a waking mind aware of being here nor there

(or, mental amusement before seeing the light of day)

I am older than the selves of life leap-frogging along the making of time and place.

I am before the restless generations of becoming and dying and becoming. Before the chaos, the watery womanly demos of unthinking flesh and bone generating the moon time. Before the history of fallings from the womb and returnings to its vaginal elections. Before the breeding laying beneath the seeing of me alone unpartnered, uncoupled from the frenzy of fucking before corpses of stone deadly silence.

No music without the knowing nothing drumming, knowing everything in the dance. The eros of engorging, the nippled firming of magical wands, then seed spewing and lactation. Who understands the middle churning between the alpha and omega, the bearing of souls from wet wombs spasming the vibrating stream of being in and out of touching its accordian stops and starts. Attuning done by ear in darkness, not seeing measurement in light.

What withstands the onslaught of viral memories of how to suck the energy out of nothing and be being begun. Rosy redness sainted nick clauses of coded connection, spitting of flakes of blood frozen in falling from night sky of the womb, here and not here, there and not there. Which is it after all?

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providence

(written on Friday, July 6, 2007, before dawn)

He learned from her to touch the wind
in billows of an emerald sea of grass.

She learned from him to tell the season
in shadows slanting in the light of day.

He learned from her to hear the moon whisper
on rose petals so not to wake the gentile dew.

She learned from him to grasp the mane
of galloping mount bound off the rutted way.

He learned from her to taste the tears
of frightened child in want of safe embrace.

She learned from him to touch the pulse
of hearts dancing to a common beat of life.

They learned a providence is found in keeping company
and bore the fruitful bounty no lonesome passage could.

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woman

(written on Wednesday, August 30, 2006, early in the morning)

What fiction you are, woman!
You redden earth with wet iron
and salt seas with tears–
a spring of liquid mysteries.

But you’re neither the chalice your father raises up,
nor the pot of honey at rainbow’s end bar and grill.
Perfume yourself to dance and still I’ll smell
the yeasty creases under mother’s breasts
that splashes of sweet suckled milk couldn’t hide.

I tried to love you in manly ways, but serving
your sentences of bread and water is over now,
leaving you and me just old accomplices.

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