ZURN HEADS
head filled with fetal eyes.
eyes sharing lips.
head helmeted with eyes.
head as a geography of pores erupting, waves
surrounding eyes.
there is no part of the head that does not
see.
heads with no non-eye relief.
eyes appearing as the only peers, the peerage
in things.
eyed & seek, the rills in the face
layered with bird heads, with ferned serpent
ends.
with eye vaginal almond floats.
stay! is to girdle as eye bands are to the
shuffle of the molting head.
granular disintegration of the tufted fabric
of the head.
larval organs dissolving into cream.
say, has that eye apple been spayed?
congeries of eye lines shrubbing into insectile-feelered
dark.
thong throng tong-drawn trowel of eyes.
art is to burgeon on its own stem beholden
only to
the stamina of its lines.
mine composed of off-shoot eye shafts through
which I twist,
accelerating through Unica’s fractal
beetle,
seemingly designed as a Mandelbrot-set zoom
sequence,
in which I re-encounter infinitely what I have
just left.
if genes had faces and bodies would they twist
like these?
am
gripping am, can’t go on will go on,
without centerpole or central pull,
tendril limbs straying into a vanishing varnish
roam.
the human configured as part of
the threadwork of
a spontaneous robe of devolving wraiths.
creation as fission. schizogenetic genesis.
no representational nexus.
dyadic primacy of the oldest gods.
gossamer nets to entangle them
so that they ferment, fructify as fruit flies,
buried wasp queens,
millipedal elves moving away from each other
yet still attached by saliva strings, lacy
scaled vapors
exposing the white, the gleam of never, into
which
no one steps twice.
sense of a living midden.
soul as the self buried and mixed with a living
Other,
fauna flora particles of an ongoing sentence:
fullness
is infinite fracture.
totems playfully wavering, as if about to shift
into double helix, to swim into the White,
to perceive, finally, the White
Image.
Munch Dissolves
Something is always congealing, seeking
group
strata, full wet skirt,
Gaudi
in the cornerless sense of it,
Munch’s
benders, released of starch, but
of fixation,
opening
the locks on
afterlife death this life
pooling,
deboning the polarities,
poling with Charon in
blood azure
“I
came into the world as a sick being—in sick surroundings.
My youth
was spent in a sickbed; life was a brightly lit window.”
César
Vallejo: “I was born on a day when God was sick,
gravely.”
The moon’s
testicular tube-reflection
transfiguring
night’s indigo carmine lake.
Waltz
with me, lung to lung. O darling, look!
Next to us, a green
larva
is vampirizing his slumped booty!
Sister
Inger’s speckled dress, splotches roving.
Clasped
hands form an oyster-gray vulva before her dead gown.
Moonlight,
holed up in pickets, passes through
a woman’s face whose eyes for an instant
escape
its gangrene drench.
A road
boas by a clump of girls on a pier.
Down through brown arboreal
reflection
they stare into the Munchflow.
And what
is the Munchflow? The fetal thrashing of
those forever
unfully born.
A kiss! Her face, consumed, becomes his beak.
Showing
through their fused bodies: cobweb-thin cocoons..
O anima emanating separation!
Away from
him she glides toward the shore,
her long
hair a telephone wire that cannot be cut.
“People’s
souls are like planets. Like a star that rises from the darkness
—and
meets another star—only to disappear again into darkness—it is the
same when
a man and woman meet—drift apart—light up in love—burn up
—and
disappear each in their own direction.”
The
devil’s footprints on the bedroom ceiling. Ghosts of the utter
failure of prayer.
A slimy,
soft-horned snail, carrying a brothel on its back.
Pitch-rust
river encircling Millie, then Dagny, under Munch.
Who called this woman Madonna?
She has
elsewhere eyes, a menstrual halo, cum-smeared breasts!
“Without
anxiety and illness, I am a ship without a rudder.”
Stopped
on the road
in darkness oleaginous as treacle:
a car with blood-red
eyes.
Adam’s
mahogany groin by a tree husk radiating fire,
whose root metabolism
suckles
skulls, crocodilian mulch.
Pregnant Eve.
Tree once
with its fetal wick a burning-bush.
Along
Snow Avenue, asparagus trees, blackening,
swirled in the caul of a wind
boozy
with throttled
valves,
aortic hives.
Sister
Laura sits locked in perpetual, unanswered, large-eyed pleading.
Before
her, a blood flower sucks nourishment from a circular table
whose blood-red patterned cloth
resembles sections of her brain.
O-shock
of a fresh dead man discovering the beyond
is this world oozing through all its pores
like streaks
of sky seeping through the path
upon which
this shocked O holds his head and screams
arched
by a sky coldly boiling with the blood of all
who have
lived
O-scream
discovering each
scream
is intelligible, the slaughterhouse screams,
the insane
scream, your sex opens wide,
a rugged
candle refueling on gusts,
articulate
flame in the trench of your sex,
flame
shaped like a live woman holding
her earless
head, her face ocellated with screams,
in each
scream the screwdriver of the mind
attempting
to loosen the bolt
God sank
into it like a pitiless dry well.
April—August, 2006
Octavio's
Labyrinth
A dream tonight of coupled images
whirling in the circus of an empty eye,
hurling themselves against themselves to become
a forest of magnetic needles under my lids.
Everything is a door:
elephantiasis with its violet legs,
bougainvillaea’s thousand magenta stars.
I opened to the pot-headed, lordly and deathless
hybrids:
chockablock
animals and gods.
O the breeze between! The shiver of
organs lifted out! The blind, lip-clenched
stable of the body to be filled
with solidified light!
All the gods yet to be discovered are to be
found
in the downward-growing tree of the mother
of life.
Her night side is the black dragon of mindless
unification.
Straddling both,
a sleepwalking sewer of a seer,
I descend, to where the wind
mangles eagles
and an albino bat studies
an octopus clock’s
tentacle-tentative time.
The hour rests
on a chasm of charities.
No one ends at himself.
(Ideas ate the deities
the deities
became ideas
great bladders full of bile—
the
sanctuary was a dung heap
the dung heap a nursery
armed ideas sprouted
ideas idiotic as deities)
We have caught up to Whitman. His hand in ours,
a Sudanese infant claw.
There is no freedom.
There is only the intensification of the instant
so that one senses forever as one lives now.
MEANOTHER
To slit open sin, to discover face-before-birth,
bog puss being, leather plumbing
lodged
in the nexus of a Her so stratigraphic
limestone and Mars pile into this vocabulary.
Tough as cross hide, the Christ script, conducted
by an iced and antlered Satan.
I lifted my face-before-birth out of its vaginal coffin,
the back of its head rich in salamander pigtails,
asphalt worms, cutthroat
eels, tubeworms that once vibrated in methane seeps.
Then I stepped into the soul pouch
as if into a uniform of water—
Sweet pea appeared, Veronica and Archie,
a flood of Toons writhing like liquid termites.
To wear oneself as other is to hybridize
a single destiny into one multifoliate, larded with aperture,
a siphon through which drips a serpent rainbow
whose center stripe is the menstrual
icing that celebrates our break with estrus.
Ah, uroboric earth linkage,
bloodstream felt as exterior congruence,
no me and nature, no you and X,
rather meanother, an
Olmec infant colossus of
symbiotic meaning cutting through
the representation shellac.
Like yaw in roll with yaw, the poem now
tintinnabulates into auto-yabyum,
happy in its vulvic cap, a six-eyed imp,
madre succulent, Sweet Pea nosy, pater free.
|
Prayer for Will Alexander
As those doctors invade your
belly with
their fortress of scythes
and registers, with
their light raining into
you sterility & recompense,
I pray your body responds
to all
they dig at in you, I pray
the succubus can be removed,
that enigmatic louse with
eighty claws that
has terrorized your constitution.
I pray your ocean responds,
your stern,
your oars, the whole vessel
of you,
I pray that vessel &
current move on,
move in, regeneration of
your interior,
of your whale & cuspidor,
of
the light in your speech
lattice, your
dawn glory meter rise of
life
in the poem & ongoing
love. |
