Archive | March 2012

learning to wait

1.  Slumber.

2.  Take a lover.


3.  Obscure all outlets of communication.

4.  Exhaust yourself with a task that is never completed.

5.  Exhaust yourself by uncompleting your completion of a task.

6.  Slumber.

7.  Imagine the seeds in the earth.

If it is summer, and it has rained, imagine the seeds need to be scarified by cold, thus cannot sprout.

If it is winter, know it is not spring.

If it is spring, imagine it is unnaturally dry. Imagine the prescience of a seed that knows it is not yet time.

Imagine yourself slumbering like a seed in the earth but

Panic.  Swift flight from time, the static time, which you must spend waiting.  For?   If you are longing for a man (that man) do not think of death, of your body languishing, a flower with no fruit. You do not want to bear children but to be held full in the grip of a man, as he might take a fruit, whole in his mouth. What ripeness before rotting and how many men wait

with just the right curve o’ their lips, strength o’ their hands, for grasping, for lifting to their lips therefore to turn o’er upon the tongue?

You may–

(Snakes converge like sperm from all directions to the black stone, warm from a whole day’s sun, beneath which they nest.)

–find that waiting is only for death, all said and done, and that your most fertile preparation is for the moment of no personage when you fall without ceasing to stillness (not conscious of any distinction between the two) into a darkness that might be like earth or like outer-space, or the consciousness that there is no difference between them.  How does a bird distinguish earth from sky?  The earth offers roost and sustenance, the sky is ascent, never ascended.  Between them, the space it travels through.

But you are not a bird.  You are waiting.  You are turning yourself over like earth, in preparation.




cyberflaneurs, sycophants & odalisques

The owl says that WordPress says that if you want people to read you,  you go read them and then comment with charm, enthusiasm, and sympathy so that they will be flattered enough to click on your profile to see who you are.    Then, you will develop, like Jesus and the Grateful Dead,  followers.

As an odalisque of course I want to be gazed upon.  But the odalisque’s appeal is her sequestration.  She is couched in exquisite seclusion.  She is come-to, arrived-at.  She does not prowl or solicit.  She reclines in recumbent expectancy, like a saint awaiting the ecstasy of her god.

My scrapbook is something you–stumbled upon?

Cyberflaneur, how have you found me?  I am at a distance from the world.  I have nothing to offer but the sensuousness of my presence.  There is no gain in me because I have distanced myself from all that is gainful.  Will you come without motives of your own ascendancy?  Without sycophancy?  Will you come, then come again, delighting, quite simply, in me?

Why do I secret my scrapbook in a social sphere?

I have sequestered myself in this essentially inaccessible obelisk to unearth in my impossible-to-relieve state of  expectancy, what it is I wait for.  What is it I want as I gaze out windows that are not doors that men can open and close and journey towards?

The owl’s lids slowly shutter owl’s eyes.

When I wake up hours later, I see two yellow lanterns shine from a boat far out at sea.

Owl is still on the window-sill.  Eyes open.  Watching me.

–The Odalisque


Lovers!   Do not fling your carefully embroidered coat beneath the feet of your beloved!  His beauty is appallingly evident but

you’ve pretty plumage, too.   Keep the coat.  There is a field littered with the stones that struck the sky’s tarnished mirror.  The cracks in its mirror are trees.  When you walk that field, wrap your coat close.  It will startle the landscape with a mis-stroke of color.  Tenderly, tenderly it will open (like an undergarment) for whomever watches, waits (tending what sure fire?)  for you to come home.

conversations with birds: the phoenix favors fire over earth

I do not fear the terrible angels

their voices embroidered cloaks torn across

the sky, their heavily belted bodies,

strong hips, shield-bright eyes.

I do not fear them in the hard city.

Their draperies snag on its remote spires.

They drone in its unnavigable sky

like helicopters.

The angels I fear are mute

their wings waxy as aster petals

their bodies translucent carapace

curled grub-like in flight.

They don’t descend to the deathbed

swords drawn to the rift: death from life.

They hatch, insensate as seeds in

fresh turned earth.


What they require of me? 

that gently I take off

the look of suffered wrong

which often a little hinders

the pure movement of their spirits.

conversations with birds: the hawk despises youth

I want what will be beautiful in ruin

whose skin, like wax, melts towards a core flame

whose pleasing balance cracks like a Kouros’

whose eye sockets are packed with black poultice

the tap tap of Oedipus’ gnarled stick

his daughter is not half so beautiful

the gods blushed grapes are not so beautiful

beneath flesh pulp find but three smooth seeds

sweet potential youth

I want beauty actualized

not in-spite-of

because of  time

the knotted root wrought in harsh soil

the scant juice prized aged

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