code breakers: a rain of apostrophes

By Ric on December 3, 2007 in Archetypal, Archetypes, Austin Poetry, Death, Dreams, Modern Poetry, Myth, Mythology, Mythopoetry, Psychology, Science, Texas Poetry, mythopoetics, poetry

what! fat sparrows winter red berries
the first thing to see—emptiness

emptiness! claim it round as fat
sparrows—smoke of flight

rowing thru blue air
clapping angels

beaks opening to
first longings

& close
tangles

the vines
& dry grass

silk & cinnamon
hurry! a brace of light

or when she fell & fell & fell in with the long string honeyed plains—wheeling silver hoops & clanging copper shells—leafing green the ribbons twining braids & braids & braids & braids—gingham straps a soft sea sand like wheat spears drying in the wide flat bellies of a thousand giant paper dolls—how her doll rolls gentle in long slow ripples—waves like warm bath water lapping—lapping at the gold rimmed edge of a great white porcelain tub—who tied her to the earth—who pulls her first here then there but never all at once—her face still smiling—they want her—heaven & earth—& that is a trembling she folds twice & sews into the pocket of her cornflower coat—how her toy dog barks—tin seams bent—butterfly key turns—slip—crank it tighter—she cut out the doll—used gold plated scissors—the ones mother lost in the fire of fortunate summer—o this finger hole with the curved little tail—that’s how you make a Q & an X or upside down a fancy T— rough cut the trace lines of the tabs—slotted into the far painted towns—stitching rivers & ponds & corduroy fields—hold her here—see the whole of her if you climb the full pink moon—head in North Dakota—her left foot dipping in the Gulf of Mexico—right a Sonoran desert—arms in the stars—color her with gold lamé & cinnamon sugar pine needles & the cracked enamel of powder pots—puffs dab dabbing cheeks & cold noses & the uneven parts in her hair—o lucky grandmother slathered in petroleum jelly fluffy white robe dotted in big yarn balls of blood red roses—fast piano flourish—hot jazz heart—snowflake thunder—heaven stomping magpies—parade of lean mountains flat on their backs—play with me, Mama, like the ghosts with their jangly tambourine eyes!

or simple how she
leans in, her
mouth to

his ear

what forms
a light to
open

a cut

the tip of
of her tongue
the skin trembling

as if the thing itself (world womb)

surface
water film
energy field

the roundness of the world & the gentle pushing thru

how he knew when
the door slipped
into the flange

that first wound the bud pouring out the sky

a world of doors of skins
of leaning in—thru
her breath

is not a wound