Holly and Hemlock (Title Piece of My Current Poetry Collection In-Progress)

Cognate multiplicitous – o narrative of everything

Which we can psychically see into – across beyond before

As I stand here on fragile breaths, the fleshy door

I can invent sight-story-saying, gentle mirth

Destroyed, but playing – just salvage something –

Anything. What do you want to know?

With the fur and arms that come springing,

Bearing the idol of this portion’s idea, gesticulating,

A convent for vagabond urges,

The mother of silence retrieves her ghosts;

Groves of the pied phantom ring the seasons’ bells

Affrighted by such unorthodox hells,

Such a tangled matrix we weave

When first we practice to believe;

Station where love itself deceives

Yields flowers we’d not oft receive.

We all suffer each other madly – Family,

Mother envies waifish daughter,

Daughter adores, then scorns the mother;

Father resents them both for smothering

His manly pleasures. Around this

grows a knotted web – spider’s moss,

grafted laconic limbs on august trees –

Her lover, her fortune, her grasp of things;

What we think is, and what really is –

Retreat to symbiance of fantasy-dibs,

Sink in delusion quagmire,

Hide in privations, differentiate desires…

 

We split our differences & infinitives

And leave with magic in the can

When once enjoined on such a unified

March became the direst of opposites

To lurch into the gold sea. When cat-leap

mousers would trample the sample-prize

For the getting of the monarch’s eyes.

To gain o many windows in porphyry of shadows.

Why did I awake thinking of Constantinople?

I channeled a Timbuktu shaman

In candle-and-bath chanting transcendence;

Semahib is no longer the unknown god,

But is now the god of all known things, too.

As well, sensations, feelings, places, insights.

Like Dick’s god of “the trash in the alley,” it is a

Palpable, direct god of causation, modality,

OUR primary action and effect.

The wonder gained – when thunder reigned:

A pinhole price guaranteed, though waived;

What is genius but an opened way, or

One who has opened a way forth from this

Sticky chaos? A real-mass relation – old disaster footage

(why in this elation disastrous thoughts

Raising their chicken heads?) O, foible!

Thump private hurricanes, hum-bull wave

Of fettered knot twined human time –

Was this the Gordian Knot at last severed?

The great secret opened, the genie and the djinn,

The spy of grieving fluff begin – even nostalgia

Becomes obsolete when hatred has destroyed

Our streets, such fleets, that withered in rust’s empire.

Ovarious versedit, versea

Ahoy the marble sea

My joys flung across cold worlds:

Cabbage would the ample bean.

What am I supposed to do with all these bourgeois scenes?

Progenitory wastage dropped me blind, see.

 

I weep for Birdie Africa!

O weep for Birdie Africa!

The massacrists removed his smile

Like Nazi dentists extracting a (good) tooth.

May the Osage fires forever burn beneath your beds!

 

Home what beds and water

Assay these rooms a gentle slaughter

Fill a dell, fee ya, brotherly love

By fell enmity cracked, random lives,

Not mine”.

– Who won the game of hives?

Madame X installs a piano in your squirming

Conscience, forestall kicks and skull flounce,

Bulldoze them out.

 

Houses of the dead sit beneath winter’s sky,

Yesterday the lookers high, Spring looming

As youth espies or dies or flies

back to Parnassus or Boetia – heavy color flares –

The only subtraction is death, or abstraction,

Distraction. Girl in mauve Lafayette necropolis

Tosses care like corset to the ground.

Confession time: “I want you to be beautiful” –

Between the tombs they search the parochial

Sky, man’s prisons, God’s lie, but through

Morning’s glory are they revived from the

Tombs of ignorance. Never the same sky twice.

Twice the pearl to leaden dice. Twice and thrice

went straight to his head.

 

Sky smoke of what you kneel beneath,

the blue – “fortune over soul” died

Where the Hellenist walked the wasteland,

wastewater, wasteair, wastefire…

 

This mass wants a heart to listen

This heart’s mass thins and thickens

Where rake meets loam and April smiles;

We plunge forth with our desires

As simple as to till the mulch-soil

And secrete the earthen glands –

This mass wants our starry hearts to

Feel real – not weigh the burry chaff –

Let it go, it says, “This Way to the Sun!”

Up the road, raking the loam, brushing

Earth’s hair, unsullied the sown, and

climb the cherry again !

I put the weed back that cried its denizens’

Shady sum; and apple boughs got first water

The bright, dry day has snakes coiling in the hedges;

Someday’s amorous mass clings along

These songs and travails (not trivial)

Seeding hieroglyphs to challenge our wrongs.

 

My barrow is the year, dumped in hallowed

Grounds, fewer, though, than the grievous

Rounds this torn dream makes. Daimonic!

To venge a cur for mournful rakes,

so must it be. A mother recalled emptily,

unto infinity.

Upon what?

All night the crested fledge o’erflew peace.

Please, peace my bosomed nest.

Tadpole ponds waited all winter to undress.

What happened? To your vest?

The kingdom’s besters all sharp, abreast.

Remember O child has scented best

Its storms and vales blest.

I recall the tigers and the japes, wounds –

Summer crowds and singalong blues.

Jet expansion of a tech-world housed,

Keepers of the keepers keep them unaroused.

Hail the new bees!

For ‘tis in the springdirt I get my bare feet

Expending strengthful under the new day

And within its heart so many of these

Wings chasing to neighbor’s bonfire

Pow-wowing –

My place for the day, softly.

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