Sacred Flesh

"But this dark is deep: now I warm you with my blood, listen to this flesh. It is far truer than poems." -- Marina Tsvetaya


Mockingbirds and Miracles: Awakening the Planet

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered 

I'm wild again! Beguiled again! A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I.
Couldn't sleep And wouldn't sleep Until I could sleep where I shouldn't sleep
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I.
Lost my heart but what of it? My mistake I agree.
He's a laugh, but I love it Because the laugh's on me.
A pill he is But still he is All mine and I'll keep him until he is
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered like me.

Seen a lot I mean a lot! But now I'm like sweet seventeen a lot.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I.
I'll sing to him Each spring to him And worship the trousers that cling to him
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I.
When he talks He is seeking Words to get off his chest.
Horizontally speaking, He's at his very best.
Vexed again, Perplexed again, Thank God I can be over-sexed again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I.

Sweet again, Petite again, And on my proverbial seat again. 
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered am I. 
What am I? Half shot am I. To think that he loves me, So hot am I. 
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered am I.
Though at first we said, "No, sird." Now we're two little dears.
You might say we are closer Than Roebuck is to Sears
I'm dumb again And numb again, A rich, ready, ripe little plum again.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I.

the Beautiful, the Peculiar, and the True

In an age of decaying reason 
at the ragged edges of science
on the outer limits of art
orbits the Alchemist Extraordinaire

Master of the mindfield
wizard of wordplay
poet of the improbable
Prophet of the PolyMorphic

Explorer of the strangest edges
"Culture a collective act of paranoia,
a whistling past the graveyard,
a tale told by an idiot...."
Psychedelic Crazymaker

"We're all going down with Capt. Nemo
and his burning-eyed crew"
cries our hallucinogenic hero 
our prince of potency
Explorer between Earth and Eschaton

Planetary mindweb, psilocybin DreamTime
an ancient all powerful biological Magick
cracking through sidewalks of cities
awakening our feral family of the future
Gaia our Mother in this Archaic Revival

Aesthetic ecological professor of mysticism
pointing out this pathetic political nightmare
now can we move beyond ideology
over their toxic repressive razor wire? 
Revolutionary raging Wizard of Weird

May Gaia live in the Garden of your soul
Ho'omana'o Aloha Nui Ya 'Oe
we'll meet you soon at the End of Time

Thus Spake the Mockingbird 

The mockingbird says, Hallelujah, coreopsis, I make the day
     bright, I wake the night-blooming jasmine. I am 
the duodecimo of desperate love, the hocus-pocus passion
     flower of delirious retribution. You never saw such a bird,
such a triage of blood and feathers, tongues and bone. 

O the world is a sad address, bitterness melting the tongues of babies,
breasts full of accidental milk, but I can teach the flowers to grow,
     take their tight buds, unfurl them like flags in the morning heat,
fat banners of scent, flat platters of riot on the emerald scene.

     I am the green god of pine trees, conducting the music
of rustling needle through a harp of wind. I am the heart of men,
     the wild bird that drives their sex, forges their engines,
jimmies their shattered locks in the dark flare where midnight slinks.

     I am the careless minx in the skirts of women, the bright moon
caressing their hair, the sharp words pouring from their beautiful mouths
     in board rooms, on bar stools, in big city laundrettes. I am
Lester Young's sidewinding sax, sending that Pony Express
     message out west in the Marconi tube hidden in every torso
tied tight in the corset of do and don't, high and low, yes and no. 

I am the radio, first god of the twentieth century, broadcasting
the news, the blues, the death counts, the mothers wailing
     when everyone's gone home. 

I am sweeping the Eustachian tube of the great plains, transmitting
     through every ear of corn, shimmying down the spine
of every Bible-thumping banker and bureaucrat, relaying the anointed
     word of the shimmering world. Every dirty foot that walks
the broken streets moves on my wings. 

I speak from the golden screens. Hear the roar of my discord murdering the trees, screaming its furious rag. The fuselage of my revival-tent brag. Open
     your windows, slip on your castanets. 

I am the flamenco in the heel of desire. I am the dancer. I am the choir. Hear my wild throat crowd the exploding sky. 
O I can make a noise.

~ Barbara Hamby, "Babel"

Planet of Miracles

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods....

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

~ Walt Whitman

Piranha Love

Le plaisir est au trésor

De racines de feelgood freudienne

pour les mains moites de frustration

une nation de l'homme traumatisme apprivoisés

tortille inconfortablement dans ses vêtements

Peau tendre caché de contact

terriblement civilisée encore sauvagement seul

secrètement trempé dans le désir collante

suintant odeur humide de sauvage en cage

Terrifiés dans un coin polie de finesse

repousser les élingues de la société

peur de malaise de la maladie et sleaze

tenant ensemble dans la zone de guerre

Les femmes connaissant le bord brutale

blessures de l'usure à tâtons et violant

monde des hommes un milieu de méfiance

egos meurtris émoussée et maladroit

Nu nation de singes donc enchaîné

en squelettes de doute de soi

le sang de liaison de la peau caché

passion gonflement dans un blush

Animaux pleurs de se libérer

cogner sur les côtes et les portes

noyade dans les piscines de déni

éjacule dans nuits saintes

Au bord de la chatouillement de l'âme

trouver un bouton secret magique

déverrouiller le plaisir parfait:

"Crème votre palpiter-bouton?"

Venir à une révolution

proche et chère à vous!

Les projections de renverser crachant

Plus portes de la répression

Despierta el Planeta

No hay tiempo para que el niño espera

escuchar el zumbido y el zumbido

cada fibra viviente canta

nacido para este día con alegría

de un mar de miedo carnosa

convertido en héroe del mañana

rodeada por una feroz deseo

los ojos llenos de ficciones salvajes

agacharse ahora en una realidad

clamar a despertar a otros

sabiendo el planeta está vivo

Ahora hacemos lo que debemos

nuestros cuerpos no son los nuestros

nuestras mentes son millones más

nuestras manos son ahora planetaria

voces que se levanta sobre nuestro mundo

somos la paz orado por

despiertos para convertirse en el salvador

"What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."
~ Crowfoot