embodiment after it.

Three Poems

Daisies (1939)

After Henri Matisse

a whorl of white recurs
whorls in blue
yet also lemons, a vase
a field is black
sur la table
et dans le nuit
green’s brilliant
foliar mirage
evades gravity
erupts against night’s gap
ah red–

desire floods her
(such arms
her knees her elongate
thighs
fulsome arcs
not pink
not
a silhouette in gray ecstasy
pinwheeling daisies
leap
into light
white on white
tabled black
field
blue’s rectilinear certainties
whorl or real
ecstasy in white and blue

Gold-

luminous angling
a door/ shadowladder ::
red plays over white
itself burnishing

a thumb (or glance) mysteriously
ironwork
remains

the round
surfaces of an orange
relentless working of glass
has light

red’s pink ( )
or the architecture of blue walls
cut plane

(sea)
we are nearly there
salt
scrubs our breath

awash we
reach one lithe
light

tumbling we’re spent
rubyform
held against the sky

I love the smoking spark°

for j/j & Tracy

a borrowed language
    (fire)
love’s enumerations‒
topples me
wind dancing through

that it has always been

shadow aligning east
shape of an eye
the ten   sephirot
     of desire
what pine what aspen

brought us here
laden heft
of lavender bending the air
topology
of mouths

ear one
finger’s electric
touch
catalog of pressures
(hod   tefirot   chokhmah

that was always there

(fire)
coupling with air
this     (cloud-form
     earth
pillowed on your breast

there also
wild sweet
furl
     windshadow
now heat‒

there is such light    was always

here
liatris punctuating prairie night‒
white-barked     aspen
      garden
          canyon

     light
2 women
2-fold felicity
held (hold)
you

this blue    electric lassitude
dear heat
dear light
     such fervor
thrives