Calvary

The chasm of sleep opened in me,
in the dark, in the night,
and, perlious to face the day,
my feet spoke upon the floor
of sweat and dust and unread mysteries
flying from the crop of my tousled head,
heeding something feint, out of sight -
that gather there in the distance, squawked
of tongues labile in the service courtier.

Blue moons tangential to the fact,
the plain fact, of the hours closing upon
night. And the rest followed swiftly...

Daybreak come unto the fierce maylay
walking, soldering buss to buss,
wanderers walking in flirtation with
Christ, and an abominable sentence veered...

What wayward mischief! What sounds merrily made!
I heard a thousand voices that morning,
rummaging through the buckets of their Mage
to discover - what? Fancy's vain enterprise,
a couple of bucks spent on mustard and rye,
and we pass too simply into the muster of everything...

Disconnextion at the Heart of Lecture Time

The tortured skulls laying across the plains of Perú-

The public sphere is the place of authority

(Barbarism as authority, authority as barbarism)

Anthropology is the study of man (or so it says)

The original language is the primal feeling.

The heart that dug a ground into itself

made choices for the flowers that would grow

from the soil there (and music vivified)

We agree to dee illusion (who wouldn't,

given the time and the hour?)

A make-piece of gregarious warbling

too tight skin on the face of a father

Capitalism and art, hopelessly romantic

Why tinge entropy with belated draughts?

Simple places happily nodding the new.

About the idea of mythology -

poetic misprision of the thicke soupe of life

quandaries like buzz-buzz hee

generating more impossibilities

experimental impulses

exceed the established calculation

of indigenous indignation.

History is (mostly) the past

a realism that really

gets to what happens.

Once you learn

what's there

you can't help

but learn from it.

Grandpa plays with the aesthetic understanding of history.

like a groove in time

that shimmers and shimmers and gleams

and takes it all in time.

We, who are so drawn to daily loves

the workings of a daytime, the after-scent

of a minute, fair woman, do not

decide now, in the heat of such abysm

wakening the dark sense that wickens

the hour, the too interperturbable

flame.

            If I knew the worlds you saw today

      orbiting round placid myth,

      I don't want to make it what you would do

next. Textual sumptuous life of the senses.

What's dead in the breast erupts in words

      What's alive in the breast

                                       oh,

             bursts out in deeds.

[I know I am obsessed with using the word 'heart', but until I can say what I need to say, it shall remain. This is another lecture-note poem that is rather tortured]

Maternal Advice

It is said: Live every day like your last. 

This is a difficult thing to do when one is a poor university student who, were she to part from earth this day, would leave behind her only a meagre trail of essays written in a style she cannot call her own, written for people whom she does not know. 

Please, pashah, engaomble me

Fierce lingering deeds/Padding over gloss eyes/amalgamate window

Yes?

amalgamate window where looked through dog

pompeii in his doggy heart

analytical eyes in turpid brinca

dog looking through the window: he is victory

a piece of sending

             like a card

                  or a leaf

             made it to my papa

            grumble-meat

[Perhaps the most bizzarre thing about this post is that I actually wrote that stanza before I found that picture of the dog. Brinca is a Spanish word that means "to jump around" with connotations of the kind of jumping that children or dogs would do when they run amok.]