Mountains in Montana — (in progress)
Mountains in Montana #1
5:45 AM August 11, 2007
The curves of every hill
change my scale of what
can be realized
I climb to the past
and the rocks beneath
the waves are not lost.
They bend as granite
flows with rivers home.
Carried there by motion
of water fall ocean wave
my sand grains round
with each deposition.
I was raised on the Palisades
between New York and New Jersey
Edgewater was my crisp ocean
blurred by the red ozone night
fall when the cold air dried
ice ponds into thin crackling
skin that I wore in that winter.
I expect swollen hills in Montana
but the scale of Mountains drives
my peace into another falling
cliff caught under the heights
where summer blueberries grow
and we hike as children for horizon
will be done. Thy will be done.
My scale in Montana is taunted.
I love it. I feel as if I can say
the word love here and accept it.
Relative space has changed my arms
and legs made them longer and
resumed where strength revives
the long walk into a dark cave
to dream again about ceremony
and the ritual that a Phoenix
sets in its fire and tongues.
We have so many languages now.
I am larger here in the morning
at 0545 AM on August 11. The
heavens are slightly lit in one
high point and dark retains
the middle and the end of eye.
Every gray hill where
wild fire looms stretches
bones and sinew into new
sculptures that are animate.
I am realized now as sun drives
its shadows away to dry forest.
I assume my whole skin
and beauty swallowed by blue.
##
Mountains in Montana #2
6:55 AM August Nineteen 2007
“Life is a sexually transmitted disease.” -- R. D. Laing
We are the Alive in the smoke
of red log resumed wild fires.
1.
Am I that dead painted sky
that cannot shift out
of its way to prevent
wild fire and ordinary
crime set in umber clouds
made grievous by nature
in tormented sandy grey?
Love photographed fog
and fed back her story;
love made hard, drove
the rocks into change.
2. The Manitou
For Lakota, Teton Dakota, Teton Sioux
I am more Grit than sky
and I war on the beasts
of the earth to wear down
the rocks and millions
of year as tectonics win.
We will collapse and read
that flat scale to linger
when hammer strikes
open rock becomes skin.
3.
I cannot speak clearly
when the weather blasts
difficult. It’s not possessed
like dreams open starry night
for Van Gogh to keep inside
his secret book now released.
It floods mad space with order
made from his resurrection.
4.
Every word of my mountain
dries up too easy. The grass
was dead and at five minutes
before 7 AM on 19 August
the rain does not feed
cliff its proper respect.
Love might inspire calm.
Emotion turns weather red.
Rain could hold wild fire
and melt dead grass into green.
5.
Breathing strikes fewer burdens.
In that rain love breaks from simple wind
pushed low to high and if we resurrect
that morning after our bodies clasp
with erotic charms to drive our limbs
into the ripe face of the vertical cliff.
Lust was born from death as well
as that prerogative that life spurned
to keep death in separate arcades
so the bells would ring and gongs
strike when she felt her heart seize
when that moment ripens rivers
to press her body from the pattern
to drive hard into love again.
6.
Sex cures the perilous
storms from all mountains
with cliffs and nubile limbs.
It threads the smoke into
blue morning glories and
white peonies as fire fades.
##
Mountains in Montana #3
Historic Love Poem
August 24, 2007
Her smile curls on the horizon
while her face followed larger
than the moon became caught
with fire flies in August twilight.
I hold to her in magic wand.
My woman rides Montana hills
in blue, gray, tan, black and
brown frenzy. I am willing
sex toy. Tied to our bed we
swirl waves, clouds, tempest;
our eyes craft blush and come.
Please rest. She sleeps
within our ribald flanks
engorged with blond hair
fresh shaken branches
and every green grape
and orange slice crushed
in mouth with wilder kiss
and ground in stud to tease
the blood to even greater
floods and screams than
waterslide-roller-coaster.
In common light, nothing
less than wild fires shake red
horizon and please when she
races her breasts like white
clouds with rose edges fascinate
while we watch through a prism
our legs pause in stream and
cold water and its hot crust
cook our sex in tangible lust.
2
Steam covers Montana's
mountains in summer too.
Cold will come and snow
compels us to the edge
when hurricane's swirl
covered until bodies quit.
3
Daydreams march away
as we churn sex to
perfect aspects as history
of rocks as the moan
of dark sex knows only
our secrets which we keep
together bound in a ribbon.
4
Love is born in historic
poems. It's one of many
masks I fondle and
bless as you are semen
to my eggs of words.
Gender is stretched
5
I write historic poems.
Kiss my mouth with
the full sun set soon.
Our children grow
by generations.
The mountains
tremble every night
when the air freeze
and our hand snow
covered make shadows
on the walls as fright
without escape blends
into the historic mountain
fallen down again and again.
6/
in morning breakfast
with children I cook
sausage and eggs
and serve us with
single rose to lips.
.
###
Mountains in Montana #4
5 AM -- August 26, 2007
Twilight & Darkest Mourning
Rocks gather in their families:
igneous, sedimentary and
metamorphic and now in new seat
at the petrology table
add Experimental Rocks
1.
The Mountain in my mind
are black as the sky is clear
and the invisible colors
will appear as rainbows
or something even more
splendid as light breaks
open into my flower garden.
Every rose has a face
and a mind and is yours
as you dust with me
oblivion into plenitude.
Out my window are the foothills
of a mountain that has its own
face burned into my flesh so god
has spoken before and after my
personal epiphany. I am grown
in that stone. I am listed as descendant
I am tortured until I speak louder.
2.
The history of rocks is the lithology of dust.
100 million years have passed after collected
sediments layer to rounder grains and silt.
We freeze time in our indiscretions with
mountains as they push the mass into arms
held open as if the woman caught in her gasp
as she is fucked so the mountain roars.
Sediment, batholiths, igneous intrusions,
the motion of the earth under gravity and
our sun breaking the world into pieces
collected for reconstruction into a table
top of white oak buried in our river
for hundreds of years. It is perfect
as a relic and function of the life made
into an outline so help me that marvelous
road will leap above the hills and fall
down like Humpty Dumpy and children
enthralled will gather with my love
to refresh the earth and we redeemed
gathered in the hall for the diorama.
.
##
.
Mountains in Montana #5
Night Meditations #1 to #13
.
Meditation
In day spun gold I write black night into empty vessel
and my desert out-back in the garage, a painting held hostage,
laughs at my strokes that pretend to be nature.
Henri Rousseau the French painter walked
on the hills of Mt. Sentinel in Montana.
In 1950, camera lights flash-bulb great American
spectacle. Picasso cannot gather parts of speech
for Pollack to execute before Jackson murders
woman and tree in alcohol spun opera.
.
Meditation #2
In grain of platinum prints the Rockies spring
into dispassionate chords background to caves
where small bones of cities are simple, even
dull faced in teams of clouds alien to usual sky.
Shy cumulus hang close to the awful ground
raise to the indigo tapestries of silk and earth;
where sweat and breath unfold as flags draped
over the caskets ring through clap of waves
and over the binge of thunder until wolves
run beside the wagons to hunt the best place
to plant teeth into life while racing the half moon.
.
Meditation #3
In the third frame of this folly written first in long hand.
I am alone with "Mad Judy" -- She lived near W. 74th in NYC
many years ago. My story speaks as geometry weaves
new maps while the topography of Mountains in Montana
draws secondary shadows on the backs of my hands.
Mad Judy taught me GOB.
There is only Gob, Great Gob with one arm
a missing tooth. Great GOB lived in
the mold of the New York Subways.
It is after 1975. I whisper above the screech
of train tracks that GOB breathes
in Montana now; she makes love
folding into my lips one kiss at a time
to feel what the wind knows as it passes from low to high
pressure along the equator. Yes, Mountains know secrets
no one else can realize. It is almost too true to be
an easy thought and calm when I put it to bed in my
arms and feel its soft ass against the bulge of my cock.
She as Mountain was glorious – one direct line woven
with quilts of green trees and lakes that bear-salmon
splat and growl with torn flesh bearing spine open
glistening as beautiful strokes of crimson-mauve
muscle flap flopping fish against granite stones
where river and bear make love in pink flesh.
.
Meditation #4
This passion is sung by Jazz
Base with vocals – that scat
screeched and blessed
with melodic conga drums.
Night is deep amber to umber
without contrast or dimension.
There are shadows on the
houses in the fore-hills and
the grease of smoke from
wild fires mates with bare
brown, dry grass for skin
diseased became cured.
Rocks cure everything.
They replace all things.
Objects dissolve in the
slurry of car lights
on roads below black
Missoula Mountain
where we rust history
brown and lean, cured.
.
Meditation #5
Listen to the resonance sung in six parts.
Bach runs keys along the spines of rocks
where we balance not before a fall but
as monument to the magic of levitation.
I dance without feet and arms while
my body glows as path to summit.
.
Meditation #6
Obsidian minerals warmed
by the ass of hot beach sand
drift in geothermal springs
into the ghost of spray
before the surf meets lava.
.
Meditation #7
Woman appears at top-crest where summit
meets tits and breasts hung to the hunter's necks.
Her nipples point to six sided stars collected as sea shells.
I once knew mollusks that lived next door where
the organ grinder slept wearing shirts
only the blind could montage as
sludge in the bottom of the lake
where I hit and cut my head open.
I was ten. I lived. I survived that dark forest and dreamed
of the mountains where bear crossed my path riding
my elephant and his musical wings flapping some jazz
tune in 20's Speak Easy. I played the clarinet in the band.
I lived in the bottom well of that city where empty holes
call nightmares, black sweats, wanton fingering and greed
drove cocks and pussies into some extraordinary eruption.
It is always Noir where set painted faces to dissolve
and grow our mountains of bones by accretion into polygons
made with isometric halite and silica cleaved with vulva
shaped as Sheela Na Gig on the doors of where Dizzy plays.
Breasts were born on of the black hole.
She fed me meat chewed soft. She kissed milk like
blue edges with ripe cunny ribbons of spit collected
at the corner of our mouths with my semen and lubrication.
Mountains need special care to keep all parts smooth.
.
Meditation #8
It was a party for us when we were twelve.
I loved black then. I walked into night and terrified it.
Meditation #9
What is that yonder of them dear Eastern Roman icons.
Can we taste bleak chicken as we hunt the mountain for
secrets folded on into formal letters discarded as carbon
copies in multi-layer sheets like soft, silly gypsum
I can smell sex in the minerals collected with beryl and limonite,
pure lead, perfect tri-axis with different logical lengths and
three angles between arms, as God risen.
Triclinic Crystals are called God today on Sentinel
Mountain and I am breathless.
.
Meditation #10
There. Hold the still mouse, bleak fowl with broken bones
separated by wolves into species of time.
Evolution does not share light but blows
winds, cries, raises hell in its arbitrary
dance steps one, two, three, and tango
makes four when blind actor dances
at the Waldorf and smells sex as shift
of rock made discomfortable --
splendid when silica replaced carbon
and father gave daughter and son
musical song to drive madness
into mother. Why are we clichés?
I collect the black imagination. I climb
the mountain without breathing.
I find her again and she shifts her dance
when cliffs tumble down to break apart
my sculpture. I was told that only light
makes art and I steal empty black
for my promised land so becoming
grandmother you were a girl in Israel
so you dreamed in Yorktown during
those nights before 1910 when the Star
was painted Judah by German sausage
makers without hands and testicles.
It is not absurd to believe in destiny.
Believe in how rocks collect our honor
and keep the earth changing like 11
year old dancers rising as graceful
clouds into swart light.
Meditation #11
The pure Missoula River dressed with
fish invents Lewis and Clark for every
wild thing needs an inventor with
keys for doors yet to be grown
from the cracks in the granite hills.
Meditation #12
I have only cookies
to give you children.
I have one great idea
to press to your hands.
Knowledge is musically
sweet. Please ride
imagination’s roller coaster
tweedle dee Tweedle Dum.
Meditation #13
Imagine Belafonte singing
"Daylight Home and I wana go Home"
Yes, pray, on your knees.
Rub the rocks in your fingers
and feel the grit. You are blessed
by the rough and smooth,
invisible and complete.
Night breaks nothing when it hits the stones
and turns them into red embers forever.
I made some lunch today.
I cut the bread. I sprinkled
salt and leaven and found
where I was baked flat in
bricks spread with ceramic
eyes and blood thirsty speech.
Last Meditation Tonight
I meditate on the black night
Mountain in Montana and I
watch stars resurrected
out of my own lips again.
We breed without promise
and chance makes it good.
The mountain lives when
the human ark dies.
.
##
Mountains in Montana #6
“Sexy Rocks” Missoula Tour -- Music by Jefferson Airplane
Fuck with Rocks and Be Reborn
the Bible rewritten Proclaimed.
What may seem absurd and false
with time becomes the law as fame.
I watch earthquakes burn the faults.
Wait. They are broken down and fired
when they split from relief of strain.
The heart opens as waterfalls collide with furious stars.
Lovely chance commits the silicate mind to change.
My Mountain groans. Plates peel. Air stops. Sulfur burns.
The open pit turns rivers off and on with surprise.
I know all my magicians. Who wins today?
How can I predict the roll of landscape by relief
when surprise drives spikes into soil where cities grieved?
I am trapped. Love’s hands dear mother earth molest
my thighs with necessary habits to give will to game.
Endings are never finished. Patience holds process
in accord with every wonderful cloud made cobalt blue
as morning stretched in rosy sky with warm gray clouds
as struggle for tempest explodes when timpani
improvised the dénouement of great pines bare
against brown earth exposed as fire break.
Cities have short mind. Faults slip open
only from their own constant foil risen to
fall again as we pray to appease abuse.
Inside basalt well, my child conceived in darkness
waits for thrust and parry in air stretched from lips.
Applause cannot be measured by its storm.
Weather welcome hunt as trees displaced
settle back, and rude lascivious sculptures slip
off the palisades to rain thunder upon heads.
The mountain is live! Believe it.
It will fuck with our heads and
bring new light to our disbelief.
Rocks live in their silicate glory.
Rub them against your skin,
feel the heat in your hands.
Make love with them as surprise
lifts you dying to rebirth as split
open madness carries you into
that beautiful art only landscape
in its perpetual change revives.
Fuck my darlings. Heat limbs.
Make thy orgasm so well to live.
.
##
.
Mountains in Montana #7
Love Carves Rocks into Time.
Our rounded hearts want wet plane
where plain hills and furrows arrange
what can only become gullies
for rivers to flood when nature rains
through my fingers over the ledge.
The waterfall drops no names.
She rides the crown and waits
for vermillion twilight to halt
and force winter Queen again
in partial day of lovers engaged.
There are always transitions.
Rocks do not fall in one surge.
She quits and semen
left inside leaks down inside
of legs in pleasant discomfort
after feldspar and granite melt
and children conceived drink
the wealth of magma as blue
milk puddles between breasts.
2.
I hold her in my mouth.
Nothing else matters but
feral words struck at coil
of tempest drugged into
mature fingers finding
origin of species as home.
I climbed between legs opened
and crossed. I suffered revised
maps when land responded
to wit and captured
in quim -- held together --
while she paints. I outline
with tongue, pink pen
those parts in glorious
upheaval over and over
again inexorable waves
beat at the backs of legs.
Mountain rises there.
Great bridges close.
Neither trapped
nor free we wrinkle
in ripe earth for relief.
Every seed, fat and green
with stems ready to breed
falls down human coil
into helix bound desire
as wild revolt of spring
drives summer new and
fall bends prayer on knees --
wet as one drifted cloud
held together in gravity
when tides refuse to
hold love apart no more.
.
##
Mountains in Montana #8
Mountain as Collective Noun
"Science is facts; just as houses are made of stones, so is science made of facts; but a pile of stones are not a house and a collection of facts is not necessarily science." -- Henri Poincare (1854 - 1912)
My mountains are collections of space, compact as time,
undone by a drizzle of blood or war
or the kindness of life before redemption.
Is life a collection of gracious happenstance bred
from accidents that are veiled by holy prudes who
would cover up fortune to craft the body feared?
Mountains suffer no panic. I stare at this hump
in the night that touches clouds today,
and brown, gray, green pines whirl as a dream did
the other night when I had sex while she moaned
and the river between us blew into our mouths
for us to absorb as we spun from pinnacle to
base and felt that heavy rock dragged into life
by the subtle passing of immutable grit to birth.
2.
Rocks wear small adornments set on them
by unnatural ghosts to keep from weathering
and into that invisible, subtle death
that things suffer to happen in ecstasy
when rocks explode fired by the random
sparks of moods in murder
as the fragments, shards cut in crust.
The land has its own rules for skin and raw hide.
Human Beings flutter as they dissolve in fire
and that solar plasma overcomes us tomorrow
when we are collected like atoms without electrons
for some dark process we can only guess will strike
In the fall, we rut in the garden on our knees sexually
pressed to breast or stiff parts and ribald wait winter steam.
I kiss her in the lines of color that every maple makes obvious
bursting in yellow and sometimes pale orange to red verbs
and things without fixed boundary or creative disease.
Nature cannot lie; love is fondled and saved in eyes
as memory will not keep all the facts directly at hand
to write them down as testament to what turns out.
3.
Do you know the names for all the minerals we collected
when the crystals reformed became more complex, even
twinned they spun within each other giving birth
to garnet and silicate gems less valuable they say
than hard diamonds and their permanent flash
when all parts of self were left as remnant to perish?
Do you know how I love this mountain
and she who became it, as I woo her
with ever aged charm I can satisfy.
I hold us in a bouquet of dirty flowers, not
as something without beauty, but the colors
of our skin and the smock we wash carefully,
in reverence glows and sparkles in ways
we cannot collect for the rigor of fact fails.
.
.
##
.
Mountains in Montana #9
"When I was from Cupid's passions free,
my Muse was mute and wrote no elegy."
-- Ovid (43 BC - 17 AD), Amores
.
My response to Ovid:
I swim between the greens.
Stem and root cut my days.
Elegies are more rage than
an end of lust my mountain will
bear another passion from that deep
sand gathered in childhood pails.
I fling it at the waves and they
curl me in their foam to stay
my life until the elegy slips out
the back and forgets that grief
insinuated in the walls of Cain.
1.
Birds skitter with solemn circumstance while
bears of sun cross where mountain bowed
by decline of arms and hurried white snow.
October will freeze to thaw the icy granite
until atoms cleave with unpredictable planes.
Summer has old names and dried leaves
fall as if they are sails Odysseus flew
to fuck Penelope in the dark to suck
paint and glue one last time before
salt dissolves into ordinary fury.
2.
Clouds do not disappear to satisfy even
the pressure of the air that creates them
from the water and breath of soldiers
and philosophers drugged with laudanum
We gather too when night is umber;
We unfairly bend her neck to reveal
red sacred stones to hold Rockies'
flora and descend into unbalanced
tempest whole. Lightning cuts center.
We are struck and blanched without pause.
Forever, we chase where sulfur's rocks stamp
mottled waves and sky as painted flat to
open where the fake and real are one
while new older hands whittle slowly
for erosion what mother's time grew.
3.
The discontinuity of rocks and fossil leave
the undressed ground alone to print its rough
plane and be wrinkled again an old star child
with nothing but sand and ocean and names
for things recalled that Williams plotted
in Paterson as map that future death
when his mountain came as all water
falls descend with human beings as
sparrows for flight. Birds mimic Grace;
Slick plays microphone letting it
come in her eyes when rocks descend
from Everest's face. We are safe on
mountain plane. Animal's prowl
but we are them. Murder can not happen
where snow and grass covers Mastodon
that has gone to seed. Historical meat
and plant eating dinosaurs roam
Parking lots of College football games.
4.
Inside my hands insects swarm
and lichens play the hump
of Sentinel's mountain mouth.
In my lap ladies grab thighs
and arms to plant wild flowers
as a spray of some distant sky
spent long ago arrives as rocket
red glare and out of tune trumpets
in that fan fare: mountains do not die
but warble o'er the black hole grate
where time falls down and forgets its race.
.
##
.
Mountains in Montana #10
The Mountain Speaks
after finding a book by
Shakespeare remaindered
as rubbish with semen left
from picnics in her bush.
It was all.
I was all.
My breasts bend to milk
the pasture of its flavors.
I am inside your skeleton.
I am dream. You said it.
I counted strangers hunting
in my mouth. Do not cut the mother.
No hunting here. I am serious.
I will hurl you into delirium.
No dreams will fall out of my lips.
I will not heal and what you create
will be worthless. Do not test me
I will not be dismissed.
You cannot believe me weak,
I can restore my self. You can't.
I saw savior.
She was moon
opened as fire.
When she played
my arms I rumbled.
When I cried springs
of water leaked blood
as my enemy divides
what can not be known.
She filled me with salt
and white bark and elm.
When the hooligans came
I had no protection.
Shakespeare said. I read
my one book late in life.
It was left as litter on clouds
fornicating with sweet nitrogen
raised above the temple I
could not commit to that music.
It blasted the deep rock and
took my spirit away, until now.
I will not fear being alone.
It is easier to sing silent psalm
than lie in a procession
where royalty are crowned.
I loved first Elizabeth Regina
daughter of the mountain
and the future King.
Yes, there was a child.
Drake left him where
the arms and sex cross.
This is my song
Draw from it salvation
and reprieve. Shakespeare
lived in my voice.
It is how I learned to
speak your language.
.
2. Interlude
Variation on
Shakespeare's Richard II
It is lie what he said as preamble
to this person poem I leave
cut in caves beyond all eyes.
I am not John of Gaunt.
I am not King. I did not believe
it could be possessed as thing. My
discovery sank into another
realm where I bereft of usual stars
could not measure my space to
uncover where black wet rocks and cold
will ring fire to restore the skyline.
I am throne without any pleasure or
accidents that threaten sun. I will not
wink at King. I am not Richard Second.
I will not opportune to brag on my relief.
I ran down hills until my belly flat with
small stones and brief heart I am neither
country nor abstraction drained from slender
ideals and perilous rejection. For many ages
I shed skin, became flat, erupted and disused.
I disregard senses until the profit
in cutting my heart for coin too small
to matter in this false paradise of profit.
Mars and all the other gods were faked.
2.
This mountain has only eyes and lips
and womb. It has cock extended from
the other side where nature boils.
I am only famous in my destruction
or in the habits of my resurrection
when I gather sand, soil and light
into my pulse again with glee
my child anointed by ancients
storms where no one but mountains
can breathe stop and start at once.
This mountain set in motions today
as every day and every moment it
will never cease in human time to
glow as sentinel for future rain
and by my oath I will not be stopped
by any human force including Kings or Queens.
##
.
.Mountains in Montana #11
Morning Glory
October 10, 2007
You Mountain! Every cloud dresses
you as raw steel of storm to wane
while autumn's chill suddenly
expects barren snow soon.
You, woman, you are so beautiful
this morning in that golden
ash-rust-gasp of surprise.
Your veils cover what
cannot be seen when
granite hearts split.
It is sworn love
for the first time
when every cloud
addressed strength
of storm will fade-- then
autumn's chill, suddenly,
expects the snow soon
as your palms open,
hair flying wide in silhouette
your legs bridge further
to bring all lands inside
where next 100 million years
will display new dinosaurs
with aluminum wings.
Yes, Mountain love
do growl. Your fever snarls
as bears do and wolves
prowl for godly kill.
##
Mountains In Montana #12
October 15, 2007
(Letters Written While Asleep)
Yesterday, I painted my mountain
with thin blue and crimson water
colors strained from copper shells
with malachite blooms. I cut every
violet flower edged with green and
rose until the forest was full again
and beasts roamed in thin chains
to bind arms but not to stop our
fingers from rousing north to south
across trivial lakes to interrupt fluxion
in weal where every erotic string
unties lips, bends petals when
morning glories collapse, contract
as that muscular dance to twist surprise
and to meld with awe sex as good act.
We are euphoric in alarm, and not only
for pleasure, we do not quit the woods
or dry to quickly the plain, but we live
outside too long and we drown
too fast, but then we adapt to
breathe through clay and rake
pleasure in that gift we redeem.
Fulfillment, my mountain connects,
speaks again, for a second time, while
stems and valleys, caves and narrows,
right bridges and build natural
steps from ice and snow to slip
dreary off the ice into that never
permanent Jersey Palisade marked
safe again with inconstant maps
drawn in diluted blood and ochre ink
to shadow foliage more than camouflage intent.
I never understood until I crossed
the last line, became flesh with gold
dust in my spin as time displaced. I revived
and felt my mountain drink her lips
to open my cup and feed from that
hay set out to help the cattle at least
survive with their memory broken
and their sense of right and wrong
restored by the blinking of an eye
and of course forgetting what is made
out of screams and sighs written down
as the beasts that music with its triple
harmony drives the live back home
to keep my mountain whole while
the our geography changes dream
by dream when order refused
breaks eyes, spine and lips as
we hammer one piece of rock
from one part of cliff without
regard to how it holds together.
2.
Today, I pray to mountain when our
pain copies human or bestial steps.
This is no lonely birth, she stamps
as the hollows in the hills collapse
and dust driven upward stretches
sparrows in flight over full land.
3.
Dear Mountain --- time has not clicked.
We are not disposed. to watch idols
swim up stream out of Lewis’s Mouth
to fall down without
predisposition to reaction.
My Mountain Love Movie blares.
Great Hosannas! Free from dysphasia
we wait our epic return to grace.
How do you linger and pause
and not be uncomfortable for
that middling change to march
victorious from some vault
never known always promised.
for tens of millions of years
to upend your source, refurbish
rivers when the clime does
not warble ye or and I am
now used until the back
of the book and horror
stays same in the tunnel.
We say it is miracle what that
empty mountain, spatial light
has fallen out of sight,
to be marked as love neither
alive nor proven broken.
We march round mountain
singing our childhood songs
and my mountain, lovely woman
so patient while I keep the flowers
arranged to reflect our perfect play.
.
.
##
Mountains in Montana #13
“Winter Becomes Her”
Yea, that mountain as my spine fuse
to hump where horizon's outline
drew down when the universe beguiled
banged we settled in plank of nature's oak
where equations rolled the page.
.
.
Mountain:
Winter curls ideals under layers of refreshment.
You archer stir that ardor. I know I smelled blossoms
as honey dried on animal tracks and the ground
of your vulva open in grand pink clouds as book
of light and time left us alone with the first day of Terra.
When you came without Adam, as he was a metaphor
of some undistinguished experiment, your thick
comfortable, sensuous hair woven, long dark curls,
four strands thick strikes danger from lies counted
on three hands and not two. “You are a cheat,” I say.
After all, how you can calibrate one unknown against
a disputed sample. You knew arousal. Why do you
walk away when you so want my acceptable dreams.
When you ask, “how can I appreciate human beasts?”
You leave too quickly, forget to wait, or disappear,
and when you return with fake lightning to illuminate
what are burnt umber shadows twisted without geometry.
I was not afraid until you reshaped my body
took liberties with our identical eyes, and when
you crushed my speech, refused to let me write
what had always been true: I refused the wake or wave.
I drugged you with erosion not demure red cranberry flowers.
You will not outlive pearls or granite no matter
what oath you substitute for my lovely disabled illogical reason.
.
Self:
My Mountain you resisted faith and found private
rivers, as your blood curdled down into your deep shell
where lava rumbled with perfect gases sucked back
until tyrannical kisses demanded serial explosions.
Keep faith darling Mountain Sentinel. We did not hunt glory.
We prepared the forest for greater numbers
living a full life, and there would be variable equality, of course.
I search the fields of an electron
microscope to feed imaginary fires for TNP and
other healthy expletives. I know ADP will
transform, releasing heat to become ATP;
mitochondrion satisfied will walk not stalk
from their hind legs (they are actually
included in cells) to shape breath from
what is pure spirit and never been actual.
At the door of the cave the Grizzly pushes
two rocks closer, half inside the portal. He
staggers as I did when I was drunk on an old
stage pretending to be in control of nothing.
Yes, you move on top as enter, exit, close --
thick, full noise stretched beyond any orifice.
We pass from dark to the morning and we undress
shivering when fundamental layers lift in draft upward
where our sun leaves our fingertips.
I do quit this space. You have
warned me well. I know I cannot create delusion
from the actual atoms and other parts yet to
be known in the encyclopedia of interested names.
While I dream torpid sex, long poles, dark owls and crows, --
while I sleep, you promise, danger-mountain .yes,
while I hibernate, as you profess my choices,
you will privilege my tongue as perfect knowledge.
What else can a Mountain teach Human Beings
while brother Bears sleep for eternity?
Yes, I am great bear and I loved on mountain humps
my miracles include all beasts and human beings.
##
.
Mountains in Montana #14
The Art of Murder
Halloween has the sweetest smile
corrected for color balance to allow
all the teeth to pause as harmonic silky green
snarl before murder inherited mortal relief.
I did not murder my mother. I did not kill her mind.
The Lord with her deft wind faked her story and bable is cruel.
1.
My mountain, you promised bloody skies
to celebrate that South Bronx ghetto where
my mother and grandparents watched this
Blue eyed girl slip out of the wall of WWI.
Today, cracks in the hollows of the sidewalk
stumble along side horses no longer present
and old oil burning cars that smoke away life.
You stumble Dear Mountain and we
write notes no one can decipher. Ironic
logic without substance drips in the waste.
After all, we did plan to celebrate anniversary
as birth or death, and my mother, like Ezra
Pound died in the pit of All Saints Day, in gusts
of wind strung thin between small clouds.
I watched the wind pick them up and we were afraid.
Every day after that we fled quickly down greeny
death of the Amazon paradise to rage.
Why are we so easily scared?
Why do we fake witness and passion
to mumble how we're not unique?
The clock and the wind drove us to step
lively into the train and we fell to the subway
tracks crushed into pulp ready for paint.
How dare we pretend my mountain
to love anyone given that loss of life
for nothing but waste and surprise?
We are shocked. So what? How much
longer must we scream to let Halloween die?
2.
I am not the usual mountain today
Do not trust me. I will cut you open easily
as I need one day to prove that mercy lives.
Once a year, every year, my mountain
celebrates death. It makes murder heroic. It
cuts off heads and blows the background clear:
no false hope. Nothing can be pitied. It all
ends in a fall from the cliff, when your foot
misses that one space that keeps you alive.
I have no pity for my victims. They are
simply another stone rounded at edge with
brilliant blue eyes, sandy skin and that wet
open sore of a cunt, or that dirty dick shaken
awake. They all piss in my mouth for lunch.
I don’t mind. Water is a necessary evil. I want
that wash where rivers are made so bloody
they cannot separate skin from soil,
air from the rattle of isotope steam blasting
through the garden wilting the rose.
Without my personal, applied evil how would
I measure goodness? I am selfish but my
life measures millions of yours, and I can
do what I choose without any restraint.
No one can stop the movements
of my arms as the warning cannot be read.
If everyone blinded by a thousand suns
suddenly forgets that they are mortal
and I am not, power doesn’t shift well
in the background without forcing another
soul to its committed peace, which death
living as irony, runs down her nipples
to the bones between her ribs, and takes
her heart as one would cut the wings of a fly
making its escape fail and life terror.
3.
She was warm in my mouth
when I sucked her nipples. I cut one.
I cut her ears. I blinded her with an awl.
I made him cut where she talks, so silence
ran down between her pubic
hearts to settle in the cup of her vestibule.
I whispered. You are not menstruating.
The blood leaks from her heart. Your eyes
cannot see where they are slit, and your
dying like an old scream lingers in my chart.
I was meant to be murdered by
the Manitou on my hip. She kissed
where sleep had no tail, no eyes, --
when she moved to fuck me hard
she slit our sides and balloons of guts
dragged to the edge of the trail steamed.
There, that fetid mass, cut from jewels
from scraps of words you stole murder
while lovers and fiends shifted the vent
to let offal shift tectonic plates in upheaval.
Yes, I understand. I, holiday, lived one day only.
You owned the rest, but we keep each
other honest as the blind created wholes
where the bare ocean suddenly steams.
Halloween is that instant when terror
wins,or at best, mountains
look away from Human Beings.
##
Mountains in Montana #15
"The first question I ask myself
when something doesn't seem
to be beautiful is why do I think
it's not beautiful. And very shortly
you discover that there is no reason."
John Cage (1912 - 1992)
My Mountain press down to my coil.
What is the origin of matter?
Everyday your answer is different.
Choose one fact please to simplify
the texture of beach tested waves
stirred in multiple tempos to the echoes
of sand sounded out of prediction.
Mountain, set eyes in blind rock –-
stay at rest my igneous intrusion
threaded at center with silicon
stars stolen from twinned quartz.
We set jewels faithless and invisible
without dogs to whistle out noise.
Bells announce your cause
as you hid without permission
in the bower of cave painting
while boys and girls faked guilt
you're taught when you make love
to your mother without remorse.
My mountain I walked the circles
of your crest today. I sought love
from surrounding hills and horizon.
What happened this morning?
I followed you east to west
where rose stained snow
without steam cleansed vast
mineral wealth from well oiled
gutters of defiant streets.
I did not believe you stood still.
There was no panic; no one noticed
you break crystalline bonds to score
with other determined mountains.
I am amused that we do not speak
truthfully, or is this a passing phase
for the next day crown after the next
royal masque cannot be planned.
You refused to tell me answers.
Perhaps I don't want confusion.
I gratefully welcomed truth. Mountain,
you are beautiful. Nothing I say
can add to polished granite flooded
to undercut continents and to marry
cloud with land as one line dances
between one disguise and another.
Mountain, you add verbs
to death and life. When
you resist calm you capture
not only breath but substance;
you record change not as a diary
but as emeralds set in gold
like blinded birds followed
home in spring.
There is only illusion my darling --
No answers if
you consider
the origin of matter and things?
##
.
Mountains in Montana #16
"I want freedom for the full
expression of my personality."
-- Mahatma Gandhi
.
Winter came today. It spelled
beautiful cold and love covered my
mountain with more than golden
shadows dressed from November.
The flowers Sherry called horizon
slipped with rods and rocks in place
while in distant greens decorated
while lost floral caves spirits prayed
for various thrills, revivals and ecstasy.
In soft speech we listened to time
as grand opera with vivid fury.
We close broken cycles and run
races between what and when
where and how long can we exist
without some subtle belief
thrown as weeds by birds on
meadows covered with ice that
glows insistent in the morning
when reds, blue and greens
are darkest and then the sun
appears with faith and nothing
else to promise daylight again
and nothing else appears when
that great flower Sherry simply
moved one step away and returns
so fast I cannot lift my self from
the passion as undercurrent
to when we will be new again.
2
If you consider radiance as space
with blooms that penetrate ice
there is no limit to personality.
Every voice exists as a marriage
where tranquil past and present
run down broken hills with one
child raised simply as will,
thy will be done, and another
as love, where I am faith follows
the million blossoms of godliness
transposed as flutes and organ
riding up her leg again, finding
what was once upon a time
is now wild cleft again, and
resting split open in leaps
of speaking words I remember
as belief cleans waste with ardent
ardent strokes complete with
will, as almost and dream
becomes backdoor to Nirvana
and Heaven and Hell our softer
cities lost in the isthmus
jackstep down dead free roads
out of breath while we clap
and sing one song after
another praying for honest
speech and perfect pleasure.
3.
The hump of my belly is full with
snowmen faces and snowballs that
delight throws against the sky.
We fly away on the arch of the snow
directed out of space, of course.
We make love in caves, drive slight
wind away, and we plagiarize faith
with a ditty and sonnet about
that rascal belief and its cousins.
Trust walks as love with
pearls and rings and after
all lost memory reclaimed
we find our hands returned
to where they were born;
nothing else matters
when you find love; light
and my mountain flare
with fault and its spells.
Demons serenade until
the decayed walls
tremble with old sins
written down too quickly
for the flaw to be recalled
as perfection rides too
easy down the river
away from Carousel
and the blue and red
balloons left behind.
.
.
##
.
.Mountains in Montana #17
On Deism
Speak to miracles, mountain:
the natural world is one field
in the ramble of my faith.
The righteous blood of cold
resides where my mountain
blocks the wind and spins
snow away from Missoula city.
On Sentinel Mountain
when winter is harsh
sky withers grey as clouds
penetrate solid rock when
brown becomes white then
grey in tarnished glow we
absorb faith before peneplane
dissolves facts with mystery.
My intricate universe cannot
be understood by drawing lines
between numbers or tracking
the creases in my hands.
2.
We address the snow in parting.
Winter browns our hands with
the natural blood of perfect thought.
My mountain, save us some green
in the silver glitter of sun in fields
when spring warms wild flowers
makes them violent but yellow
then draws paint from minerals
bleached by erosion of winter.
My mountain is larger than pastoral.
The bible is maps. Rivers and rocks
divide the actual mind from intent.
In revelation I hear Bach's
"Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring.*"
Within planets and nebula
relief rises above my horizon
where the earth had no end
and no beginning as matter,
visible and dark, lifts god alive
from tantric prayers driven
with every breath to become
more than eternity or one
tragic myth left to dry
in mud carved with sticks,
stones and fingers by
absent sun, moon and stars.
*Johann Sebastian Bach, "Jesu Joy of Man's
Desiring" from Cantata No. 147
##
.
Mountains in Montana 18
February 3, 2008
I speak to Mountains
every day and contained
I am led to places where
peace runs through streets
searching for life divided
by the square root of minus one
or any number divided by zero.
Herein my verse mocks my obscured wits
and I travel to know impossible that earlier
life when I grabbed my wings to revive
after death on Don River when in 1923
my lives created once upon a time
another chance to rehearse daily
meal when the universe began.
My woman you were my life
when I died wearing Lenin
revolution and my red collar.
2.
My new mountains begins
with quiet magical sermons
and then step backs
to watch the sun set
on handsome mountain
covered with roses and snow.
I hallucinate for rainbows
where gold can not be found.
Here one day in my State of Grace
on mountain top we meet again
after eighty five years of snow
storms bred from Ukraine
to my Montana Mountain.
Every daylight-evening divides
red from green, and what happened
from what never did -- and snow
spilled in avalanche to open
spectacle while time in paradox
wins the slanted chess board.
3.
Today, I, my life grew accidents.
Can poker predict fate?
Will fortune as opposite whim
amend daylight wagging
back and forth between
known and unknown
invisible rivers in Ukraine
while the Don River floods
the Hudson or Danube
basin even as Mississippi
swings jazz above flood gates;
human beings dangle from
edge of manufactured stars
4.
My mountain dreams
where Noah sat alone
contemplating one day
at a time like any good 12
step fiend withdrawing drugs
and alcohol but never sex
from bare, aging face:
Why is it difficult to know
my last day of life in 1923?
Impossible will be programmed
when calculus stumbles wildly
with out the signs of the cross
or sine and cosine. The tangent
of miracles will calculate Pi
without computer fables,
myths and deconstructed
fairy tales such as an
impossible estimate of
how many times I will return
again for another day constructed
by chance for that marvelous evil --
my glorious terra in revolt.
I calculate my lives with
history and mountains and now
you stumble into my maze
and we predict another fold
in another dimension as boring
time simply will not follow
rules and behave as layers
of silt appear where
the ice melted Sunday
Fresh snow has not
swept down Olympus
to carry dazzle into black.
Keats and Blake hurry
fists and pens in gray
ink too watered down.
We keep peace and in
clouds my mountain
and the Ukraine began.
It is a glorious 1924
and I never knew it
before our first Sunday.
##
.
Mountains in Montana #19
Valentines Day 2-14-08
Today only tide
and gravity run
from river fall to rise
as simple maps live
love in dark streets
to show-life when
mask and lips, when
lollypops sucked
until eyes change
this twilight my
vivid storm woman
who belts thunder
with motion that
great dancers break
open as sexual shift
from child to woman
borne empty to full.
At that dance, red
heels and lip color
string sophisticated
beads tying heart
to another by nipples
of tide with pebbles
that sting to open life
and make the semen
run across the ovum
as the mist descends
and child rise up again
out of the black matter
descent of human things.
My mountain will witness all
love falling down and clapping
with swallow wings in tune.
2.
Seasons wrestle
limbs while twigs
string to trestle
to green fortress
and we wheel
with hunting birds
placed for adoration
become shrill as lark
finding its last home
and season spilled
as dye in an ocean.
3.
The first season returns
after the last cycle drove
light away from mountain
ridge over the soft fields
down sloped into gullies
where soldiers walked
with any limp or duty.
We, new, are loved when
walls break in fusillade of rose-grey
clouds spent to a morning crash
February snow and cold
rain erase marks on skin
where kisses made love
uncovers maps set to draw
happiness after duplicate
signs are set down
to sing hurrah over again
when the clocks starts
after mud fouled straw
buried time with gold
transmuted to pleasure
"and love conquers all."
##
.
Mountains in Montana #20
Different Seasons in Spring
1973
Spring is the rebellion of the crocus
wrestling with the ground.
The forsythia and the child sweat
and the earth banged a drum.
Then the rain comes.
And we watch the white
below the green,
then the brown crust,
the black below the sea
2008
The Mountain
has simple words
this season. She
melts the snow;
kindling snaps;
bird's feed:
Umber drawn green.
Nightmares stir wings.
.
##
.
Mountains in Montana #21
February 24. 2008
"And my hair is long"
my mountain spoke
in famous tongues
with undeniable truth.
She barks with ardent voice
and considers the history
of rocks and minerals
reaped from the blast
of atoms heated to plasma.
That first bang was louder
than all the suns reduced
at once and it returns life
not to graves but uterus.
.
2.
My Mountain participates in wind
while wild rain cracks vertical cliff
ground to body as we expand
and contract with obedient service
to amend those fixed unknowns
when random sparks collect
to gather entrails and read fortune
and fame with morning glory
seeds, lady bugs and fluorescent
dragon flies dragged to shore and
plucked to stop the light at once.
3.
My mountain
sheds its skin
every season.
There is no mountain
when hair is short
and sight too frail
and we are illusion
lovely spectacle more
ancient than nebula
of big bangs and pause
recorded in the ledger
and finally posted when
space collapsed again
for that trillionth part in
all the ocean of things.
4.
"I swing my hair open
and I cover the heavens
until my name spoken
becomes the greeting
that starts it all again,"
mountain said rushing
down the gullies
into streams of icy water
melted until snow dries
brown to grass into
summer dust.
5.
Frozen rocks stir
into light leap
above roadways
that orbit the land.
I swing white hair
long now back
and forth as test
of gravity. For 40
million years sand
collected in disparate
pools of obsidian and
quartz, mica and
tourmaline spears.
6.
Planets on some higher beach
shout out names to record
ancient quakes for previous
maps of mountains at grace.
No one knew they happened.
Only the mountain can speak.
Silence has no cradle.
Rock are not deaf but answer
only when the earth fragile
and diseased calls out its rage
with a parade of sparks while bleak
empty matter gathered as cruel
joke declaimed with apparent curse.
.
.(work in progress)
##
.
