Her

She is rising just now,

rising,

from a cream silk bed

buttered with sun.

Every time you’ve touched me,

I’ve thought of her.

Her sheening hair,

her sincere smile,

her scathing tongue

and cooling lips.

In fact, she haunts me,

reigns my dreams.

It was your mumbled

midnight words,

it will be

your mumbled midnight words

that slide like a film

between us.

be(d)side

so that when I say it’s in me like bluest ice

it’s that I lean back at night and its chill spiders through my brain

in capillary-like, axon-and-dendrite-like, ink-on-paper-like fashion

wrapping and seeping, coiling and bleeding

staining me and defining my boundaries

which are in so many dimensions--

imaginary, far, now, real, here, then

tossed into all realities

like splintered hairs

scattered, free, not connected to one another--

at once that I am enormous, eternal

hurting with yearning, stuffed

into a moment, restrained, confined

so that when the blue melts out through my eyes

and my esophagus strangles a slashing red volume

please know that it is nothing but the pain of being,

like compressed air,

locked in me and some of me rushes out

so that when I

explode

it will be that slabs and slivers of me are sprayed

all over the world

so that when I am mute and untouchable to you

it will be that I’m.

in the morning

how daylight contorts the forms unbearable

how time is the enemy

how silence slashes into shadow

to make a yawning door

through which the bleeding inks

seep

and press slow horror

deep

into me immobile

between sleeps and wakes

dream mind body awake

they'll ask

process? method?

they may invoke Ginsberg

first thought, best thought

they may invoke Potok

who, dead, still revises

this is a parallel universe moving more quickly through time

this is an hallucination

this is salvation

this is

god

the answer is

no

no, the process, the method,

you have it, you impoverished

the papers Pablo stole-

parables of Pablo

palabras of Pablo-

no, blessed are the poor

blessed is Pablo (a priori, a papyrus) and blessed are you

for yours (notre) is the Kingdom,

no, the process, the method-

the process is kneeding dough

the method is baking bread

the approach is with butter

the tool is a knife

-haolo io,

epucra mae-

the eyes are eternally

the ears are eternally

the nose is eternally

the mouth is eternally

the flesh is eternally

there

folded- gently!- in his fields

which are mine, which are not mine

gently so as not to puncture the blueberries

as he makes bread with me

because I am the bread

and the wine is me

so that when I come to altar white

it is stained by me spare

the scientist- haolo- spare him

the iodine

and let him more easily observe the leaf

making glucose and being a leaf

and being a leaf and
being a leaf
and

Sun Water Cake Head

or are you a stranger?

The sheets are green.

sisters? cities?

Ojos, not Os, bespeckeled-

what's printed into your bones?

He breathes.

flouted anemic dreams.