(2012)

This fine silk thread
borrowed from an orb weaver
I will use for your hair
so the sun’s light refracts full spectrum
casting color on the shadows etched into the walls
reservoir of my cobra heart
docile till you come near

These stones
rolled smooth by river’s torrent
and ocean’s tide
will fit into the sockets where your eyes
once watched this dramedy unfold

These conchs will be your ears
mounted upon an urchin
that will pose as your head
inside, for your brain
I shall ejaculate my semen
so your thoughts will be productive

your lips will be made of reeds
stretched across your face
dried after a devastating winter
and your nose crafted from the girders
of a fallen skyscraper
so you can smell trouble
as far as your stones can see

For your tongue
I will sew in the swatches of fabric
you selected for curtains
to block out our view
of the neighbors spying
our creation

your torso
will be fashioned from the tupelo
whose seed blew into our nest
by monsoon winds who knew
where to find us
planted on the grounds our first child was conceived
carved with cat’s claw in exquisite detail
to replicate your topography

When he dies
your arms will be the wings of the heron
born orphan for whom
you regurgitated carp, bass, eel and blue-gill
with those you can satellite the orb
and keep tabs on me

I will steal
the legs of a race horse
as she crosses the finish line
You will have the strength
and speed
to do our shopping
and the horse who died for you
will be exploited no more

For your heart
I transplant this punching bag
to absorb the shock of my dragon strikes
you shall need to resuscitate you frequently
as you transcend the Red Land

Two balloons
sent to you while
you lay on your death bed
will be your lungs,
this way we are spared the cost
of more balloons
lest you catch another chance at death

your stomach
will be the camping grill
we bought and never used
you can cook your own food now
and won’t have to eat it
had you stayed around a little longer
you might have had the chance to chew

The rest of your organs
will be junk
from the attic, the garage
the closets, the basement and the shed
Spare parts to carry out the functions
we never think about anyway
I will stuff them
into your Tupelo trunk in no particular order
packed tight
to keep your tree from rattling
but careful not to
puncture your balloon lungs
compress your punching bag heart
douse the embers of your built in BBQ
or constrict the flow of your sap
that occasionally seeps
through little cracks in your bark
and which I collect to sweeten
the herbs I planted
as pubes for tea

This grotesque ensemble
I will seat by the fireplace
on very cold days
On warmer days
I will mount you, erect,
on the roof
to interfere with gamma rays from distant stars
and to fuck with everyone’s cell reception

I will take you
for rides on my ghost-drawn cart
so your stones can see
the progress humans have made
this decade past
this decade lost
trying to put you
back together again

I.

It is no joke

and no mystery that

we are all here together

singing songs from our ancestors

of love, sorrow, and death

me in this hope stained coat

you with the blood of a beet on your skirt

those two making love in the corner

the fiddler crying to the rhythm of laughter

from the drummer whose dancing

has the girls sprawled on the floor

sending their unconceived children

off to war so they’re born

into a nobler state of grace

then we can all escape from this place of despair

to where nothing but music fills the air

II.

we carried our corpses
a flute a guitar a violin an accordion
and a case of vodka
accompanied by
a dancer a trickster a warrior a crier
cursing along the back-roads of the nowe miasto
to where
we once gathered to play
our love songs
after the invasion
and the next

to the places our father’s
fought to their deaths
to play for them
to drink for them
to sing to them
to smoke their last cigarettes
until we were drunk
hurled on the ground
our cold red faces pressed against
white crystals formed around
the edges of boot-prints in the mud
sleeping as they do
a few meters underground
buried by decades of war
covered by the new world order
and a fresh layer of snow

Now mostly sober
we carry our corpses back
from the Cytadela
half pickled half fermented
gathering unearthed ordinance
and dislodged shrapnel
to place inside the violin’s F-hole
drop into the sound hole of your guitar
jam into the end of her flute
pierce the trickster’s accordian
and ram down our throats
until there is no memory of the fighting
save the muted sounds of instruments
doing their dirty work

III.

Child

we come here on the coldest of days

to make love to the wind

to be drunk, eat bread

and suck pear nectar from our wrists

dance our tears into the fertile earth

No worries

you will be adult soon enough

able to love

allowed to drink

for now take this fruit and this bread

and dance your joy into the ground

on this coldest of days

IV.

One bottle we for us

the other our ghosts

who finished theirs first

rendering the perfect moment

of lucid insanity

with the blood drinking deities

and the Bodhisattva of vodka

puking our way through this illusional forest

somewhere along the polish tibetan border

warming our hands on this cold bottle

we rested our tired bodies

leaving our ghosts a’wander

traversing the steppes

for a brief, intense and unexpected

encounter with Candra

V.

when they opened up your body
to determine the cause of death
they found
music no one had ever heard before
you hadn’t had the chance to write it down

visions of the astral realm you got stuck in
in transit entranced in perpetual dream
no man or woman has ever seen

a sense of compassion extending
beyond the expansioin of all things current
in the universes domain

a sense of loyalty bound in truth
and trust grounded in knowledge
of the rituals of love

a timeless quality wrought
of sacred traditions
kept silent for eons soul long

when they opened up your body
to determine the cause of death
they found you quite alive more than most

VI.

Each note

a singularity

a tear for my laughter

Each tear

a kiss

upon your heaving bosom

Each kiss

a word

in between papierosow

Each word

a breath

until the end of this bottle

Each Breath

A spell

collapsing the future

Each Spell

a song

of warring among lovers

Each Song

a prayer

to your god and her devil brothers

Each Prayer

a curse

painted on your music staff

VII.

Whisper drunken songs of death to me

as I cross over into sobriety

so I can skip the intermission

butoh

bardo

bardzo

a lamentation

with long slow strokes

of your bow in the lowest register

a gentle sobbing as I go

gandharva

butoh

bardzo

press your warm hand

on my face

so I can feel your blood trace

as mine ceases to flow

garuda

butoh

bardo

drape your body across mine

to protect my soul

and lose your own

insobriety

dakini

heruka

bardzo