This is for the dancer/percussionist/singer in Albino, who danced a dance that made my heart soar tonight.
the slips of
hips run
rampant in my mind.
her
undeniable
undulations
like
(if i could whisper
in your ear i’d tell you)
a fluidity of belief
that opens that drowsing eyelid
planting in my forehead
a singing branch of golden glow
that seeks out infinite awakening.
see
occasionally the slip of tongue-serpent flicking
between […]
another for the amazingly beautiful dancing girl with the hat. tora dost daram.
is offing
i
see your sandy white and
lips found parting (hear that
gentle sound as saliva releases jealous hold) in
smile.
not to be trite but i do
sometimes find myself glancing away as if
the sun broke through clouding satin sheets
and struck my unexpected eyes.
that clutching of breath is […]
this is for the girl with the tattoo on her back. namaste.
reach.
flesh.
towards offering
acceptance.
palms.
cupped.
as if to catch
my tears.
fingers.
point.
to a heaven drawn
in more subtle lines.
spinning in this
semi-dark i
catch glimpses
of offering hands.
the white neck perched
atop, some sort of
gentle rebuff to my
metaphoric mind.
“a woman dances here,”
the neck whispers,
“not some capital T Truth.”
—as if there were a difference.
i can bow […]
a, b, c,
and 1, 2, 3
sit snug in a nook
of a tilted triangle.
a looks at 1,
says, “isn’t this fun?”
and 1 shoots to a
a three-sided smile.
2 says to b,
“will we ever be free?”
but b is a mute
and just stares for a while
(at this point it’s key,
to explain that c
is the hardest of all
by a mile.)
says c […]
imagine.
water is. nourisher.
birther. bather.
life-bringer. life-bearer. life.
imagine.
in slipping into secondskin
of pelagic grace, man is freed
from linear banality.
flight beneath blue-green sky
and companioned of beasts from
more primordial truth.
imagine.
water of our hearts,
dripping from eyes uncertain.
ten thousand years of mourning
by pouring salt upon a funeral plain.
imagine.
when life itself becomes
a yoke to control the masses.
calculated. commodified. cold-hearted capitalists
drinking with unsatable […]
I spent the morning,
and, I suppose, the afternoon as well,
wandering the beach with feet
singing out from the scorching sand.
Gathering shells the likes of which
I’d never seen before—
Deep purples and perfect spirals or else
strange patterns that appeared painted:
As though in the night a stooped old man—
eyes made bright by moonlight—
wandered the strand with his delicate brush
and […]
other.people.speak