Our Conscious Love, 1983, Vol. 7

Our Conscious Love, 1983, Vol. 7

Our Conscious Love

Alameda, Ca, Magazine,1983

Leaving Wheels

The mummer walks, —
in the stares & songs he'll
      ever be.
But there are leaving wheels
that roll up & fly off the
paucity of your conceptual
depth, terrestrial marionettes!
You yield what one might call
leaving power… give anit-gravity,
headed out in
mine now…

as everything he's got recedes
into the past
at the speed of the light
in our eyes.

* * *


 Our Conscious Love, 1983, Vol. 9

Our Conscious Love, 1983, Vol. 9

Alabaster

It is smooth
& bone white as that gull
against the darkening
      thunderheads,
or creamy as Nefertiti's
      inner thighs,
or agony peach,
or off white as the belly of
      a toad
turned over on his back
by a boy playing God…

Cold phosphorous pebbles of
gypsum stone
gleam in the dark humus
beneath the old blood
of the night roses…

It shines
as the fresh complexion
of the moon…

It is crystalline
as those glittering ceilings
the Okies blow onto
      sheetrock…
Pearly as tapioca beads,
empty as an eggshell
amphora in the shadowed
      corner of a tomb
where the princess Ananka
      waits
sleeping, wound in mummy
      cloth…

It is a field of dark blue
      snow
or roseate as frosted milk
      glass holding wine.
It is heavy light.

* * *

Punk Rampant

For the dignity of Joe Cocker

I'm nearly through, –
the day is overchased,
the sky is true.
On radio some exotic form
of erotic Quality contest
fumes & teems with wired
      announcers
for the afternoon of the
      fond . . .

& the dodgers 1/2-game lead
      leaves me
rather indifferent. Know
what I mean?
Are you a TV viewer?
Radio ears? Are you pac
      man?
How you must hate your
      steady girl.

Grime of centuries
they call me Apocalypse
      Rose or roach.
But you may call me the
      Gospel Plow
when I sink back into
      formation
& sign off the air . . .

In suburbia, vaca village,
on home box office,
their puffed hearts racing
against a sense of upcoming
      colderness . . .
Time leaches the juice
out of lover boy you see . . .

So let the door be closed,
leaving not a thin line
of taut light beneath . . .
But wait . . . brother,
      remember
when I fastened aunt Ova's
ratty boa around the neck
      of Tuffy
our cocker spaniel
to make a Lion-dog?

Forget it, –
but this is me paying
the price & figure that out.
It's that the probe wishes
to impart how we proceeded
to a place called
Stoney Cross . . .

Rooster tail of blood
off leaving wheel,
fireball of re-entry
& just as I moved
to douse the light
a big gray moth blew in
& kissed himself
all over the wall.

* * *