I am the poet of the body and I am the poet of the soul … / At another place he sings:/ I have said that the soul is not more than the body.
The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it comes or it lags behind, / It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world. /Man and woman: different entities? / I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, / And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man
Sun enters in, not in, everything. Shimmering water slaps itself, triadic then singular when sun stops designing. Wind is still. At the lake’s end, a woman, wondering where shadows went, where contrasts went, praising the recent clouds, what unity it shares, staring out —with the eyes of drowned corpses—at the water, still rippling, each ripple going into the next, and all she thinks is Whitman, you were always right.
In an oasis of flowers, briars — plucked up, petalless, petals a drying violet — strewn in rows, one by one along the flowerbed’s line; a number of trees slant at vulva-angle, each a leafless dome. Their timber—semi-broken.
Two days from now, there will be a storm, and they will split apart, spread out along the briars, the shriveling leafs and petals.
I Sing the Body Electric, she sings, and imagines the voice of Whitman, deep with a coarseness electric. Remembers. He thought everything was one and luminous; the bee flying in the sky was not flying, but gliding on, into until—a part of it. Turning, she faces the mirror. Everything is equal, or of one scale, she thinks: there is no room for dualism, exact criss-cross lines or black on white. Her eyes stare into her eyes. Her skin: her skin. From behind, a hand folds around her shoulder. Sameness. She turns, faces her lover. Leans onto him. Tiffany sheet breathe out, folds around their bodies. No space escapes. There is only—union. Like a lake in cloudy days. She smiles.
Everything is adapting for wholeness. The flesh, she thinks, only the name of body’s surface, the body not the soul's cage but the necessary part of it. He touches her: her flesh: her soul. She smiles. Thinks of the lake in the sun and then in the clouds.
She is back at the lake again. The grass divided when she passed — no — adapted around her feet. It was nevernanything, she thinks, but whole.
Mine is "muscularmusic" without any capital letters.
Last year I was even more insane and only got to 5000 (5K, as they say), so don't count on much. It will probably be even less this year, due to my slow saneness (unfortunately). :/
I've missed you all. After my trip to Spain I didn't manage to get back to lj, even if I told myself each and every day to come back to read about you guys.
Hope you are all right!
My flesh a gate of neither ivory
nor thorn, in the winter-long flood-
tide of longing. Prairie winds restrain
your hand whose dark temptations
forces forth as forcing poses force
desire. I never granted you the gate,
not even on request. Instead I granted
ocher acreages under rinds of a lemon
sun still fraught with white, whose light
is less desire than anatomy tonight.
There, where you could tender-touch
both oat and canola, sunflowers
as though from Tuscany, how all
you ever did was tender-gazing on
the gate of neither ivory nor thorn.
I've told you no trespass' allowed.
I'm no Leda. You - now swan. O
what short, and shortening, winter.
You have never understood fear,
that odd, ambiguous thing.
But sometimes you wonder if it is
that which comes with an all-
snagged falling into the not-
known, turning and black,
intrepid, grey, large, in your
dreams. –you wonder if it is
this feeling (cold, lingering)
on your back, on your skin;
that slight prickle on your
arm, all-lifting thing–that
rancid, acid breathing (its)–