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By Dennis P. Carey
Ode to Eve Eve sits laughing telling musical jokes turns stern, looks at me. I am an
infant. Her
teeth grow large,
skulls float around us. She grows larger, larger, the universe no longer smiling. Oceans of blood-skull-flow each, frightened to death, I am and tickling my own tummy, a smile chases my fear. I tickle my own tummy a smile chases my fear I reach for her larger toe, as great as Meru, itself. As I suck, I visualize a poem, my love for her. I send it out through the capillaries in her skin. She shudders, the great universe; and I grow as large as she and I am shooting arrows, my poems at the blood-flowing skulls that circle us. As the blood-pour descends to the
horizon, it turns sky-blue, electric and recreates into millions of transparent, multi-sized spheres. (My invisible bow is our
phallus.) We are equal in size, the universe
together. We are two-year-old children and the skulls are speaking my poems in her voice. She and I, yab-yum, in total blackness. It is love at first sight. We awake. Ourselves. *** Oh yes the wind through
bird's toes, the whistling of
events scurry beside me. In windows the far
sight sees himself
laughing at doors that
shut winter's
envelope. I see the
colours of trees drip ice, the
twinkle of soon-to-come reaches
me from jarred noise. The air
sits smiling
frowns across
my sun-tan I wander
crevices. I roam
star-light in
quiet wonder. Who is
she? *
* * Love, of course a dirty rag that wipes from scars, invisible. * * * Hey, dark lotus one! your scuffy
scuttle. The moon rising The red tongue
within flutes a blue
prank and settles for
the dawn, like a claw. crossing the
river. * * * Your doorway the scent of your
touch, melodies that recall our music. A wet kiss, the floor rug
smiles up, I sit next to you, to hear of you. Your hair shines, the space between
colours. We talk of merriments and sadness. Wind nestles through cracks in the
wall. wants to share us or carry us with it. Can we find each other in the search of
competing rush? The snow will come, covering dormancy. In Spring, I wish to bathe you. The nut I save now is to share with
you. * * * Day's late he sailed across
earth's trespass. A rested warrior gone home, full lived, returned. crying pigeons
flutter, the dark spot vanishes: His name be done. Amen. * * * In the room, no more than a
doorknob, entering. * * * Dreamlessawakening - Thoughtfirst,
where is the dream? Could it be that once I enter the
dream, with memory, all is invisible. Yes. This is the clue. When you dream you seek. When dreams cease you
enter. Becoming your dream, you are. * * * Death! You dolt, why tempt me? I know who I am and what. Who you are and
what! Death, I am spirit, and don't need you to live. * * * I have bought the spiritual pancake and so I cruise
along, awaiting the carrier of new seed ideas, who walks into
life; myselving. She, weak when I left her is my new
strength or a symbol for
its becoming, Now. A talker she, who takes me in and forbids
self-lies A citizen of Song, wild-chasmed between her legs, facing each day,
a little worried. She cooks our bread, new made wish for each
of us together. She, sweet oven of our desire. * * * Tears come on waves of
feminine memory. My Ocean fulls Touch,
aching loss of her. In mind we are divine. In flesh we are a mess. In Time, the kettle steams loud; In Space, gaseous, our bodies touch.' My Lord, thank
you for the gift of my little hearts' desire. * * * Do I write poetry like a blind lover to his goddess? Can the knowledge of this reality touch all realities and enliven the feelings of thought? Will she cry for my absence and light candles to my image? Or will her despairing past throw rubble down upon our seedling love-newness, drown in clay, the spring of discovery, crush with past's stones, now's new bud? -- Will Mamon crush our living death to dust? * * * I sing the Archetypal feminine as she enters
Maya, as the soul's
breath, the songstress
plucks chords of Love. I kiss the flashing feet of Siva, nestle in the
water with the blue dancer, coil snugly with
the lotus sleeper. * * * I reluctantly bathed love's dry drench, sat closed eyes watching her
mystery. The darkness. She, in me bathes sweet-soup pure memory, gives unseen
signs sings so true
melodies. Periodically, we need each other. * * * In the twelfth house blue
room doubt sat idly thinker's
galore. And the silence, listening (listening, listening, listening) * * * The room is large decorated with
her memories of conquest, of
submission, deaths, rebirths
- some toothpast
stain. an old manuscript, torn by a change in
circumstance a poor decision. Stop, continue, lose, gain. Finish. She is the reaper of her own Present. Consuming the inner ghost, she laughs birthing wonder-song. Minstrel skin, the woman flesh-eater. (Devours anima projections pointed her way) She, ingredient of Self. * * * One of her voices, I fear. The stern one, the masculine
eye. She often is silent - then, the male
speaks: I shudder, repressing the
instinctive sword thrust response. I would kill the
male who spoke to me that way! Often she marvels, "you're honest, really." - endless mutterings, retreatless halts; I cannot cease to lie to her. Vast, moist darkness her mouth. She screams perfection is not! IN MEMORIAM |
