chameleon, witch, hustler, con

chameleon, witch, hustler, con
makes us wonder F U work for don
   sleep all day, at night for hire
   scaring off the honest vampires

 couldn't care less about saturn on your back
after frontal assault, a dinnertime attack
   my face still sports your loving touch
   broken blood vessels, not healed much

 take your crap to that target store
change the tags, hag, go get some more
    garbage to anchor those credit card chains,
   stuff is better than intimate things

 friends and our wisdom, our groceries, our trust
 gone in a flash from a sadist outburst

    

aerie awry

Aerie awry, a dodo in oval office
His fleas more regal
His curved spine better formed than
His twit twittered twiterpated mind
He fell there by plot and scat and pee,
A showered coronation as he squawked
And double fisted fried twinkies on sticks
His sad underwear full of loot droppings
Corn flavored ious scribbled in BBQ sauce
Only his dim dong don dodo claw
Can sign so illegibly ode O doe dough
Until an eagle takes out the trash
Brash rash of extinct values
His wings good for nothing flight related
His fat fingers locked in avian genes
His brood dull beaked with greed
Worn on their make trump great sleeves

fumarole waterhole

The sad wastoids loiter, malcontent
To spare, cranking out disharmony between
Sneers guffaws and feet put in mouth
The dim craters of their hearts smoulder
Into another monte
Villa trailer park rodeo clown audition
Drained of the human traits
That endear and sugar coat endurance,
Tolerance of wild veers off steep curbs,
The bums burnt shit shave no love
Would mother such a cretin
Other than out of genetic servitude to Darwin,
Or other explorers of the fumaroles
Outcropping 82nd ave dives
Just visit the chinese village its cinder blocks
Of dead nicotine puffing the sky
In grey dumb masterstrokes of progress

junebug tapenade

Bees crows all ruminants gnaw
Lick lost honey off her paw,

Fertile waste the dawn was chaste
As bird and flea their warm eggs graced

Yon turtle hid under ebony lid
Knockknocked butterfly waving two quid,

Lily rose buttercupped off in the wind
Bluejay took serious baths to lend

Reflections, disrupted ants construction
Tunnel metropolis sandy confections,

Wasp whisked away---- spider balled----
To ride out jays torrential scald,

Bees cawed, crows promenade
Lark likes pollinated junebug tapenade 

Letter from Andrei Codrescu, LSU, Oct. 12, 1988

"more energy, grit, and real life than 96.8%

of the bullshit that comes into the Corpse."

trees stillwater made home

Looming and above all the sycamore and its metal bucket earring grown into a
limb decades ago, full of rusty bullet holes and mulch of aeon leaves, but prior
in memory was the stout and gnarly trunk of a transpired elm, limbless and 
statuesque, gaunt. I scuffed my knees on its ancient sharp bark, intentionally,
jealous of baby brother grant hogging all the mommy love and cooing time. 
The tree was soon in our chimney smoke, warming our beds.
Above the basketball goal at the edge of the concrete slab over our storm
cellar was a big tree, not sure what kind. Like a catalpa tree, with seeds in a pod,
but these seeds were grape sized, very hard and deep brownish-black, four or
five to a pod, in a gooey kind of jelly, and the outer shell of the pods leathery
when fresh, then crispy. It was a pretty good climbing tree,  but nothing like
the sycamore. Around this tree and the basketball hoop, handmade by dad
in a rectangular shape, large cedar trees formed walls ofgreen hands, helping
toss back the errant shots of hundreds of hours of basketball fun.
Under these cedar trees, which grant and i cleaned out of leaves sticks and 
whatnot, we built cities and roads, constructed empires of blocks of wood,
toy trucks and tractors and leggos, and sometimes a litter of kittens in
a carboard box with a towel over the top so they won't get out. Cedar trees
not the best to climb in for the sap, and the scratchy itchy limbs, but the 
smell so good, and the deep dense camoflage and shade of its nature.  There
were nests to peer into, but taught not to bother them, and to never handle
the baby birds.
The cherry tree we planted produced the best sour cherries, pie on the 
picnic table, homemade ice cream in a hand cranked old wood barrel sort 
of thing, and the mystery of dry ice, and perhaps we had a pear tree, an
apricot tree. Mulberry trees fruit was fun, but only good to eat fresh and
when perfectly ripe it was incredible, the purple indigo stains all around
the ground, and in the bird shit, prominent on windshields and the basket
ball arena of this childhood. Get a soldier with a parachute and go up the
sycamore, to the end of the branch near the top, and heave it off so that
the parachute deploys and doesn't end up tangled terminally stuck.
Balsa wood planes, and model airplanes, cars, and spaceships were all at
the shop in town that also sold aquariums and tropical fish. It was a prime
destination to be left for an hour, near across the street was a miniature
golf course, and also the ice cream place with a zillion flavors.
Blackberries grew all around the section lines, red dirt roads paved in
typical gravel. On the land, there were persimmon trees, down below the
pond's dam, and damn your mouth if you tried to eat one not ripe. There
was a cuckoo who lived to laugh at those who tried persimmons not quite
ready, a cuckoo stationed there like a cloud. When perfect ripe, the 
persimmon was not too shabby, not too shabby. 
Hundreds of pines, planted when I was a baby, grew year by year as I
grew and ran through them with bows and arrows and baseball mits full
of rocks or pockets full of fireworks, hundreds of pines wet in the rain
or covered in snow and ice so heavy they bend over and get warped for life,
summer blistering hot the sap pops their bark open, the good years of wet
and lush make their candles, their branch tips slowly open out reverse
umbrellas, broken off in strong winds, little brooms, riding our bikes over
the carpet of pine needles, getting paid per wheelbarrow of death-dry 
needles we'd haul to the burn pile, smouldering all weekend, some lawn
chairs and beer cans, our three acre spread had so many spots to pioneer,
there were attempts to settle the pines with a tree house, also to 
use piled stone for various forts, but vetoed by parents, whereas simple
lean-tos of dead branches or scrap wood was usually fine, until it had to 
meet the burn pile.
The view from the top of our house rose above most all the trees, 
most certainly the ones bordering and surrounding it, so one could really
see into the distant horizons in all directions for a good long ways. A
knowledge of weather spent atop trees or balanced on the peak of
a two story house, and practice jumping ten feet, as well as hanging 
upside down to show off, that's the view a kid has on where they grow
up. We had trees, and big sky. We had crazy clouds, hail, and lightning
storms that would rattle the glass and flash and boom all in the wrong
order. 
The storm cellar was a concrete slab that served as our home's main
entrance, a door leading down into actual cellar room always spiderweb
covered, and often six inches or a foot of water, and sometimes frogs,
or a random scorpion down there, with ancient wood shelves and their
bottles of forgotten dandelion wine, so gross and dusty looking, the
entire cellar dismal not much of a refuge, tornado or not. The door
would rot over the years, and then be a hazard as the nearby basketball
court was the slab, roof and floor, of the cellar. We may have gone down 
once for an impending tornado, but I don't think so. The flimsy wood
door would have gone sailing off in bits and we'd of been sucked into
the eye of the winds.
The cedar trees all around our home facing the highway, tall and thick,
part of the sound of night and sleep, with weather sweeping water and
slapping branch tips , up to the windows curtainless and clear.

stillwater home forts

Go back to the forts, hideouts, stomping grounds of childhood, before they totally vanish,
before they self demolish and are used to build new flimsy dreams. Before the shed is
just used to house the riding lawnmower, and not be a lair for desperados or jedi or spies.
Brother and I built our cook-fire in the bowl shaped lid of a steel milk cannister, got a fry
pan and an egg from the kitchen, and had our second breakfast in the pines. The treehouse
was our real home, in the front yard, in the big sycamore.
I could jump to the first branch five feet up, swing my leg over it,  and climb another bunch
of feet into the walled fort my dad built for us out of new lumber. Open wind0ws, and no
roof for the first couple years, until we added a second story. We spent hours every day in
the tree, at the top, jumping off it, clamboring around it summer or winter, leafed or
bald. Tin can phones and string, blanket roofs, koolaide and squirt guns. Having friends
over to play. Throwing the balsa wood planes out of the tree, or little plastic men with
parachutes. Very oily plastic figurines.
Who else in America had their own bi-plane? Dad built ours out of plywood and two by 
fours; doubled wings, like Snoopy, box shaped and twelve feet long. Big enough to get 
into, three feet wide, with tail fins, and a closing cockpit, gauges and a propellor that
we could spin from inside, manually. The top wing was 5 feet from the ground, the lower
wing 2 feet off the grass. It was painted with a shark's mouth, a pair of dice, checkerboard
patterns. It was a remarkable asset, and solid enticement for visiting friends. Who else 
had their own plane?
Parked underneath the treehouse, or nearby, we could adventure all over the world and
not miss the city life most of our school friends took for granted. I wish I had that passport.
Our rabbit hutch was under the treehouse, for as long as we had our rabbit Foo Foo. We
f0und him on Easter hopping around our yard, white with a several moustaches and eye
rings, a baby coincidence, or escapee. Hard to remember the end of the rabbit, or the
final days of the plane. It must have rotted to an extent beyond repair, as I spent more
time after school in sports, or at the library, and been a good soggy day burn project that
I missed. 
We never had a dog house, because we only had cats, and litters of cats. Grant and I would
put them in boxes lined with cloth, and drag them around the house, to tinker-toy and
building block ghettoes, often hastily constructed with a fort of couch pillows. There was 
Mickey, and Boogie, and Quimby. They had the run of the house and the land. Boogie would
be gone for days or weeks, come back with is Maine Coon fur full of beggars lice, or withwi
torn up ears. They stayed away from the highway. There was all kinds of road kill to 
poke at down there; possums, armadillo, tortoises, coyote, deer, all kind of birds. 
The forts on wheels, our cars, were always station wagons: a Datsun, a Mazda, and
way back when a VW station wagon the size of a candy bar. The Apache pickup was the
coolest, as we got to ride in it on top of loads of firewood, or to our land with the pond,
or to the drive-in theater.
Nearby the drive-in, on our east side of town, was also the roller skating rink. I loved
skating, the chance to flirt with girls and couple-skate hand in hand, and play arcade
games, foosball and air hockey. Doing the limbo, on skates. In the winter, we ice skated
our pond and played real hockey, with a crushed can and tree limbs, all around the
beaver lodge. Forts, nests with wings, shoes with fins, homes on wheels. And then the 
inner realms of books, of study, or the rooftop to cloud watch. Coming in with shoe
laces full of stickers, a jar with fireflies, and chigger bites. Or home right at dark, a 
stringer of gasping fish that gott be cleaned as they say, out on the slab with moths
and junebugs and the cats watching, the innards of the fish on some paper sack, and
Monty Python on the TV and then it was bedtime, again, and creep mouse.

get good and goet

the beautiful naked page so adamantly patient
for ink, her song thru broken sails
slung tardy hissing near the reef.
a merman of the sky doled out the rainbow kisses
only a vocabulary can taste.
easy mind goes freely trapping,
all the quarry has blametags and alternate diodes
to flash utter sense, senseless. run a
green light
hop a bounty, the screen and screed and scrawl
want to take care of you, in the dim hours
and drip feed moonlight, but he is
clad in clammy wool knickers and full of moths.
sylvia's sylvan slippers skip dope,
on the play ground, all the mary cunts go merrily
cunting their bunbuns to finnegan's fingal cave,
with the bad givers and their manners made of dust.
slammed doors and open atoms
make mushtomb pizzas, how sweet!
the birdies taunt death's halo, fluttering like 
parmesan over angel hair demons. my mother,
dressed in jeweled basalt in the habit of a nun,
volcanic. my father, poor as a sharecropper 
up to his nose in Oil and pussy. kitsch
lines the avenue, its all not for sale, no matter
the size of the sheep, or her billy
goat gruff said the die, landing on their sides
full of whining asphalt. rather than vulgar marbles,
our needs encompass time like filo dough.
you're lucky to get periods,
and commas, dude, otherwise the fig leafed page
would behead the knight with a comet,
their bland automaton in a helmet made of maids.
if you can't have fun, why
spend the splendor on ferris wheel gerbils says the
ratchety young spring, going squirt squirt
out the fake flower of his eye, weepy and yellowed
with autumn. earl grey and mister mustard in the dining
room with a candlestick, or the sorry parch easy
queasy doomish dildos of growing grass
under the scythe's fourth eye, that's the rub.
dumb but not deaf, the plain
all pain deludes into desert nomad donkeys
packed with alpha bets
and beta fish set on one another like fireants.
don't try to "get it"
get got.

on the bus toward home, west more
-land river bluff
built by floods, long hence
routed animal motions,
geese honk passing o'er head
drip their logs
over the golf course,
scat made of fish bone puree
hole in one.
on the bus, weaving its way
thru the toney wood
-stock/reed college neighborhood,
from a painting gig
my black dungarees palomino speckled
the bus halts as a pickup truck
parked impedes our bumpy hustle.
i walk to the driver
to ask directions,
return to seat, and a girl
pops into the seat next to me
"hi dad!"
her hair has changed since last week,
my punker teenaged daughter,
she's older. we chat,
she tells me about mom,
sister starting school this week and
sister's friending which is sweet.
i have to stop to pay
my phone bill, my spoonbill, dip deep
in the wallet, fish out me
-saw, a corner of my identity,
one chip off my blot
-good block.



Mt Tabor, Oregon
4-5-18

POETRY bloggod

Hola, Ciao, Aloha, friends!

There is lots more of my poetry at my other blog site, bloggod!
Enjoy! 

United States	19
Russia	7
Spain	4
Portugal	3
Romania	3
Philippines	2
Canada	1
India	1
Poland	1

seize this this (1999)

seize this this poem as evidence
   of the worlds inside which collide
with clashing scimitars resounding
   muffled by a buffalo hide

seize this this home as evidence
   of the love of the air and the tree
breathe the fragrance of your own doings
   exemplify the peace of one, free

seize this his body as evidence
   limb by limb fold me into thy cell
only then could i awaken
   from relentless consumer spell

seize this this entire universe
   stick a barcode on the moon
buy grafted simu-cool reality
   with microscopic digital spoons

seize this this flagrant evidence
   a pile of consumer's bones
shred the passive neuroses to smithereens
   burn quaint Timorese in their homes

seize this this wrapper by providence
   left on the smudge of the hook
them heathen needs be crucified
   but spare 'em if they can cook

seize this this moment as medicine
   for the soul of the earth is food
acorn, creekmint, broccoli
   feed flesh as well as its mood



1999 Swale Canyon, Wa

Tattoo Tears and the Ladder Not Taken or Offered

http://www.calibanonline.com/store.html

#9 includes an art portfolio by Kisoon Griffith, interviews with zydeco musicians Wayne Toups and Nathan Williams, and work by Gerald Vizenor, Wanda Coleman, Dionisio Martinez, Diane Wakoski, Antonio Porta, Spencer Selby, Forest Bloodgood, Dieter Weslowski, Christopher Davis, John M. Bennett, Melissa Monroe, Ronnie Burk, Ray DiPalma, Edouard Roditi, Simon Perchick, Louise Erdrich, Michael Dorris, John Bradley, Sonya Hess,  Joel Lewis, Amanda Yskamp, Edward Smallfield, Sheila E. Murphy, Stephen Ratcliffe, Kevin Walker, John Lindgren, Silvia Curbelo, Greg Mulcahy, George Kalamaras, Raymond Federman, David Huerta, Jeanne M. Beaumont, Edward Mycue, Nico Vassilakis, Jay Passer, Christina-Marie, John Bell, Jose Quiroga, Judith Roitman, Gaspar Aguilera Diaz, Lisa Cooper, B.Z. Niditch, Tyrone Williams, and Guy R. Beining.

___________

#9 Issue of Caliban has my poem "hairbrain," about my friend Ann, who underwent
emergency brain surgery for an aneurysm. I had been publishing poetry by sending small
manuscripts to magazines, and got a tip from that Caliban wanted a submission. It was
particularly rewarding to be published alongside established "names."

I hadn't looked up Caliban online in awhile, not knowing it continued in some form. Yesterday,
I was thinking of Sherman Alexie, who at present is in the news from multiple women
accusing him of bad behavior (in a nutshell.)


"Writer Sherman Alexie last week issued a statement admitting he "has harmed" others, after rumors and allegations began to circulate about sexual harassment. Without providing details, Alexie said "there are women telling the truth," and he apologized to the people he has hurt. "

https://www.npr.org/2018/03/05/589909379/it-just-felt-very-wrong-sherman-alexies-accusers-go-on-the-record

Issue #10 of Caliban has several Alexie poems; the first is "Tattoo Tears," which is
dedicated "for Joy Harjo." It begins with "1. No one will believe the story I'm telling, so it must
be true." The poem explains that the tattooed tears for the woman exist as the "real ones
failed to convince."

Caliban print issues featured a Free Speech Corner, wherein contributors are given an
additional chance for publishing unedited comments. Sherman Alexie wrote,

"I'm a Spokane/Coeur d'Alene Indian
 from the Spokane Indian Reservation.
 Nearly full-blood, which means I can play
in the all-Indian basketball tournaments,
 but still not sure which parts of me
 are federally recognized as white."

NOW we know which parts are recognized as white: the shamed part.

""It's a story about power, and abuse of power," says Jeanine Walker, one of three women who came forward on the record, and whose stories NPR has corroborated with several sources. In all, 10 women spoke to NPR about Alexie, who is a married man. Most of the women wanted to remain anonymous, but a clear pattern emerged:

 The women reported behavior ranging from inappropriate comments both in private and in public, to flirting that veered suddenly into sexual territory, unwanted sexual advances and consensual sexual relations that ended abruptly.

 The women said Alexie had traded on his literary celebrity to lure them into uncomfortable sexual situations."

why poetry tries what it can't not do

Page Visits------Thank You for giving poetry a look.

France	6
United States	5
Spain	4
Russia	4
Poland	3
Indonesia	2
Nepal	2
Argentina	1
Germany	1
Croatia	1

return deposits (1994)

flipflops on hot sand
that's why dolphins ditched their hands
to ignore the urge to forge
adopting  sonar giggles,
undersea nipples, while whale
had backbone to regress
floating beauty's bulk
backwards for return 
time deposits




Maui, Hi
1994

stone treehome (1994)

time builds home outta vacant
utopias, sprouted plywood
sunflowers, raku parking lots,
volcanic sun song land.
tranquil memory glue
suffices Present,  delving
toward relentless baby 
love, art galore, 
accentuated
situational lava




Maui, Hi
1994

kami (1994)

wilted under a shell torn
off the 8th tangle these kami whisper
cricket freeway feeder
sounds around oahu's go cart track,
vroom vrooms
indulge the diligence of spiritual acts,
logical face full of water marbles
speaking high
over the apartment tower 
familiar in seventies TV




Oahu Hawaii
1994

expired halo (1994)

honor beautiful longevity,
words expire halos.
send in the innocents,
make them communicate via chopsticks
of avarice and indolence,
peck at keys blind chicken
chanting in the rafters,
high quality meanderings,
rented homage,
used diplomas





1994
hawaii

diamondhead flunky (1994)

diamondhead groupies money-clipped
together colby swiss & cheddar
in search of sun, surf, catharsis,
a moment or two
of somethang pertaining to relaxation
as becca and i lay out our silver
wares to afford the warm glistening
lounge music of alien hotels,
surreal all-smile academy
baby in momma's strong arms,
lithe waves cool the anxiety
of selling oneself or not,
crediting transcendence,
transcribing needs



Oahu, Hi
1994

cufflinks (1994)

teeming depths of diamondhead,
brawling surf playfully
preaching bucks,
hi-rise dreams
schmooze,
shuffle
of room service drones



Oahu,Hi
1994

miniseries (1994)

nightclouds flatten down
on millioned paws to trudge honestly
over oceanmist they pause not
before pearl city attempts at mass
architecture like magnets meeting
in blind date repulsed and curious
in an old tango
adorned in banjo conversations
comments on return of great whites
feasting on the recreation sloths
skinny japanese hardly crunch
so texans loan the lard, loan shark
lard rangers




Maui, Hi
1994

siren song duh (1994)

nowdays prometheus cleptos
zippos @ cocktail whingdings,
elegant venus steps naked
out of virtual reality beerfoam
to impassion the dullard epic,
hercules cleans not the stable
rather scours congress
to emblazon history with parsley myth,
odysseus don't poke
out ogre eye, rather flips on donahue
to equal access the siren
song duh




Maui, Hi
1994

time harvest (1994)

token planet ruler spermbanks
collapse, discredited
of potential, 
disinfected by Time,
us folks dumber'n dirt
& less useful than a sandbag
as oceans rise to gobble
costal infections, earth's
tension dissolves
mortal pretensions

Maui, Hi

1994

prehistoric rhetoric

styrofoam still the style
for kona organic brews in tourist kidneys
whose wallets one harvests
to convert credit's waterfront
condo overlooking petroleum
fields as they ripen
to mature as chlo·ro·fluor·o·car·bon 
feetprints in the espresso steam
running their diesel powered zits
doubleparked by old growth stands
of integrity so dirty
from legislation handling it waits
to evolve in an airport cue
stepping into the swamp of sludge
known as future



Maui, Hi
1994

pilgrim crumb (1994)

shuttled from the airport
across farmland, pineapple, sugar cane,
cannabis, in the bed of dusk pickup
we reach the sweet hut
nestled in amongst guava aroma,
walls of glass, host treats us
to local kindness,  then we drive up
to kula winding higher 
up the ocean mountain to a picnic
with a rope swing growing
into a fathomless dark swish



Maui, Hi
1994

brandnames unite (1994)

conspiracy boards ship
w/cutlass, shhhh
it moves clever enuff to crawl beneath
starbullets& media garbage,
portions of which blatant product
placement deserve their own
pumped up gonad juices
composted of filler subtractives
& psychedellic flavor structures;
naturally, brandnames unite.
spooky, to own the world
& adjust the sun



Maui, Hi

intimate things

chameleon, witch, hustler, con
makes us wonder if ya shake  for don
   sleep all day, at night for hire
   scaring off the honest vampires

 couldn't care less about saturn on your back
after frontal assault, a dinnertime attack
   my face still sports your loving touch
   broken blood vessels, not healed much

 take your crap to that target store
change the tags, hag, go get some more
    garbage to anchor those credit card chains,
   stuff is better than intimate things

 friends and our wisdom, our groceries, our trust
 gone in a flash from a sadist outburst

    



1634, Boston. 
into the fray

Seven Sonnets

            the wild hunt   

fohn wind hard licks the wild hunt erupting
vultures drop, motionless, shadows disrupting
   moonlit groves, armies of faries
   thrashing acorns as tornadoes carry us

down stark roads over homes wrongful built,
for hearth-fires wodan keeps, unwise wood split
   undoing the road and what's come before
   and that which was known, once before sworn

dandy dogs hunting, stay on your steed
to touch ground when godan hunts; ashes guaranteed,
   our tender feet march not that fohn wind,
   rises hot focus up mountains sharp grin

   cutting god's ice beard, the spray off blood hooves;
   red roaming ghost kings, all sensible move
____________


          selene        


Selene drives her moon chariot wanton wise
pulling men-hearts out to later feed mice
   above green earth her palace so pale
   from craters her whims all mortals regale

moonstruck by proxy, the wine in our glasses
moondrunk the chipmunk, evading owl passes,
   Selene never parks her orb spinning high
   without clouds for hitch-posts cloistered nigh

formed of Phoebe, or maybe old Theia
fished in by gravity, mystery, the moon sees us;
   silhouette of substances similar, serene
   man is kind love until shown his own spleen

shining her trademark, all night she delivers
rolling foul heavens, arming cupid's deft quivers
_________________


              norn       


Swans from swain broods emerge to the Norns
who thread twine, riverine, alluvial born;
   fates tend to puddle, well-tree over-ridden;
  the Norns sort us out, trophy in the midden

a root runs true or turns false no less,
carries our water, the ash of success
   the limbs roost above our imperiled crowns
   widow-maker swooping, silently browned

no fish to swan stalking, mirror calm lake,
no leaf left untasted, the hart there to take
   no dirt clod molested, the serpent true hiss
   there in Norn's weaving wand's illustriousness

   noblest of trees, tried on all sides
   ribs back, arm mind, heart soul& mind
______________


          nemesis spake      


Finally Nemesis spake, her truth a rake,
clawing man's crime piles he takes/takes
   for granted, till spark make bonfire;
   good, party ----get a marshmallow, dear

said Nemesis, whittling weeping willow
switches, laying castor&pollux egg on a pillow;
   mother of helen, cause of collection,
   armies assembled to die, perfection;

ceo, senator,  jocular newsguy, trump:
Watch for a chariot of griffins Clumped
   Yer frivolous Insolence and heads i remove
   Shrieked Nemesis      (her army approved)

daughter of  Ocean, her dagger primeval,
dim man-blood meet Nemesis, measured arch rival
____________________


       semele          


bathing in the river, Semele took note yon eagle
bloody from blots to zeus, his attentions "regal"
   Semele demanded the god in full glory,
   thus reduced by thunderbolt, an immortal story;

from fires sprung son dio, wine god of frenzy
born to soothe  time and man, needing ectasy
   a phoenix not ready, zeus sewed in his thigh:
   dionysus, with river nymphs, and mystis, resides

raised in sheer mountains, with panthers, his wine,
wand tipped with spine-bone,             honey of pine
   mead's golden warm fuel        fires the dance
   epiphany blooms               in orgy perchance

  twice born, the grape low:
  wine risen, man knows:
______________


         ixion       

The centaur bow aflame in absolute fire,
breath cloud via spectograph no liar,
  primordial booze of all make and kind
  ethanol, vinyl,...no wonder centaur's blind

a black hole of methane, tongueless profane,
formaldehyde crib has all life to gain
  loaning out a cosmos to spare
  a rib boomerrang returns for its share

half man-horse,  his core brighter by far,
hera dumbly his target, zeus fixed Ix with tar,
   spinning eternal from fucking that cloud
   (in hearts distillation, purely not allowed)

  big bang banished, moby dick subsumed,
  punished with powers all self-consumed
_______________


         cebele     


Say you know them sibyls of the sistine chapel;
you know the core, seed,        and bite of apple
   do you know that great Magna Mater,
   great mother, mountain planter,

Cybele seven thousand year worshipped,
iron from stars, her magnet, perfect
   cured incorrigible dionysus, raving
   grounded the grove and hearthstone, paving

altars blood worshiped, don't sneer now you mortal;
your fridge full of prophecy, awaiting, a portal;
   styrofoam chapel, all lined with the saints,
   st. bacon, st. whipped cream, st. plastic and paint

   moshing foot grinding the feet grapes undressing
   came first mothers music, mystery, sense blessings


Mt Tabor, Portland, Oregon
Jan 2, 2018