Friday, January 15, 2010


If I'm a bottom feeder, I still can't get to the bottom of it,
but mouth is sucking.
I may be the ankle-biter who misses the bone,
but bitten and biting am I.
My tears wash over stony, steely eyes, pierced and resurrected,
mine piercingly stymied, like animal pancakes stacked,
stopping to fill you up lifelessly,
and I take a nap without cleaning the dish.

And from Cloud-Nine skies,
Wherefrom my mind seeks the eye of the storm
Of the sweetspot
of the heart of hearts of society and civilization,
I am keeping and kept between the calm and the tempest...

Yet among whales feverishly breeching,
At the crossroads of the sea,
I find my water wings,
keeping and kept between the calm and the tempest.

The help on the way got there, found me,
And starving, I get a little nut of nourishment,
A little mercy, salvation, deliverance, yeah...
Which has roasted on the rocks a-glowing with spirits' winds,
These suited water wings, they came.

The rage of Eden is so distended here,
All ready to pop and belch!  Dancing!  Hissing!
And, at the End, after the meeting, as I wonder, my grey whiskers
Melt and are matted into the foggy mirror of the moment,
Wherein the moon river pulsing, flows poisoned, polluted.
Eden, enraged beneath and beside, is tolling ringing bells eternal,
For ever after.  Then, thunder aloft teases, tempts laughter, freezing,
finally forges forward to swoop up a tired lung of mine keeping and kept
Between the calm and the tempest, truth is a burglar.

The sea is still as glass like for ice-skates
And the rotting past breathes imperceptibly
Through the vent in the oven where we bake like yeasty, molding bread
And our clothes burn in the All-Seeing Eye but we don't know
Except in hearing that other wisdom In the sound of the crying newly born...
Keeping and kept between the calm and the tempest.