[i usually don’t do english, but gifts are always replies]
a posy of sorts for elizabeth, a cipher
a sacrifice for the sacrificer, a prize for hercules’ prize, a body of stars
or a bodies of stars held as [star posy]: a constellation.
mallarmé was wrong about the equal abitrarity of being singular.
it is impossible to be other than posy-sewn. there are no stars,
only constellations.
always protecting the familial, by offering an opening, she punctures
the nightcloth. working for structures she superimposes in circles,
working the never-enough capricornian cycle, she sews & rips the seams
of the same arrangement.
lares for me is a place where three months before my gente libra digo
mi gente no tan libre oh so many centuries later died so we may live
free. oh so many centuries later, unfree, we remember: a gift for an
emptiness marked.
september 23, 1868/2005.
this is my way of sewing more than a crown, a dandelion cipher held by
the seams of our once posies.
alva y orpha
between sorceress and singers
or
between sorceresses & singer
and/& songs
is between us & creatures
is between alva and orpha
& is between paul and juliette
is songs
if at the end of the poems
there is a singular dandelion
broken from the chain
or at the beginning of poems
a single dandelion marked by an empty line
as a beginning
can we call this flower a posy?
is between songs & song
is between poem and shelves of books
or shelves of books & posy
are we then dwelling
or rooting in the ink for the dark blue life abundant?
are we then singing twilit above the clouds
like bodies? are we then dripping down
with songs into the singular
for
like so many clouds corrupted by institutes
& summits and suddenly having backs
facing befores?
pasar por el mundo
neither question nor answer
sometimes a question tho in the throat
but a drunk question
asked not of your daughters
nor men nor whoever
nor posied to the constellations
that echo out names
like parcels
as you walk through them
those wet tropes those wet songs
ruby-throated by a dead day
like
when do they become visible
as constellations not stars
and when do your questions
become poems
or does that happen
or do i cry together
elizabeth
your words
and is this music
a selfy a posy a selfies a posies
my lilith is in all my houses
it is as if the world alone were not all
enough for candor of the kind
as if our palms/our palms
mis palmas/las palmas
were not enough and
the moon carried our earthly griefs
because the earth alone were not enough
for all the liliths
so all the liliths are in all the houses
the folded wings of the palms are human things & objects
they double us slashed
and leda as swan is darío with a penetrated heart
& aphrodite does venus so well
all the so fine selfies of the seas
or all the selfyes bellaquísimos del mar
echo in love with selfy and selfy in love with a beautiful man
echo in love with selfy’s love of a beautiful man
echo in love with selfieslove, like a beautiful man’s
echo as the fish
and the rivers
cry
echoes in love with yemayá whose
love is like a beautiful man’s for a beautiful man’s
normcore is the sound of a leo near the water
drowning for love
in the sacred cave there are waters
cauldrons where the color of light on walls
like pennies dropped
makes ripples
but never returns
the same
the [ultimate/último] shimmer
adamant
adamantine love
for you and yours
or a bodies of stars held as [star posy]: a constellation.
mallarmé was wrong about the equal abitrarity of being singular.
it is impossible to be other than posy-sewn. there are no stars,
only constellations.
always protecting the familial, by offering an opening, she punctures
the nightcloth. working for structures she superimposes in circles,
working the never-enough capricornian cycle, she sews & rips the seams
of the same arrangement.
lares for me is a place where three months before my gente libra digo
mi gente no tan libre oh so many centuries later died so we may live
free. oh so many centuries later, unfree, we remember: a gift for an
emptiness marked.
september 23, 1868/2005.
this is my way of sewing more than a crown, a dandelion cipher held by
the seams of our once posies.
alva y orpha
between sorceress and singers
or
between sorceresses & singer
and/& songs
is between us & creatures
is between alva and orpha
& is between paul and juliette
is songs
if at the end of the poems
there is a singular dandelion
broken from the chain
or at the beginning of poems
a single dandelion marked by an empty line
as a beginning
can we call this flower a posy?
is between songs & song
is between poem and shelves of books
or shelves of books & posy
are we then dwelling
or rooting in the ink for the dark blue life abundant?
are we then singing twilit above the clouds
like bodies? are we then dripping down
with songs into the singular
for
like so many clouds corrupted by institutes
& summits and suddenly having backs
facing befores?
pasar por el mundo
neither question nor answer
sometimes a question tho in the throat
but a drunk question
asked not of your daughters
nor men nor whoever
nor posied to the constellations
that echo out names
like parcels
as you walk through them
those wet tropes those wet songs
ruby-throated by a dead day
like
when do they become visible
as constellations not stars
and when do your questions
become poems
or does that happen
or do i cry together
elizabeth
your words
and is this music
a selfy a posy a selfies a posies
my lilith is in all my houses
it is as if the world alone were not all
enough for candor of the kind
as if our palms/our palms
mis palmas/las palmas
were not enough and
the moon carried our earthly griefs
because the earth alone were not enough
for all the liliths
so all the liliths are in all the houses
the folded wings of the palms are human things & objects
they double us slashed
and leda as swan is darío with a penetrated heart
& aphrodite does venus so well
all the so fine selfies of the seas
or all the selfyes bellaquísimos del mar
echo in love with selfy and selfy in love with a beautiful man
echo in love with selfy’s love of a beautiful man
echo in love with selfieslove, like a beautiful man’s
echo as the fish
and the rivers
cry
echoes in love with yemayá whose
love is like a beautiful man’s for a beautiful man’s
normcore is the sound of a leo near the water
drowning for love
in the sacred cave there are waters
cauldrons where the color of light on walls
like pennies dropped
makes ripples
but never returns
the same
the [ultimate/último] shimmer
adamant
adamantine love
for you and yours