Pale birth out of gray light,
that's the real womb
and my mother was Time.
She bore me until I was ready,
until I had learned.
The rain is knowing.
The rain weeps the grass to life.
In the womb, you can burn in beauty,
flame in fear
but it doesn't fool the rain.
It simply listens at the chimes,
and waits for the time
when gray will no longer be breathed.
When gray is a choking thing,
and green can be seen in the next room
conversing with yellow.
And the babe must finally bellow for birth.
From my mother's breast,
a clock hung free and talking.
'Look for the colors!
They're yours, sort them out.
Go about singing in gold and green.
This music's worn. Be born!
Push through the earth, abortive bud.
Huddled here, afraid,
you might never see jade
in a God's-glade of green!'
At my hour, a clock hung free.
And talking.
And from my mother's warning
I was born, a song serene.
This child of green.
What The Heart Hears
Birdsong
is the surest way
to break through glum;
the soul is often dumb until
the sound of rising thrush
there is
no way to swaddle in darkness
riding notes
of fluted pipers
singing strands
of avian glee inside of every tree.
They are
the chirp
of inno
cence.
Impromptu
I love you
when you're swollen,
rolling over your own
water balloon turgidity-
like an
lazy otter, playful,
saying
'Look at me',
carrying it- unable to let
loose
the stuff that wants me
open, front and center,
ready for
the
skewering.
Hard Consonant
I think it's the terminal
'k'
that makes the pulse
quicken:
suck
lick
fuck
dick
-something that a
tongue
needs to get inside, around
and up
and down
and even sideways, upside
down or
face to face and
oops -I've gotta tell ya
this is, calisthenically
speaking
quite a
knee ride
when you say them,
splay
them all
like that.
It makes me
wanna
have a Look/See.
Life Is Calling
Despite the fact
the world has tilted
slightly from its
axis, there are
daffodils
to pluck
and fawns
and every manner of
these tender ones to touch,
to stroke,
and I still have my fingers
- and if I poke
my head outside,
there is the ripe of juniper
on the rain.
Playing Like It's Saturday Matinee
This is what I like
so pay
attention:
let me
fake I'm sleeping.
Crowd in tight behind me
so I feel
your breath
on neck and shoulders
let me feel
the lump of you, the throb
right in the
hollow of my back.
Cover me
like Dracula
with web of arms and
chest
and bite
down
hard
to
watch
my nipples
rise
as slowly
lids lift
up
like tiny
almond
coffins...
Afterward,
we'll
pop
some popcorn.
Maying
Sometimes,
suddenly
spring starts soft inside.
A bubbled warmth,
forsythia-ed in vein
and fraught
with frolic.
Lambkins kick
in plaqued and hardened arteries
that geyser with delight,
and light!- what light is there
where spring has taken you
this time?
This time
it came
when we had least expected,
surfacing as I detected May
you wore so well
and didn't
even know.
We'll take lessons
how to braid
the brilliant flowers
through our hair.
Mindfuck
Some
times
it's not my
pussy you thrust into;
think of
churning
plasm, something
from the Hubble
heaving, turning
up above the fleshy parts
you paw and
talk to with your
fingers.
Deep inside
the deep space
burning
of my mind
new stars are bursting free
so full of pictures and
associations:
scraps of flannel,
smells of pipesmoke, somewhere
there are lullabyes
and
itchy
desper
ation.
New
There's nothing as good as
your smell, your flesh
against my cheek, the beating boom
of you. The furred and frantic
sound of
almost in me. The length of limbs,
strong thighs
and shins, arms
cradle me
back to bunting.
Never so close
to peace as this, or dis
assembling
either. You make me in
to
something new.
Two Plums
Two plums sat my palm.
The weight of them
was balm. I gently rolled
and probed
each heavy purple
globe.
Imagining
their succulence,
their juice to spasm back
at bite
and trickle down
my throat,
my face,
my dress. Dripping sometimes
on my hands. Too pretty
to hurt. I'll go
so slow
they'll never
feel
my teeth.
....From The Tree Of