Beauty Has Lain Its Sharp Knife Against Me

30 May

— for Brant Lyon

 

 

My Herkimer diamond water

and my cobalt blue bottle

are set firmly,

finally,

in the sun,

and I am

more peon

than peony,

precocious in

cloudboots.

Aspiration?

Dynamic.

Perfection?

Static.

 

 

Our mutual friend,

Miss Ouija Twinkaos,

speaks to me in dreams

of oracular ants proclaiming

on billowy pink blooms.

Their spirits form a calyx, and I

can’t imagine agreeing to a ball game —

we must’ve gone bowling — I remember

diving into a duck

outside Port Authority

to witness the true transpersonal

nature of reality.

Sadly, I’ve been

volante all weekend:

drag scenes from Shakespeare,

a yoga convention,

then negligent in sending things . . .

I guess not even God can say

why my Moon is so

tabula rasa.

Let this be my motto,

engraved on my tombstone:

“In affairs of the heart I am

vamoosed, and the fun party

seems long ago.”

It’s always a question

of consciousness, isn’t it?

How best to travel

the lovelorn midway

between Coney Island and that haunting

rear-view ashram, where news of friends passing

is ever fresh, an abridged teaser

of grown-up desires.

To praise, appreciate,

express gratitude,

control confidences proactively

(or not):

that’s the future.

When it’s time it’s time.

Let one hand wash t’other,

Like a can of asparagus

gleefully placed in the

bathroom key basket

just to watch reactions.

Wind theory?

Jump start a breezy March.

Not to worry: Mighty Jupiter has our backs!

Nothing, if it exists, cannot not be alive.

Ask the inside

of any tree.

 

 

Is it blood soup

and not cranberry juice

you’ve been drinking?

Like you, I’ve been a clothes dryer

of a mental case lately

trying to make changes to the

auto-erotic sequence while preserving

the trickiness of home-schooling,

to which i attach, as always,

encouragement.

Plain-ish sentience

just isn’t interesting.

Walking like an egyptian

already established my

street cred, minus my resentments over

being manhandled by vendors,

landlords, ex-pats in bars.

I’m on the Sunnyside local

posting this — of all the cupidity!

All things being equally ours,

low lightning is not too conducive

to scrutinizing things.

I’ve come to accept that everything

happens in Camden.

I know someone who used to

help a midget there

shop for clothes.

But yes, you are in the throes

of an enchanted embryo:

Aries rising is impatient.

Saturn in Capricorn the opposite,

and Cancer likes to curl up eating cookies

and say, on occasion, “poor me”!

Get that south node working.

Even in the midst of the Great Depression,

the Empire State Building went up, and thjus

life goes on for the brave.

The more you vogue like a trade show stewardess

the more amusing you’ll be to watch.

Personally, I’m already sowing seeds,

forcing Spring, and the moon’s,

exactitude.

Yet I must admit it’s one thing to deliver

stadium speeches at the

B’nai B’rith and quite another

to summer the old-fashioned way

among the largest community of intuitives

in Flushing,

the land of neverending peace and love.

They live in quaint cottages,

hiccuping,

for pleasure or

whatever.

And, yes, exactly:

who IS “Pincus Shelby?”

A name I made up.

I thought it prole-like and

a bit ridiculous, since

not being pissed is

unmotivational for me.

I’m not really on the ledge.

Just ventilating.

I wish mediocrity

didn’t have its way

with so many things.

 

 

There’s a sweetness to your

Al Jolson.

I was, admittedly, baiting you, running against your

sensitive, touchy moonchild grain a tad.

The “as is” will find its home

and perhaps

“bloom.”

It was only an alright

moonlight at that.

What is your

“downstairs name”?

Perhaps “Summerland in the

Autumnland?”

When the guides draw closer

they usually confound,

and you know when you receive omens

that a friend visiting the Midwest

will soon send images of his

“division dilemma.”

Looks like we’ll be tableside

this summer

Let not the hotness delay us.

If not the backyard then

a cheap bar!

Let the mockingbird mock

the thrush’s trill.

Past few weeks I’ve been forced to

cut the deadwood,

drive to Long Island

watch the towers crumble yet again.

Would be fun to be up in some

blessed hills again.

Now, about last night . . .

 

 

Well, what about it, then?

I enjoyed our conversation immensely;

you have no idea how starved I was

for a sane person to talk to,

and that would mean, basically,

a Sagittarian.

When we get together —

whenever that fine day that should be —

I’d like to read aloud to you,

and have you do the same for me

from your famously beleaguered

Chiron pity-party poetry . . . ha!

The dues I’ve paid

(here and elsewhere)

have left me as richly rewarded

as they have bankrupted.

Thus have I been beholden.

Good to break free now and then

even, or especially,

from the free-fall.

We’re of like minds, yes.

Do come over.

We’ll be two birds with one stone.

 

 

By chance, I came across a note from old

pressed between the pages of

“The Dreadful Swimmers”:

“The epilepsy/sex connection

has to do with past abuse of the kundalini:

its neural energy is off the charts.”

Means you were a temple prostitute, babe,

handing out black plastic bags in babylon.

Me? I was a much fluffier furbie.

Let the cool surge dissipate.

Spring is better than

practically anything.

Hope my dark treatise on Obama didn’t

upset you — you seemed a little far away

upon leavetaking.

I’m feeling a little like

a pawn of fate, what with these emergent changes

beyond my control.

I’ve tried so very hard to

make things happen playfully

and with great expectations, etc.

The little isoceles triangles

of Michael Jackson’s nose

have ruined everything about his memory for me.

I hope my intimacy

doesn’t suffer, though mosquitos traditionally

feast on the foreigner.

In the introductory word picture

no-one lapses into omniscient;

in natural speech we say,

“Does everyone have their

condom on?” after, of course, someone asks,

“Who’s Dick Hertz?

Has anyone seen Mike Hunt?”

The diction of the phrase

is more hi-brow than bikini wax.

However, a dangling participle never

split an infinitive,

though many have exhausted or

embarrassed themselves trying.

Where is Liz Taylor

in all this?

I hope she recognizes me by Friday.

I’ll have tits.

 

 

Oh, lulliputian, I would puke on lilies

to hear you complain!

Note to self: next life —

no Mars in Pisces!

It eschews fame, loves clutter.

Remember about the front door

and broken fire hydrant?

I’d been desirous of fixing things

(just small things)

and there was also indication of a possible move —

just possible, not ordained.

Still, the harbinger of good news

always arrives.

I shall ALWAYS be a puer,

wrinkles and all!

And you’re next in line!

I’ve revolutionized my diet — juicing constantly,

fish peptides, hibiscus tea,

all alkalinizing foods,

everything I know naturally.

Took myself off the BP meds.

Saw doctor yesterday.

Didn’t say I have no use for his

allopathic prescription pad but that’s

how pure I’ve become.

Deeper methods follow.

Bring to ocean: rinse: rise.

Sparkly energy fresh for new nest.

There’s a tale to tell when I see you.

Send me your time/space grid?

Coordinates help coordinate,

though corduroy might mismatch

middle-of-spring cotton twill.

Dress appropriately.

By now, you’ve begun your journey.

Fare thee well, gypsy!

I expect amazing tales upon your return.

Meanwhile,

vamp your ass off until I

pass through the door.

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