Penser

"The sphere of the notion is similar to the bottom of the sea."

------Le Paysan de Paris, Louis Aragon.



I would ask you to step back politely before a perusal. Let the
water miraculously cascade down the white porcelain. White and
shiney as paradise should be..A Hidden God in the wall performs the
trick. The Blue Lozenge at the bottom dispenses a scent of jasmine.
And, yes, the blue of the lozenge is not accidental.
Behold the color of Heaven.


Would that one had such an inner plumbing in the head. A fine mind
steps back and lets the water take the piss of this world and flushes it
down as the Lethe of pleasant fragrance rises, the porcelain's shine
a bright smile.
In realms under the Earth, where the dead rest, the waste is taken.
Forgotten, as we contemplate the blue of heaven.

America, Infinity of Dream

"Amid remotest nations caused to rise
Young empire which they carried to the skies."

-----Camoes, The Lusiads, Book I lns 7-8



The West has always been the land of Dream. Past the Pillars
nimble witted fellows broke all bounds, suffered enchantment, braved
great perils and espied paradises. Oceanus ran over an edge or, maybe,
emptied into stars. Elysium or Caina. And little, since then, has changed.



The Gold of the Old World no longer sufficed. The Teijo had been
stripped bare. The souls of Europa once again looked past the Pillars.
A vertiginous desire dizzied Kings. Fear halfheartedly checked their
compulsion. Soon it succumbed to a dream narrowing eyes. Possibility
grasped at the falling Sun. Measure broke measure.



And again, nothing has changed. From the waking nightmare of a
favela in Brazil to the incessant wet dream of consumer culture, the
Perpetual Peace of a Long Island suburb to the Violencia of Colombia,
America remains the Alpha and Omega of Dream. Elysium and Caina.

Ces Jupes

Does anything die in spring?
When hoarfrost's half-life
teases our love for sidereal
things

At the archway Gallus,
There, where Poppae's
Skirt shifts like a hied
Nimbus

To vapor it goes,
Mists of lust and earth,
Love strangled in its
throes

At the archway, Gallus,
Let the skirts trail,
Tongues of Erinyes lashing
continuous

Set the Ram's testes
And the poison
In her dove-like hands.
Quirites!

Récit

We were never lost as young people say. Belief in
such aimlessness leads to romantic errantry.

Europe was grand, Paris sunny and soaked. The marsh
city sweat like a pied-noir stuck in Oran. We kissed coolness
and conquered Sun's tyranny.

Night winds lifted floral scents of The Tuileries uphill to
Montmartre. The Seine ran laced black. 

The lone white beacon, a suicide's face, floated past. 
We summoned passersby in tolerable French. All were comforted 
when Authorities calmly fished the body up.

Later that night we fucked passionately enough to forget death,
finding life worth the oblivion.

to HeJ

-"Qu'importent quelques vagues humanités si le geste est beau?" 

Harvest Song

Deep as touch,
suasive as voice,
a word breaks diversion.

Into farness
we, with tacit awe,
ride thoughtless into immersion.

The plain's wind-bent heather
rustles gold and sigh together:

To each equal measure
our shared, secret treasure.