.
March 16, 2008
"And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil."
William Shakespeare
I will not break rocks
and speak false and I
begin with vigor,” she said,
and her bloom reached
its furthest point to spread
petals to crumple for weakened
love reached second to last
step beyond infinite life where
honesty pimps its own tragedy.
Landscapes roll exact from mountain
with no one to catch the infants’
storms where silica and iron oxide
painted hot breath into limonite
as god lost her holy fight with
green and lemon flowers handled
by the midwife of crystalline law
its unveiled vigor opened with
rush of lava and pressure split
within folds that will be genesis
for another hundred million years.
2.
Scream of schist and red jewels
ruby split horizon as mitosis
struck other germ to split by two --
“there is no other truth possible,”
she said again. She spoke attention
and caressed the seabird beach.
She connects to every part
of light drained from tempest
she accepted as her rigor
draw the view of mountain
and its longer lives are sculpture
drawn for theaters of the Play.
3.
Mountains fold out of flower buds
and every streak on their wet skin
paints another mountain ridge
where I step forward to spring.
There is no false birth.
Children run from seeds
to shining sea. Waves
feed gravity and its plan.
“Something grand,” she said
will challenge the birth
of leaves where conch shells
strum their change of state
while ribbons of mountains
fold into cradles as birth
opens the cervix and dilated
we are spun with mother
earth companion in the park
when the green flower spoke
my childhood name when
my grandfather held my
shoulder to steady my hand
breaking into the loam with
wild seeds borrowed from
some unknown meadow.
We set our hands in loam
and I could see what none
before knew as the lies
of truth break open god.
“I will be taught all atoms,”
Tom and Mountain spoke
at last, and my greeny
mouth opens to breathe
every journey known.
In the beginning no
one can speak lies.
Faith or its fact
has not created
its death cold shell.
##
.
Mountains in Montana #24
Poem for Pubic Pears by Farragher
*gig is Irish word for female vulva fruit
Come fuck my brain and I inspire
as Hera did Zeus longing to live
beyond mountains and plains.
Lewis and Clark appeared when
I walked the same river basin
unaware of my presence in woods.
No temporal disorder will unseat us.
The plate tectonics of love astutely
arranged in the phonics of vowels
for this bramble has only solar winds
which we name the sex of Lakes
and Rivers where direction
and magnitude set weapons
lost never won until morning
when slim gods fight fat dogs
fired up with Eggs Benedict
and roasted spits with blaspheme:
"I love all GODS."
Here in my palm she cuddles
damn, and the sunset stalls,
the tempest feared drives
ferocious BMWS with golden
eyes to corral where slaughtered
in war they expire as breath
stained highway for unhappiness
drum sexual longing in old age
when there's no reason to fight
when blasts of money feather
down over Grand Canyon
into soup of cherries now rich
after press coverage and fake
magic "brand" it special when
image replaced with wax fruit
and the bust of Marilyn Monroe
molested in repeated headlines
mould on fruit bowls in commode.
Nature answer few questions
On the screen behind us
a silhouette of tongue in cleft,
or fingers in the web of stars
ripens to make sun even
the big bang irrelevant
as the earth set up to be center
of the universe, which in one
sense it is: We live only on
this oblate sphere. What other
center can matter when all
life now tastes like rotten
fruit served in Green Zone
by dangerous oil men
and Tzars like Catherine
who fucked worlds to register
her title to golden chariots.
xx
Mountains in Montana #25
Sunday, June 8, 2008
All snow has melted and I say "I love you" and it is a mantra.
The green shows where the eyes connect to the edges of space.
What is space? What does the big bang fulfill? Does it shift
with the plates of the earth like a sinister road without depth?
We stay in one place and move nothing. We freeze not as cold
but by the whispers of inaction. We pause and drive without fun
into the leap forward that has consequence and no conclusion.
After does not exist at the speed of light. The neutrino in any
of its flavors has mass, and therefore a clock. Where and how
did fabricate words to shift the mountain closer to the emerald
now high choking the flood on the Sentinel mountain, and
this grain will sunburn with normal drought of summer;
my memory says lift up, expose after by now, by present,
by the ache of the millisecond before silent big bang
when what was god became ‘What is God’
when unknown formulae and theory rest
on that ignorance which is grace carried in the lips
to your lover arranged as the mass of time without
that union that gives to some life argument
for past and present; there’s no surety of future
tense drawn out of the pails of sewage
leaking from the bilge of the ship long past sailed..
I am bliss. I am recall of pleasure resting on my fingertips.
The rock moves under the pressure of ice. The trees set down
in rows of seeds and spores dry on the red rock where the sun
rows through madness and completes the map of what
happened when chance that permutation
of dice glows in the dark when parachutes
descend from space to accompany melody
drawn out of the seed hidden in uncut rock.
For 13$ you can purchase CD in MP3 format with
Printed Text of the full poem, Mountains in Montana
Sections 1-23. Send check or money order
to Sean Farragher 909 W. Central Avenue
Missoula, MT 59801 Call 406-493-0599
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