Vernal Redux

15 03 2010

the loam is expanding
sensing the Spring
not knowing
if it’s a hope or a memory.

lika sprout exposed
creeping from the seed
a sleeper cell for life

Spring reaches
a tender tuber
just below the surface

What is the life expectancy of Spring?
The shelf-life of a blossom.
an ambitious sprig of green?
It’s only Summer’s temptation.

Verna is the Goddess of Spring
she has a tiny rose tattoo
right at the curve of her back
where her hip thrusts into April

She rules all things including
rust and cracks and moisture.
between her legs is
the smell of the wilderness.

It was one of those days
when the sun was smiling
and I could only think of
daffodil fellatio or
hum-jobs from
the oak breathing in
and breathing out
waiting to erupt in
a storm of pollen and semen

everywhere you listen
spring is mentioning sex
birds have new and
colorful feathers wanting it
and the squirrels have bushier tails
just asking for it.
The flowers all advertise.
It’s the seasons
where opposites meet.

A seed has to go crazy before it can sprout.
It has to be swollen and drunk on moisture.
A seed just sits there through the winter, wondering how.
Then the insanity of warmth and
the rapturous rupture
and the blind root seeking.
A disciple of warmth.

I remember Spring
in Baja Oklahoma
bleak with a blink of brightness

flat as the breast of my love with cherries
I hold my daffodil in hand
and wish for the leaves

Spring is a cruel and a temporary thing
It is where we go in our dreams
where the leaves are tender
and the buds are yearning
time is put on hold

We do the Spring in the missionary position
and the sheep graze on a wilderness of hummingbirds
the wildflowers aren’t as wild as they used to be.

my naked salads
golden and crisp as the spring
anointed and crowned
and dancing though daisies in a blender
I won’t surrender my song.

I’m a cripple for love and the equinox

will I edit the equinox?
make the day a little longer
or the night?

It’s a fright to be a poet
and have complete control of the universe.
Spring comes at my decree.

my hot tub is a blender full of daisies
it smells of camphor and the rectums of the earth
and for all my morbid lucidity
it’s all for naught in the Spring
The Orthodoxy of Life prevails
there’s nothing I can do about it.

I can never write as many verses as you
my spring is a slow gurgle from the earth
the teeth of suspicion and floundering
magic is only skin deep
lika crackpot rocket suspended in spring

the earth is in a coma
a persistent vegetative state
kept alive by tubes and tubers
don’t pull the plug on life

I will flex my plectrum
the string is tight
as a saline ambition
christs being born every minute
naked as babes

How do you blow the frost off an empire?
You just put your lips together.
cinnamon is another answer. Only
only Spring knows for sure,
but she’s not telling.

Take two solos?
Hell no, I’ll take three
like a steroid coltrane
lips on fire with vibration
a tournament of spices and spasms

whitebird singin’ in the life of day
take these broken dreams and learn to skateboard
all your life
you were only waiting
for this rhythm to unfold

spring puzzles me
hard to tell
if she is a vibration
or just a hum

an om shanti
of deft fragrances
or the sound of a
plucked feather
anonymous memory
of winter and the plague

if winter is lead
then spring is hydrogen
escaping and flammable

if I itch my suspicion
it smells like the penetration of spring
seven inches of lust on the earth
before they pour the concrete

Spring wears the gowns that glide from her shoulder
sliding on Summer’s sweat. But no regrets
no regrets about cracking the seed
Christendom is not as large as it was once,
before the spice wars where the herbs ran
out of ammunition, inevitable as the seasons.

let me review the spectrum of plectra
my favorite plectrum is a fender thin
it’s clear and looks like tortoise shell

plectra also pluck the harpsichord
those are made of goose quills
and it’s what makes the trills
according to the skills of the player.

call it a guitar pick for want of better word.

strung as tight as a stamen
the plectrum rings
on the spring
the silent spring
with metal wound
round my anguish

if we believe in resurrection
we might as well believe in spring
seeds dead in the tomb
and with a subtle tilt of the earth
a rolling of the stone
they are summoned by angels into life.

Don’t argue with me on this
I subpoena the maple as it breaks into bloom
and showers us with its helicopter seeds
stop me, or next I’ll be talking about
lillies; the asphodel

Adam and Alladin
were playing dice one day
in Spring
gambling for snakes and robes
the lamp wasn’t for sale
but bet the farm on
the flush of a season
no logic in luck
bet the farm
but rub the lamp




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