Jan. 19th, 2011

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Hot Springs

The warmth of sulfur springs wafts from your towel.
The silk of black, magnetic rocks crawls under my fingers
when I touch the back of your neck, and you the nape of my throat
where the pulse of “Love Life” carved on the boulder still ring.
As the melody of the words spoken underwater
the pious touch of my feet on your chest
and the candlelit ruckus all around us
dissolves you into plasma,
melts me back into spring.
Still, unclothed you smell sweet, as from afar, or below
the moon shining through iron-willed curtains,
then to waste you lay barren souls, and let the old
skin erode and the youth erupt.
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“Understood the poem” for the first time
and the three hundred sixty degree
sphere around me collapsed with
the chanting spoken in silence
incanted by transmission of
word, but how silent the momentary
blast when all violence is frozen
as the remembered moment before
everything changed. “It was as if
it became altogether intelligible,”
poems and jazz and expression
and pleasure intrinsically seeded.
Like all poetry blossoms from an
internal spring, how it touched
my lips in weeping, in honor at the
crumbling facade, at the dignity
of the mountain goat, chewing
not heeding the dark poison of ink.
But these are what fell away,
the steepness and treachery of the mountain
gave way to a lightness of being
“a feeling of transparency” of all
human endeavors to be alike in their
common enemy of failure and death.


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