http://avoidmuse.blogspot.com/2008/10/yes.html

god he's great. i would give money if i could be gifted with such a speach. how easy exams would be. :D

i'm back. or at least dipping my head into water, testing it again.

I Sing the Body Electric

I am the poet of the body and I am the poet of the soul … / At another place he sings:/ I have said that the soul is not more than the body.

-Walt Whitman

The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it comes or it lags behind, / It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself ( Read more... )

Okay. I'm going to be insane and sign up today. If any of you have an account, I'd love to know it ( Read more... )

Woman to Old and Desiring Man

My flesh a gate of neither ivory
nor thorn, in the winter-long flood-
tide of longing. Prairie winds restrain

your hand whose dark temptations
forces forth as forcing poses force
desire. I never granted you the gate,

not even on request. Instead I granted
ocher acreages under rinds of a lemon
sun still fraught with ( Read more... )

Fear

You have never understood fear,
that odd, ambiguous thing.

But sometimes you wonder if it is
that which comes with an all-

snagged falling into the not-
known, turning and black,

intrepid, grey, large, in your
dreams. -you wonder if it is

this feeling (cold, lingering)
on your back, on your skin;

that slight prickle on ( Read more... )

Snow-Blind on a Hunt

The tiger's fur is hoarfrost
Sibir that blinds my eyes.

And while I cannot tell a sky
from brown ground, I can tell
the oily lucency

of sun from white. It's only
yellow trapped in white,

or white transuding

honey,      syrup,         smashed

cloudberry a screeching colour-
pandemonium de-
colorizing when

it ( Read more... )

The Paw of a Cat

When I passed the black
cat in these ocher velds,

time followed the lengths
of them in speed. On its

paws, it balanced on its
paws, in oat and canola.

How patient it seemed,
at peace, a mute soloist

whose paw are mossed
by barley   grass  moss

and then  alfalfa when
it moved a paw as though

( Read more... )

Untitled

Leda: introduction
   i.

This is how she, below sky below you, parades on each

heat-crippled field  swallowed not in shadow, but in sun:

a swan, whose wings ascend, descend,  come away in

ledaean white, as when, in light and in not-light, she is

dancing, feet brush/ fail, brush/ fail hot asphalt-this

is how it goes, her motion, ( Read more... )

Light seeps through redwood
leaves and Tuscany windows
- a sun's smudged makeup.

. . . happened today ( Read more... )