The Lives of Joss

Joss was born fully formed as woman
and child from inside the skins of no gender --

As river, Joss became matter
and its mother in revision. Her
enemies called her “Desolate Specter”

They were liars without evidence.
They claimed Joss was an ordinary
courtesan with immature skills.
They believed she would never
mimic the marvelous lies
and groans of the ancient planets.
Joss would never learn to fake
an orgasm. She was too pure
which was the last thread of good.
She had no vibrato in the crescendo
of her multiple voice orgasm.



EVERY CELL & ALL MIRACLES

Joss raised every cell of the earth
as infant for river-drowned estuary;
He, her father, captor, lover
became author of
unlimited tectonic splendors.

LIES

Joss made love with her father
and her brother between
the rains of summer’s midnight
to the final morning of winter.
Joss discovered parts of the earth
mixed with semen and holy water
discarded after the holocaust,
before the births of mountain
or the lapse of ranges eroded,
then buried under deserts.

Hidden inside her mouth and vulva, Joss
scattered chards of every weapon.

She bound shells and specie
inside her floral labia as portrait.

She sucked the stones and fingers
of her lovers knowing their fingering
as a passage home and backward
to the first day before the big
bang tore her hymen as
the stars growing older
found the atoms after carbon
a more prurient entanglement.

Wearing vestments to expose
phallus and vulva, the oceans
calmed one final day, and the
blue sails of the sky resumed
breathing as lovers do after
orgasm or the best fuck of the universe.

Here the breaking nth waves without error
the mirror of the ocean is a last final
pulse before the morning dries in calm paint
on the face of the dancers
who exhaust the last kiss as they
descend into the back of their own twittering.

During her visionary Cantata
as the music of the clash of oceans,
Joss rode every life into every Mass
made every particle Eucharist
as natural sculpture in sandstone,
limestone and shale projected
as synclines and anticlines
of synclines and anticlines
in parallel recession with light
as it bends back from the periphery
of the universe or that last drop
of sweat dries shining a milky nipple.

How can we protect human speech
from erosion, Joss prayed? How can
we know the sex of the earth
and the pleasure of the body as
one penultimate bang, bang
to celebrate the next incarnation
and the next “before” we are alive
as the perfect sexual spirit revived
when the stones and sand
stripped of the element silicon
have no material presence.
Diamonds become less than gas.

When Joss recited first ten books
of the gospel of sexual chemistry
and lattice of physical conformations
Joss imagined the first museum
of Historical Geology, Joss
promised that the morning
would glow green to crimson
in blank coral fields made
gray to blue for bellows
of clouds caught on Sunday
when the NFL and CBS beaten
down by their advertisers
for subtle deceits prepared a faulty
history to anticipate the
ending of matter as fourth quarter
warfare without provision for a tie breaker.

Joss learned by absence of miracles
that the Holy Father, the last Pope
alive had actually lied to his children
about missing pages of the Epistle
of Joss. He bribed with silver and gold
the translators of geology and all
evidence of fossils. This was
the graft of religious fury broken
into porno loops that did not
show anything more interesting
than the backs of men rutting
and women faking orgasm.

Joss put back all that was stolen
from the crypt. She restored
with consideration of superimposition
the historical record as she verified
the beak down of isotopes
No unanticipated error changes history.

It was not lies, Joss said.

I was born fully formed.
I was a child and knew
the sexual madness.
I was abused as the earth.
Lies are empty clauses.
I was filled with fucking
and nothing I did changed
any of the steps that led
to another test pattern
or the background briefing
allowed when gods laughs
at the irony contained
in the proclamation of
even one blasted truth.

As a child I was exploited.
Now without reservation
I will rewind geology;
blank moist acts of incest
will be revived as jewels
formed in my mouth as
reservoir of sexual heat.

Imagine the subtle abuse
mountains bear when faults --
those uncomfortable
and uneasy flaws -- fall
down pebble roads write
on imaginary maps
drawn to scale, used
to hold up the heads
of my captors. I said:

“No one may tamper with strata
transfigured by fake dialogue”

Joss let mountains swell and bleed.
When they are done, these heroes will know
fucking or the geology of sex
as grim immortality. That which
is created cannot be destroyed.
That which is made into pleasure
cannot be revised after it stirs
the unkempt gravel thrown
as thin rocks, skipped into Spirit Lake.

JOSS AS PRIMAL RIVER

I imagined the flesh of my lips
semen fermented inside clams;
I was one God, perhaps all.

I am Rubens, Klimt
and Egon Schiele’s lush
with emaciated anatomy.

I am fecund with weather.

I am made not for one
image of any god, but rather
for the process of mountains
pressed into fucking by the stones bound
in the suture of plates lost as murder in
the debris of late erosion
majestic as excrement.
My urine is sacrament;
feces, alluvium.

PHOTOGRAPH OF JOSS

Joss had dark hair in black windows with red lips
pursed: old eyes devised into undertow rubbed;
our ellipse tested ache distinguished again as flood.

God met Joss when she was eighteen thousand
years older than Methuselah, but she had lived
only eighteen years when God took her.

Joss was not defined by birth but the subtle pattern
of her perfect mind colored in the easy waves
of her breasts as the idea of it made milk into words.

In the history of Joss, life was not an easy question.
Men and women had no boundaries but their gasp.

Only modernity, for want of a better phrase,
makes distinctions by chronology that inexact
science of terror that law opens with absolute
dictums for holy orders or profound spiritual gifts
of love that sexual rivers invite when the mind is ready.

Inside her two hands open fecund pools,
Joss breathed as sparks scattered
from iron forge passing BANGBANG,
the gun never heard, no silencer:

9 mm with full clip held easily
and discharged into the empty skull
of all men and women who believe.

No, it was not exactly violence, but passage
over tributaries of fucking her spend, which
is an odd word, ancient in its cost,
but this is not about money but coitus
as pleasure, and as some say,
the two fuckers connect easily on the banks
of the harbor in Eden near Seattle,
Texas which is what we call any
place were we find our names
chiseled in raw diamonds made
by the stars as they coalesce
on the head of well intentioned schemes.

THE OLDEST MOONLIGHT KNOWN

Joss was divine prurience molded
into flesh ripe with sexual stings
under the oldest moonlight known.

Joss stained the sky deep ruby
red as a libidinous spectacle
painted by Turner who fucked
the paint as light drawn
through that desire
for great storms to steal.

Joss lived for the tease of his brush
on the inside of the stones
of her thighs where air, ocean
and light made color into ferment.

THE POET LEONARDO

Joss did not take refuge in that flaw
of my desire. Joss shook me clean
and opened my belly and swallowed
my cock as a slight lunch,
and an open door to knowing my fist
as hers, and I gave it.

My cock just seethed in her demands
I never knew such perfection. Joss will.
Joss, maker of sons and daughters
took Joss into her pulp, breathed
into her lips, -- ears heard her exclamation.

JOSS AND HER GANG BANG

Joss came BANGBANG again
as the gun Joss held threw-up light
like an exploding star, --
no it was larger, more a universe
and Joss in the circle of it, all dark
black as the brown sky, gray in
the absence of life, and then green viridian,
we slip together easy or the blush,
when pink cunny and pubic hair blush open
like lilies or the iris, or the mocking voice of
a pear, as Joss ran down the street --
naked showing the end of the time
in the bounce of her perfect tits.

The earth is brown as Joss invented to climb
the margins and leaves are tender,
her lips devised to make love pause
with an indecent step up the stairs
to take her irony and make it rare
like the inside of a cunny its ribs
rubbed into that terror when
first pulse and leap from the cliff
startled your body into a full rage.

God taught Joss -- She with words
and the invited touch of her and his lessons
drawn on the moss lake beneath the navel,
when milk flows from all parts to her.

Labia spoke: Vulva in flood, --
Matter of air, dust caught in
clean of throat and cunt,
even the anal measure filled
by holy orders became desire
twisted into deceit drawn by Satan
when Joss or was it he drew up his
organ to show the manner of earth
spinning without any brake
but the meager will of a lost god
thrown down from the firmament
to drown in the last moment
of the final human orgasm
before the second coming.

Yes, god knew Joss gave her mouth
too easily; Joss broke the dam
of blood and sent a small star
hurdling through space
to strike the earth’s Oceania
never named of course,
And through that great exploding
star the lava flood broke all breath
and no one believed her lie
that it was an accident
some periodic aberration
called Circadian after
repeating tides predicted
when Joss came to make god promise
that Joss, no he, or they would
leap from the turnstile
in the broken subway maps
where all the lively gods fuck.

INVERTEBRATES

Herein history displaced with accommodation.
All dates begin with birth or do they?
I started the day with the brown air of Joss
I am alone in the fecund pool, as gray
green algae and the brachiopods
with bivalve dorsal and ventral shells
enclosing a pair of tentacles, arm
like structures used to sweep food
particles into the mouth.

Also called lampshells these beasts
will perish as all primates eventually,
without any following or orders
to procreate, we became another
chordate, and another face on family
tree is socially invented
so help me, like positions in Joss
are taught with the history of mankind
that implosion came as orgasm
more than two hundred million years
before the thought of Christ.

CARTOGRAPHY

Sands of deserts spill over waves of rocks until
the dry mouth of the wet kiss breathes
in the tongues sing wagging their brave
impossible human plans, devised
as map makers watch the rivers change path,
while mountains speed up their decline and age
before our eyes as space in its animation draws its own
character in the isobars of weather
and the melody copied from structural maps that became
with test the first orogeny of idea in silicates.

Process of mountain formation,
especially by a folding and faulting
of the earth's crust can lead to the
primary moment Joss can ever know.

Yes, in this descent, in this passage
from Troy to Elysium we are led
beneath the surface as mountains
climb our ass and breasts and belly
to found their cities in pain
and the pleasures of Joss are legion.

Joss sings her songs as Sirens
Joss cries Joss is never murder but belief,
and the course of love is always
my Mary Mary mother of Joss oath
when spoken to defame my object gig

DO NOT call me CUNT, Joss says
for I am not what I have inside
There is another version of life
left on the drawing board and its
opera will be perfect like Mozart
dying or Bach scoring every hole --
within beat of his drum and organ.

Yes, Joss screams as Joss comes
not held back, but forced to confess;

Joss is also murder, there are opposites
in ever locus, as I chart the strata
and find the index fossil to name it
we are all fossils Joss whispers
in my eyes as I cum in hers.

Look Joss says, here are structural
faults, divergence, overlap, converge
in the fumble of legs and the tease
of enfolding limbs made to fit.

Have you ever watched rocks fuck
Joss asks, they do, they breathe
and question carbon about how
it became so perfectly soft
when life as rock is brittle to talc.

Have you ever thrown a stone
from a cliff like a body it falls
tumbling end over end
smashing face on the grid?

Watch it splash casually dropped
a second time tumbling like gymnasts
her feet trembling on the bar, her step
curling over the wood to grab at it
and reach the safety of the jump
or the spiral rise in clouds
that show the perfect body
drawn from the imperfect map

Here Joss says is the end of all things,
as the scores posted by every judge
are pulled up to the sign above
Hollywood announcing fame;
Fortune in that abject value that
art always makes serene serving
creation as a warm sea
filled with trilobites and treason.

TRILOBITA OF PALEOZOIC

These numerous extinct marine
arthropods have segmented bodies
divided by grooves into three
vertical lobes that spoke Latin
and Greek and English like a Cambridge Don.

How do we not know that they were not sentient?

We will dig in granite for quartz and feldspar and mica
schist for the history of metamorphic rocks can be the
stratigraphy which is the study of rock strata
especially the distribution, deposition, and age of all things.

When we throw that body from the cliff, allowing the stone
to crack, disassemble we incite that startled end in all times.

THE JOSS OF MAPS
OR THE FEMALE OF
LADY VULVA EXPOSED
UNDER THE FINGERS
OF THE EARTH AS TRUTH

Maps unbuckle garter belts; make
the crotch-less panties stare back
at those many eyes who want her
as Joss fingers the clit pushing
inside nothing but lifting the hood
to expose the first sigh of the day

Your witness, the lawyer in her
speaks, and you reach
her Joss, one leg up to the fur
Joss lifts her knee and teases
her cunt to shift eager unfurled
the lips part, and you are told
to perform as the easiest desire
becomes a romantic command.

What a fucken dance it was:

Did you say you did not understand it?
Is that it? Joss is furious rocks
and the unknown history of mankind.

MUSE

Wandering muse odd stories grip the town gray.

Men watch their own child’s faces become liquid
when the ocean of first ocean more steam than iron
magnets, or the bless of hematite, that second
generation of mineral that eventually becomes
limonite and then into its parts like syllables
it is simple iron and oxygen and some hydrous
crystal bound by physical not chemical dependence.

Here Joss says is my clitoris. Here is it all. Take it
inside your mouth and bleed it with your own tight
hold on the days and nights of eons made
into seven simple days, the last being a great rest
without sleep. We do love to fuck the melody
of time, you marvelous man without any dick.

So Joss teaches women to lie and men to deceive.

Why did Joss do that, dear Joss? Why did the God lie?

What reasons can we submit for review
by the lawyers, accountants and pimps?

HOLY ROLLERS AT PRAYER

Here is the litany: Like Williams wrote
about Paterson Falls, and I write about
Niagara as I watched the frozen January
water stop almost the motion of atoms.

It is curious how God in her waterfalls
desires the liquid flush of her own mouth
on her own cunt. God can do anything?

Once upon a time, a woman came, as
I played her, Joss said. Imagine being
able to suck your own cunny to orgasm.

How I would like to watch you suck
your own cock Joss added, that might
be easier than my own delirium.

So many tales we conjure in life
that are absolutely true and seem
like fables writ with the spook
of fairy tales and even Alice
in Wonderland was taught
cruel how to drink her own blood.

GALILEO’S CHILD BOOK OF DREAMS

The wit Joss not dissimilar from the woman Joss
astounding by the Pope’s command to lie
and cheat and fornicate for Joss was desired
for her body alone, which seemed to Joss
a waste of motion and a loss of substance
when you consider how gravity works
to keep the sensual urge primal as the
tubes direct the ovum to its resting heart.

Joss blown away by God’s fucking madness,
no Joss will not blame the Pope, call it
Christian interpretation, for the cock
and cunny never separated like moons with
multiple planets, one for each pulse
as the after shocks on the seismograph
are traced with gentle fingertips on breasts.

God has come apart Joss screamed. Joss whispered
in Joss’s ear that he was her spear for Achilles.

No that is the ultimate disintegration, Joss
less excited fondling Joss’s breasts,
distracted by the rings of Saturn
he fumbled with his zipper
releasing ions in solution,
the semen drew up the walls
and down the muscular shelf
raiding Walt Disney amusements
pretending to be just folks
and innocent sexual predators
the fireworks of Coney Island
where the most innocent
of school mates, boys and girls
older teenagers fucking
under the board walk at lunchtime
recorded by time warp
and the descending parachute
in the history of sand and pebbles
uncomfortable against her back
Joss turned on top of him
and made him really fuck her
demanding that he give more
then he took, which was different

Joss thought as Joss watched
the carousel dip and rise
in the pearls of her clit
as he found her secret
drove her mad through
the town showing her flesh
naked on the back of his horse
so Joss imagined Joss was Godiva
and he the magic flute drugged.

Only heroes die Joss spoken as Joss sucked Joss
open and found the core of his hypothesis
in the dirty fingers of her many spending
bartholin ideology, shall we call it Grace
Joss said, is that your female name, Joss.
Galileo are you running your cock and cunny
through the telescope while I spin gyroscope
in these terrible Latinate words I despise?

Joss said it softly perhaps at the reading
when Joss writes new poems, no one will
hear the fault of her poor deceived geology
of Joss caught on the ledge where they
fucked and no one died forever and ever Amen.

MOUNTAINS IN THE YEAR 10 MILLION AD

Crease of mountains is rivers of estuary so the North River,
called now Hudson is opened with the surgery of the future
signed organic poisons made to glow as indecent exposure, --

Yes, loving to run naked the perfect voyeur and exhibitionist
as creator and voyeur in the same place where he blew himself

Why when I think of the Hudson do I understand
that the history of rivers and the charting
of mountains is more than the physical measurement
of space divided by the number of words
discerned as waves running from uterus
to cunny from pulse of balls to emission.

The Hudson is not a river at all but an estuary
below West Point. It is bedrock at the show
of the capital of the world. New York New York
is an old boring fucker song complete
with drunken chorus and despicable bigotry
drawn in the white faces and gray eyes of blue
mountains replicated from my arctic eyes.

Yes, we are more than history or Holy Wars
as we creep from the bed of our aesthetic
contemplation of the borders of the universe
older than the history of light or that big bang
we become that life of self-discipline and self-denial,
especially for spiritual improvement so the propaganda
run in banners from Wall Street to New York times
in headlines set in one inch type. Why do we laugh
so hard at braggarts when we are all the same?

This may seem like digression, but I can imagine
history changed. Elizabeth R has a child.

When Wesley fucked Joss he kept it inside her
cunny and didn’t spend it in her mouth as
Joss professed to desire. How could Joss have
known that one moment was the last
Joss could know as mother of God?

Joss wasted the semen, I know that is
a male perspective; Joss drew her mouth
in sepia chalk holding Leonardo’s hand
while he made his man come thusly
in the archives of parchment recently
found in the archives of the Vatican

No one admitted that the Pope wanted
a man more than a woman. Elizabeth R
had that vision and Leonardo drew
own sexual revisions, as his humor
his speak of life was not shy.

SUMMARIES DRAWN BY JACKSON POLLACK

Joss, that murderous drunk, greatest
American painter after O’Keefe,
laughed when he hit the tree
killing his companion, he never
knew the mercy of his fame
except as a brief second
in the pause of the car
before striking them dead

One woman died for his reason.
That was more than tragedy.

Imagine Pollack fucking
in the bed of his own painting
adding his semen to un-sized
canvas. He would not use
any glutinous substance
except his semen that
dried there to be covered
by aluminum paint and
industrial glue, wax, clay
or the glaze of paper, cloth
as her eyes looked up to
his mouth kissing her;

Pollack fucked the dead
woman while Joss squirmed
reading the clouds of lines
like a play sold for its option
to the movie maker and
her speculation on craft.

Imagine that great fuck.

He like every Scot was Laird
to the grace of his arm
dripping the paint furiously
allowing gravity and Galileo
and Newton to ponder
their infinity drawn out thought
became art in whimsy
with only the flaw of perfection.

Look again at the voyage
of the Half Moon how Pollack
held his painting whole
was the gift of the gesture
drawing madness of Art Student League
models and that Tampex
string that descended from
the vulva of the model – what
torture arousal names.

Yes, I am Galileo and Pollack
and Miss Joss, and Joss all of them too.

We are gathered in the vestibule
of the Mons holding art together
as Pollack and I celebrate our wrist
like old great jerk off artist pain
doing it too much in the dark
makes your skin glow in sunrise.

Pain never wins the skin easy.
Everything we do in words
we repeat in lines drawn
to our scale and that is
the vision of Joss and its
geology of pleasure writ
in the rocks changing
the horizon before
we can record even
one flesh and earth
murmur as orgasm.

MULTIPLE QUESTIONS JOSS ANSWERS

I will watch our children born
in pools of algae older than light.
How can you claim we have
not traveled in time? Show me
I haven’t, I know we cannot.