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why does the phoenix (6–tap tap beautiful)

  1. phoenix is a one-note bird.
  2. that note is on fire.
  3. bedside candle.
  4. no paper no pen.
  5. can’t write down dreams.
  6. owl listens, omni-ambient headphones around omni-acoustical eyes.
  7. odalisque your pillow is on fire.  lie down.  sleep.

 

 

taptapwhowillbe

tap tap, who will be beautiful, flesh sockets packed with black?

so beautiful, gnarled stick

the gods prize whose skin whose eye?

you’ll find time harsh because-of beauty

youth pulped, cored.

want seeds.  want soil.

[upper aside]: cracks melt smooth like wax

[lower aside]: blush flame, so beautiful.  balance ruin.

 

The phoenix burns billet-doux on my pillow.  Read the last one here.

monarda didyma

Summer is here!

All winter  I imagined days so long long long I would have nothing left to do by the end of them but wait, far into the evening, for the light to finally fade.

All winter I imagined today.

Let’s stir up some spirits; spirits of evergreens, angelica, ice.   Blesséd spirits cool the hot temples.  Phoenix fire will lure the fire-flies to the obelisk;  I look forward to the show.  Black Swan is undoubtedly bringing me a beak-full of beebalm, little red firecrackers just for me.   Hawk is hoping to celebrate the solstice with a squirrel.  Well, not exactly “with”: the squirrel won’t be celebrating.  Hawk promises me the tail–I am supposed to wear it somehow.  I don’t want a squirrel tail but Hawk doesn’t listen.

Owl, who knows everything I think and feel, promises to swallow the tail when Hawk, drowsy full with squirrel not-tail, falls asleep.

Owl, oh owl, the-one-who-fills-in.  Owl dreams of newborn spring rabbits, velvety soft sausages wriggling through an Owl esophagus.

Dinner can be pretty disgusting around here. It’s not my fault: I only eat art, mostly painted by dutch masters.  Very civilized I am, dining nightly on lustrous silver, pewter and crystal.

Black Swan floats upon the table, neatly munching duckweed.

But tonight!  Beyond spirits, a fast.  I will break-fast tomorrow, perhaps on a Manet bun.

Yes.  I will have a Manet bun.

I can make tea from the beebalm leaves, without disturbing the flowers.

They are a favorite flower.

 

 

icy spirits

The days only get shorter from here but let’s not think about that now.  It will be warm for some time yet.

Happy Summer Solstice!

–The Odalisque

PS:  Crow is hopefully being crow, not parrot, off performing his own rituals.  Crow-as-crow, upon a heap of stones.

The starlings are raising their nestlings.  Lots of little mouths practically an insecticide fumigating the marsh.

 

why does the phoenix (billet 5)

I wake up.  Fiery pillow note yet again.  Ashy pyles.   Phoenix remains.

handwriting_thatisapun

Phoenix:

ODALISQUE:

D_intoodeep

 

 

prelimprecautions

 

fr_flower_peony

handwriting_loveme

 

<The phoenix wants me to burn, and leaves flaming billet doux on my pillow.  Read the last one here.>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

why does the phoenix (billet 4)

a candle in my ear burned down to ash.  wake up.  eyelashes caked with ash.   head thick with smoke. obscure.

o reader

o out-there

here:

fig. 6:  astrolabe/the stairs

figure 6: the stairs

(the phoenix leaves flaming notes on my pillow.  Click to read the last billet doux…)

there are no words left.

it doesn’t matter what you say.

it matters what you do.

what will you do?

birds in hats

As I mentioned in my last post, the birds think I should hang out on the sea shore this summer.   To distract them from this discomforting vein of conversation, I indulge their penchant for FASHION.

The birds like trying on hats.

Black Swan likes hats more than anybody.  Black Swan would like me to do a whole series of portraits entitled “CROWNING THE INEFFABLE:  Hats O EPHEMERAL GARNISHING Across the Centuries as CLASSICALLY DISPLAYED Upon the TIMELESS HEAD of the Rare BLACK SWAN.”

I refused and made him share a portrait with Hawk:

hats for black swan & hawk

Hawk was deeply moved by the metaphysics of the plumed, dove-white hat, bound as it is by a ribbon of blue sky.  I don’t really understand Hawk’s line of thinking; it has something to do with avian creation myths.

Starlings swarm beneath a veil as if it were mist over the autumn brocade of the marsh grasses:

hat for starlings

Crow-as-parrot with a parrot in a hat so naïve, I think it is surreal:

hat for crow as parrot

The phoenix thinks this hat is bad-ass, especially with a ruched tunic:

hat for phoenix

I put on a hat, too.  The birds suddenly silenced themselves; their heads cocked to eye my every move with beady-black intensity.

They thought I might be going outside:

Odalisque in a hat for the shore

WHERE ARE YOU GOING!! squawked Parrot-that-was-crow.

I could go outside.  If I knew where to go.

–The Odalisque

why does the phoenix (billet 3)

Why does the phoenix want to garb me in fire?  Another pile of ash on my pillow.  Phoenix fiery billet-doux.   “Things unintelligible, yet understood.”

(click to read the previous billet-doux)

billet 3


do you know what but not how?
you will lose the path
in the fog of your emotions.
do not regret the past.
understand it.

you are the mud in which a stone is sunk.
clear your mind.
pick up the stone.
wetness skeins it like marble, smooth sculpted on
what shore?
where did you find this artifact?

what you call your life
is how you avoid living.
living–the outrageous adoration, absurd affirmation
of is’ness amidst all-vanish-es.

throw the stone of your heart
into the fire.
it might be an egg or a seed
that must be scorched
before it will hatch.

flying

my dream

Owl recorded my dream.  Listen:  cosmic dream radio.

I woke up yesterday.  This is what I remember:

bird's shadow blackensleave 2 candles burning/ do i go out again

I can’t help but think that some of this was due to one of phoenix’ flaming billet doux.

But there was no ash on my pillow when I woke up?

why does the phoenix (billet 2)

Wake up.  The phoenix staked another billet-doux through my pillow with a splinter of arrowwood.

It is on fire.

Wake up.

Fizzling like a sparkler.

Burning Door

Billets hard to hold through waking.   They sizzle at the edge of dream.   Wake up.   They burn themselves out.  Pillow ash brings intense, peripheral feelings, mis-sequenced, uncertain, numinous.

(click to read the first billet-doux)

***
BURNING DOOR.  IN AND OUT AND IN
LET US BE WITH EACH OTHER
THE DAYS COUNT THEM]S[?]
STAND  BESIDE
PULL CLOSE
IT IS NICE TO BURN
(  OH
INTOXICATING THE LIGHT

movie stars

The publicity photos for my upcoming movie HOW I GOT INTO THE OBELISK have just been released!  I’m a little bit miffed that the black swan is more prominently featured than me…as usual he’s flaunting his large wingspan.

This movie may be rated X.  As usual, I’m not wearing any clothes, but this movie is especially scandalous because I’m not wearing a head.  I feel shy about it, somehow.  It’s awkward having so much exposed.  For the publicity photos they shot my legs separately from my head.  That was much easier for me.

I am very eager for the release of my movie!  Final tweaks are being done.

HOW I GOT INTO THE OBELISK

STARRING:

along side

A FISH

and an

by Jimi Hendrix & the Experience

SEE YOU SOON

FAR FROM THE SILVERY MOON

ON A GLOWING SCREEN

–The Odalisque

why does the phoenix want to garb me in fire?

I first asked this question in my post on fashion.

[click to enlarge]

[cued]

 


( Phoenix: no fear of darkness.  darkness/fathoms/fire.  journey/easy. it circles/home.  ODALISQUE ODALISQUE ODALISQUE/you’re afraid of fire.  I bring a light/a match/and strike it.  FORGET MYSELF AND WATCH YOU.  COLLAPSE/LIKE WAX/COLLAPSES.  AROUND AN INTERIOR FLAME.)

fashionable birds part 3

Third in a series of Immortal Portraits of my FASHIONable friends.

fashionable phoenix

fashionable starlings

(Conversations with both birds are indexed in the categories to your right.)

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.

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