The Opium Den

gone too far

wont come back

insane forever

really dying

hammer my name
using you hands
fists in stone
palm to sky

i have grown dog arms
tell me. am i mad?

i go to the sea at negative tide
and sit, shape shifted against the granite
in the hot spring caves
and sit among the holiest of mens societies

they see only the stone
and do know where the rattle come from
fourth round in their song

i disappear with the flood tide

 (For Fishturn)

Amabilis Insania

"The ancients had already observed the kinship between

the imagination and dreams, hallucination and visions...

Democritus had said that one could not conceive of a great poet

who was not possessed by a certain divine delusion.

Plato declared it was impossible for the production of

ordinary artistic intelligence ever to equal divine madness."

~ The Theatre of Dream, Resnik, Salomon

It is way past 13:00

I know, you know I saw you, pass them iron tracks

Your Jack Daniels, your Lucky Strikes, your “Leave Me Alone” Ways

Thinking about your Dirty Mama, thinking about your Boy Blue

You have come to rest your head upon my torso

Telling me, it’s late... too late for Indian Summer

And that somehow you have lost a season, possible several

The season when some dry flowers

Pack fruit in jars                          comfort for that cold bitch February?

February

Moon of dimensional smuggling, place of echoes and shape shifters

Season of Broken Rosary

That chokes, asphyxiates

It will come you know, sooner than we realize

Red lipstick, smeared sheets, extra shoe polish

Polished grip of the gun, hand made, expertly crafted

Angora, wool, silk. We’ll wear robes of small prey

And draw with a stick in the dirt

Our mouths meet in a confusion of Raspberry, Vanilla and Xanax

Season of

Scotch and bourbon, a time to stay behind smoke          forget

And you close the bar

Absolute of Cèpes, Costus, and Black Spruce

Define and guard the nights

Cannabis takes a back seat to the Shadows, it simply won’t do

We have laid down in the Night Garden

                                    chronophagoi

                                   distant nuncio

                                          lost days

I call upon Labdanum and Blond Tobacco and need fire

                                                                           Michael

                                                                            Gabriel

                                                                          Raphael

To balance the cloying and sickening sweetness of too much floral

Too much treble, the bright lights and paranoia

Overindulgence and insomnia

Bitch Season

She wants to see me dead you know

It’s ok

We know death well

humans              born to kill

Like hyena, like lion, like bear

Sometimes we eat our own

I am drinking each day by 10:00

Beautiful diners, leather coats, the newest shoe/boot

The vitamin, herbs, roots. One tablespoon of dragon bones in grain

Pure water, enough fiber

I too want to tell lies

And leave the garbage bill, water bill and Lovers

To pile up

Fruit, cheese- all sustenance

Left to rot

Make it go away

All go away

For I have gone

See me without my beauty, lace shoved in my mouth to stifle the screams

I want only to kiss, to kiss

Sex is so over rated, absurd and desperate

Bad for my state of mind

I will Tango when I am well

                        hold both your hands

                            look into your eyes

                                                 15:00

                                       finally falling

 
This is penetration

  
          Please

Do not speak

For sometimes I have confused the monster with the man you see

But don’t be deceived; don’t take my silence for frailty

I know enough to come out of this alive

To get up and walk 100 feet from the house

And call the Dream Helper by name

i almost dream, almost touch

because you are reaching, reaching
                                        you do- reach
                              no one will see this

"what makes you happy? what do you do for fun?" the new person is now asking.
"let me touch your hair."

i want to choke. he is fragile, too tender and will make a good husband for someone, perhaps he is a husband.
it's too late for husbands.

1,2,3,4,5
seven day candles stay lit day and night
i am feeding the dead small plates of my best cooking
corn meal
two dove eggs
millet
no rice, no hot pepper

i once asked a man not to leave:

come back                       come back               come back                    come back

       "                                            "                                   "                                       "

       "                                            "                                   "                                       "

       "                                            "                                   "                                       "

perhaps i meant it.

here and there are photographs that have been taken of me. too many really -in various countries
they show that i was a believer in it all.

i once wore jasmine, once wore neroli

before my leggings of willow bark
headdress of matchsticks
shield of swallows

angelica root
azure and white smoke. small, steady stream smoke.

Scarlet Star
Heyoka His Medicine
She is wearing
A headdress of matchsticks
Robe of dog skins

Her small feet are toughened to the bad bones
As she walks across the backs of men with her
Black lonesome thoughts
On roads too tough to hoe

She is counting small bills in the shade
Because there is still a small pride
Washing her hands thoroughly in the dirt

She counts her money and will hold her head up
And no one will no she came from trash
Because she keeps her nails clean
White of eyes clear

west wind
indifferent
blooms in the night
unlucky then lucky

There are swallows in the sky here

She is unbraiding her hair, which drags in the gully
And wherever she passes the wood will not catch