Hunter’s Moon 2019

zoom out

spot the patterns

I am prime

No is complete

I choose 

serendipity

over plots, however 

L’uomo Vitruviano bows

his golden ratio to my feet

donotbelieveinbrokenliesnotintokenties

shuddering trees

orhappygoodbyes

When foot falls atop pavement, 

even the wind, Lent et d é tach é

smells of Air de l’ordre,

spilling it’s golden ratio out

stuttering palimpsest of 

humane ‘vestigates

I do believe in Rituals

But I also believe in accidents

like La Mer

or φillo,,,,… perfectly crumby

blooming flour on a plate

the spiraling dreams you see

staring back up, Narcissus

in your coffee cup

but which point is node

and which is zenith?

O, o, narkao, narkao

Leave me to the daffodils…

Hello? Who’s there?

Who’s there?

Poem a day drafts 23-30

Song of Mary

Welcome to Mary’s room where

love’s never been so

black & white

She’s got everything in her books

If you find a blank page then you’ll

have found a lovely light

They go on & on about nothing

Leaf after leaf, like

secrets shed

by rainfed trees

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Bearing the earth 

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Loosens our turf

Cut your teeth on

cinnamon sticks

Turmeric stains,

better run, quick!

Mary’s mind is a gate,

swinging iron, oxidizing

Disheveled roots climb to her

window; persephone’s ivies

Dare you peak over the canopy?

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Rhythm; your thread

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Shoulders ahead…

Perfect Storm

Please don’t

empty clouds into me.

Rivers run; positive & minus veins

fleeing the sky god.

Eroding the sod & soil to escape Eden.

Containment is not love.

Thunder is not victory.

Stop

tormenting the rain for falling.

Organizing water droplets, as if

rearranging earth for harvest equates sin with

mud.

Beast

Zebra; black with white stripes or

white with black. The question stares

me down on every government leaflet.

Even maple begs me to choose. It forces

a fuzzy metamorphosis 

of melanin,

for political reason. I know black is

absolute lack & white is queerness hiding

in daylight. But, nobody needs 

« White Pride » to prove the red

queen right. The mind trick, the heart 

lifted by decks of cards; stacks of

potential origami.

Lipping ink, the paper pegasus dips

her hooves into dark skies; staining

her intention with Cain sugar. 

Thunderstruck,

she sheds ashen foliage. Lightning smiles,

as her cotton children dance, landing atop

the heads of travelers. Dandelion spirits

sprout in the scalp, and the traveler is infected

with his ancestor.

They will carry the seeds of stripes,

join the tribe & recognize

roaring hooves; their herd. The traveler will lay

their knapsack of knowing down,

& set up home in the trampled dirt. 

« I know you » nestles into my ears. 

I love these lines with the care

of a singe-wingéd beast, too shy to leap

from pages. 

Too proud to be defined by

words.

Fair Trade

Folds  or  tree ring

  fingers

Skirting along rigid vertebrae 

Chasing palm leaf  Wind up doll

  leaking   ba-ba 

    in Bali

Brown cherry  Roasted

  by digestion

Shall we let the sea

  swallow our seed

 Spillage  Shrinkage

  in sunlit Jakarta

Finding tourists in

  your shit

    they sure do love it here

Hey  whatever it takes

   for that brown skinned

     100% Arabica 

JJ

“I’m sleeping in a snowbank.”

Medicine for a Pretentious Asshole

You know that prickly feeling?

Your hands and feet weren’t

talking to the rest of your body;

You generate lightning from fingers by

touching someone else;

That shock is

in my chest.

It’s heaviness

from the day.

From the way you, « try

your best. »

And the way I know

I didn’t.

I wish this electric soup

in my stomach

on no one.

We gain no nourishment

from this electric soup

alone.

And, what a silly life to lead;

artist, poet, songwriter; planting

fire, hoping it’ll stop

the human-condition from

catching a cold.

Weaving stories in the night

sky, won’t buy your bread.

Painting what?

Tulips? Chimneys?

You can pick up

as many leaves off

the ground

as you want;

they don’t die when they

come to land. 

Palms are a safe place

for you, Fèy. 

So, sip the electric soup.

Let the spark wash

your insides; friction is

temporary, but Oh, how it ignites

and reminds of the why.

Why you fall

but don’t die when

you land. Why

your midnight brown

eyes call without a sound.

Why you fit so

purely in a hand.

Why do you get that prickly feeling

in your chest? That ink pen pricking

soft lump of clay?

It’s the spirit flowing back

into your heart. So, sip the soup;

it’s resuscitation; a restart.

You’ll be ok.

_e ther_ -eal – {reframed

i said i can swim well

(

cut to – me; panting and drowning

tasting brine, bitterness, tears

adrenaline deposits in shells

)

i told you i’m adventurous

(

cut to – me on the couch

cringing in my comfort-zone

seas of sheets; unfinished books at my feet

)

i declared my intelligence

(

cut to – me; misspelling “salary”

salarie? Sal- Proto-Indo-European root meaning “salt”

but that’s only hypothetical

)

i said i would _e ther_

(

cut to – me; leaving bread-crumbs

promises for the seagulls

vows are for the birds, after all

)

Poem a day drafts 1-7

Jan.1

They call it circulation;

this breathing. They

just forget that

circles are

zeros.

These patterns

mean nothing. Even

existence is gasping and

screaming in the dark.

Spilled absence and

lung-distilled air;

both, 

heavy.

Helios and Chronos

both kept on the calendar;

unaware 

of the other. Flybys

measure days, count years;

toils and harvest are

the sum of a man.

On the third rise in June when

the summer sun begins

its rotting hobby,

North America tells this sun

to celebrate how many

rings Saturn has

acquired.

One band

and two bands

and now three. This

is the value of a man.

How long he can

hold his breath

until the father

opens his

eyes.

Jan.2

   Marbles t o s  s   e  d

  from m a  r   b   l    e

 co u  n   t   e   r    s 

 Peb bles 

    f a ll

   fr    om

 e   a     rs .

Logique: « J’ai rais on de sentir

             to come home

                      is to lose

                         motive. »

Intuition: « J’ai be soin d’Ex pander

            t he se n se s .  »

When

     lilies petal

       do you   glue

       t h e  s h r a p n e l  

   back   onto 

the bulb ?

Bold people 

« fleurer à la chance

   of dis in tegrat i on . »

Masterwork;

f o r mu la f o r 

perfect dissociation.

A new world, A new 

                       color

    Zenith opposes

          the path we

                      take

to our core.

And our earth,

       small orb, 

   a child’s toy

rests in the

hands

of whomever

didn’t drop

i

t

.

Jan.3

My heart is

frozen again. It’s

too scared to go 

forward. And I’m

tripping on its strings;

violin wires, in the key of 

high e. It’s petrified permafrost, 

drifting along open sea.

A shrill ship bow,

stern and true,

scrapes off more

music than it

can chew. Now

sink. There, that

feels good, doesn’t it?

To think, you thought 

this voyage would

be simple, and

your vessel

wouldn’t

break.

Icebergs are

grand gestures

of love; not your usual

dowry, but it’s me.

And, you say

we’re a we.

So the least you

could do is learn to 

sing on key. Perhaps,

the resonance will 

shake just right.

And we’ll wear

beautiful

rings.

Jan.4

Bubble-born

Ballooned-brain

Snow-flake

Clean, transparent

Charred, awake

Meteor-shower (not made for wishing)

Blood-bath (not made for fishing)

Sun-soaked

Pop-trash

Wasting time,

Stayin’ alive

Betty Crocker croaked

You shouldn’t smoke

Right to live

Right to die

Silly, we all know how to lie

I can’t help but feel

somebody’s watching

Tie it together for me, would ya?

In a pretty bow? I

don’t know how to grow, I

don’t know where to go

from here. I was never

punctual. So, spare me

the lecture. I want to cry

when I need to cry.

I need to run

when I want

to run.

So stop

trying to 

suck me dry.

I’m dripping, and 

I won’t apologize for

the passion I lost on your

floor. Because I’m a bubble-born

Snow-flake, too good for you, too 

good-for-nothing. But, this is a new

year. There’s always a new generation

for you to fear. I’ll keep it accurate, 

and focus on truth. I’ll get off the

soap-box, if you do too.

Jan.5

I can still feel still feel

these words these words

breadcrumbed lovers in youth in youth

I would steal away away

sipping echinacea under snow under snow

I harvest mud mud

clinging boots boots

in the dozing sunlight sunlight

a shier blue than my spirit my spirit

what narcissus would give his own give his own

mirroring passion is easier is easier

than creating it from the thin winter air winter air

is still in my lungs in my lungs

wherein lies my tie my tie

to my core my core

idyllic light dustings and deep freezes deep freezes

February was an icebox left open left open

it whistles my name my name

that I almost forgot almost forgot

Jan.6

Lip Drip, Spill Mind’s Cup

We Overflow with the Day

Leap into Cocoon

Jan.7

Figures of black

running from the mirror

that is a lake,

under moongaze.

Bow to her, offer no fear,

feed the earth your tremble; your shake.

Don’t get near

her milky haze.

You’ll be lost in hair.

Her braids are no road; it’s unclear

how one makes it back

through the mind’s maze. 

They call her Eau Claire,

her children, her deer.

The ink stains; figures of black.