Sand Spilt on the Ground [A POEM REVISITED]

for T. S. E.:
it is the heat that melts the March snow
that allows those dreaded April lilacs to bloom.


their faces are long, thin,
covered with dampness not from the sun
but from fluorescent lights,
kissed with dire breezes from silken bottles
whose liquids stream down over premature breasts;
how these figures blossom within gaudy robes,
the makings of queens if not for the ideals
of the princess: rogues whose simple trends
come from bulky arms, untamed tempers
and ever-pulsing hips. when once again time relinquishes their simplicities
their complexities remain blank and unmoving.
unknowing bolts down into wondrous nothing,
their eyes widening not to the sites of spring flowers
harvest moons or even little worms: they refuse
to bend at the knees and look at the ants marching
over the concrete and onto the seasoned mulch.

i see the cusps of buttocks yet i do not reach:
my hands only tremble, my blood only shakes:
when i know these figures die when they all become mothers
stiffens my flesh, widens my eyes,
and depletes any notion of lusting tact within my loins.
i can only see sparking cups and plastic coffee spoons.

any crown not fashioned from gold is a crown of thorns.

i am no martyr
but my eyes are open.

when the summer beats still i want to toboggan down caps
and sift through the beads and diamond rings:
i will hold my breath through the bitter wine
and let their stumbles befall only them.
when i see cotton clinging to their untouched curves
i will only listen to the hush of the heal-alls
and await the spiders to nest upon the pedals,
ready to tangle boney fingers in silken webs,
ready to keep their knuckles from clenching, seizing
themselves over tempters; the rapture sits
and calms itself as a storm before the hail.

brightness, gleaming,
native tongues tripped-up and bruised
by three-, four-, one-lettered words;
saliva fermented, born of stills. i wonder
if they have ever seen a silo, ever seen a blossom
or even a branch reach out from a brutish trunk;
the ground will become to them the most pleasant of thieves,
taking only their footsteps and using them to make
cobblestone paths.

how will they tread without their evening shoes?


do you have
more? can your hair stay bright
and in place? when do your arms become
shelter? when do your palms rest in your
pockets and not on
untainted flesh? when do you keep
your eyes from bulging from your
sockets like a cartoon wolf ready
to howl?

your chants are not of Buddha
who breathes eternal life into the Earth:
i see you more as Franciscans
who dwell in the doorway of our rapture.

when all is taken i'd rather your seed end up spilt
upon the ground to feed the Earth,
to breath,
than to simply bloom. i'd rather your vigor take the form
of a jolted fist than temptual glaring. i'd rather you
an Onan than a David: i'd rather you
faithless then to hear your calls over thunder
as i lie in my rain-soaked bed.

take the June and make it yours,
for September is your temptress horse with wine and sleep,
though you are no Trojans;
October are your Greeks who burn your city to the ground
while you slumber, your arms around the girls
whose nakedness keep your schemings rigorous.

i think when you both awoke in the fiery blaze
and boisterous haze
you grabbed the wrong robes.

to grow out is not to grow over reconciliation.


the notion is bliss:
the deep pride stuck over thrones
makes us still; it finds a way to exhale
and strip away the flesh of flower stems.
nails pricking
until there is only one Delilah left,
and Samson reaches down to find a barren patch of Earth.

this tale is unheard
when candles nestle their flame in Christmas tree branches;
the stillness of autumn days becomes more elaborate
than summer storms: when grey becomes the Heavens' paleness
and raindrops are merely beating.

Christ's tale becomes a nothing
when strewn, gutted, and mixed with that of the city,
the way the concrete forms itself around stumbling bodies
is more than the Magi: our Wisemen brings gifts
of demons, lusting, and blood.


depths and moves. skills unset,
drawn-out and beaten until the traffic lights hide what the blues are thinking;
we can only keep from shaking while their breasts jump up
and down with each cunning stride;
or their arms reach and grope more shaking moves.
no hips should sway as so unless children in them grow.

out out out
up up up
in in in


motives; moans;
cries; screams;


bring it out.

lake waters are not brick walls: they can be penetrated
so far to let all ones able to squirm.

you'll find me on an engine, revving,
setting up a game of backgammon while waiting outside your bedroom doors.

you always seem to forget about the die when you play;
and you never remember that it takes two, and player two
always gets to move. sometimes i suppose you keep rolling doubles.

i'll teach you Latin if you put the French aside.

all of the R's deep in the back of your throat have made you think
that bearing more into your lungs is alright. remember to protect your jaw.


WHAT keeps the armies at will?
what makes them load their rifles and fire when they see
the whites of our breasts? what drives their insecurities
to be curious of our fertile drippings? it's time;

it's time once again and the moon is low, easy for baying upon,
ravenous ribs compressing half-filled lungs from centuries of only wishing
and not seeings—how (if when) the streams merge to make a flowing river
that carries armies over through the gorge.

when i was a boy (twelve or so) i had visions, i had dreams
though too grand to measure with my hands.

a pup not ready to howl, only to wail
until i took a sip of my mother's suckled milk
and i thought that was epitome.

they are always to hungry
when our gammon hangs about on our budding breasts.

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