Valentina 

                    My precious
little arrow
                      slingin’ booty
        bangin’
                      Got you
    senseless
                       Holy—
this suction
                       of nothing—
 Sundown—runnin’
          thru it—
                       Your ass is
     probiotic
                      O baby
It’s psycho-
                       biotic
         O yeah 


The seeking

               I heard this poem
        on the radio
           they were playing
                                              drum and bass
    the death was alive
and a sitar looped
in explanation
                                                        as the broadcast
              faded                                            into white
                          reflecting
                                                                      off the hills
                                       something new
something different
                 a womans voice
                 a transaction
                 a program
                                                       to pay her rent
      and persuade us

I wanted the tabla
            copy and pasted
       over everything
                                                 the prison in Folsom
                                     folded up
like an origami guffaw
                                                        burning
                  on the bronzegreen bridge
                                     far above the things
                                surfacing to scope
                                      the ample flakes of ash


The precurser

Squirting
     from the cunt
  rolled back
                       ecstatic

It was like an eel
      the way the chorizo
  gutted and slithered
                       away

Wide open
       gaping 
  hollowed out
                       carved clean

By the hybrid marbling
       difference between
  thin flesh slick with death—
                       the ooze bubbling out
              in spurts blink blue,
                                blink cream

We were on our own—
        dabbing rosin onto
  the toenails of time

Breaking off
        from our homes
  like a trichome
                      subzero

Compounding
       the phosphorous
  into the bone
                      just like that

The hole glowing
       white hot
  from the wild oak
                      kept dry

Edifying thoughts of a tobacco smoker by Johann Sebastian Bach

​Whene’re I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away,
My thoughts as I sit there and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey:
It teaches me that very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.
Like me, this pipe so fragrant burning
Is made of naught but earth and clay;
To earth I too shall be returning.
It falls and, ere I’d think to say,
It breaks in two before my eyes;
In store for me a like fate lies.
No stain the pipe’s hue yet doth darken;
It remains white. Thus do I know
That when to death’s call I must harken
My body too, all pale will grow
To black beneath the sod ’twill turn.
Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,
Behold then, instantaniously,
The smoke off into thin air going,
Till naught but ash is left to see.
Man’s frame likewise away will burn
And unto dust his body turn.
How oft it happens when one’s smoking:
The stopper’s missing from the shelf,
And one goes with one’s finger poking
Into the bowl and burns oneself.
If in the pipe such pain doth dwell,
How hot must be the pains of Hell.
Thus o’er my pipe, in contemplation
Of such things, I can constantly
Indulge in fruitful meditation
And so, puffing contentedly,
On land, on sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God.


Going deeper


One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations—
though their melancholy
was terrible. It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.

But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

by Mary Oliver

To Autumn

Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain’d
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.

The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

William Blake, 1783