It's like bluish moss on a crumbled pedestal.
It's the way one feels when
reading Eliot; and I want to feel that
when I write not this sickly
screaming shut up in my stomach
cause oh how terrible is the ill
tipsy wind tinted with yellow. to
swallow this pill i would follow the
fall of the stars in the desert. the
sand sparkling would shift and
whisper, a sinister growing world of
disaster when the stars crash in her
sand silk between her toes and
the angel flow of her soft black blood
into her lap. the only feeling she
feels is faintly faint until the
stars paint mirrors in her eyes.
dancer-like she is graceful and i
want her limber about me like the
fall of man into sin--out of her
chest comes a heart light spark goes
right into my brain provokes me to tears.
in the moonlight all is holy she is the
supreme mother of the salt earth she
is the moon my death would
be no catastrophe to her. until my
catharsis come she has no fear,
until my head and hands are
building worlds for her she is aloof.

In the fairest sense of the word I
find my own narrative sense.
If only I were through growing
and the grapes burst. If only my
fox were my home built only for me.
I dream between cold sheets and
sink into sand. As long as the moon
stayed stained pink my eyes would
remain paintwashed and speckled with
sapphire dust. sapphic lingerings ruins
are dust in my throat and i'm caught
without a voice. but safe in the
blue pink cool fine sand is when
nightfall is rising.

But if the moss and ruin of a man
invested my vision with song, the
coldest temperature i'd be is
zero. i'd feel the envelopedness of
green and the strongest song would
be more than marble.

02/11/2003

Posted on 02/23/2003
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