Spain 1480 A.D.

She was ichorus & a rumour:
Men & women in the city streets said
She was her own elixir:

The poets’ carved splashing cadences
In a faerie tale-esque hallowing of
Her tale:
“how she weeps sugar!
How this maiden’s tears can swim
Upon invented rivers that flow into
Pacific scepters, peel clouds,
& unchain torches! How these suns
Melt into auroras: kaleidoscopic
Lounges for common folk! How
She must galvanize seraphs for
The evolution of a stage…all w/
The curl of a wand she hides in
The mimicry of time; O that she
Might sing & have me drown
Upon the sound!”

Ah, so, the poets bleed, the beggar’s
Squeak & the call girls’ ricochet the
Saturnalia beat, for here she comes,
Young Aphrodite in an age where they
Burn witches!

Down the blanched aisle,
She could feel it: the irony of May,
Feudal ballet slippers, & the burden of
Enchanting flowers.
They were all grey… they were all
A poorly lit audience for, her.
Why not dress in red, she thought,
Why not dress in the domain of your
Truth?!
Why are we so scared that we must
Melt into silvery ashes so soon?
Even the poets.
The poets are worse than the carpenters,
The mothers duplicating their eyes
Into smaller versions of hate, the
Priests saving souls, or the rebels still
Vindicated thru
Allegiances translating & delivering
The language of sin.

The poets fan the flames because they
Also wear experimental frames:
& together, they peer in & out of
The same perpetual window…
But no love song could save her;
& sometimes,
Poets are not messiahs or guardian angels
They simply see overtly.

Something about the day: something
About how the sky broadcasted
A lusty afterglow of violet… something
About how the walls seemed flushed
& the aisle, an omen,
A procession it was for a cardinal star;
The shadows knew it…
The shadows knew it…

She started to twirl; she closed her eyes
& simply felt the wind on her body;
They charged her then.
They had it planned: they all came
Screaming out of their homes & shoppes,
Women carrying babies,
& men, fisting monstrous motions
To the same idol she adored, unknowingly.
It was overwrought
Today by hues of lavender, lilac & plum.
Everyday, by some covert color.

She decided not to hear them.
She listened to the voices of her heroes
& her heroines: the music of Venus, the
Aroma of her tavern, she could see her
Being born in the swirling clouds tossing
Down daisies!

& as these dragons pulled her down,
Drug her body across the crusted ground,
& erected her statue on the mast of their
Maker’s town, she surely could not
Feel them…
The fire. Their holy pyre.
She leaned in for the kiss of her lover
& became a candle of Spring!

Pot of Gold

Rainbows:
When I see one floating, I always pursue
Its significance.
Thru-out my chasing days,
I've been cultured of society's masks:
I've seen the heartlands' split down the center
Of extremity's ethics
& have since been dedicated to the homework:
Memorizing the spectrum's codes:
Rainbows, however, can be sneaky...
When you sacrifice
The need for the immediate appearance
Of poetry, what is granted is an exotic labyrinth.
& tumbling sideways I have been
Quite recklessly this time.
The way it was raining for months & months...
The way it took me to finally look up at the sky,
Finally realize,
The plummet f/ this cloud's podium was all
For the beauty of such homesick words that you
Paint like charcoal on the wings of
Horses & send them, nautical, thru the fiery waters
Of devotion:
Love. Gardens. The laughter of children...
How angelic, the topography of such a miracle!
Have I awoken?
Have I saved myself thru your personal mythology?
Have I spoken on a stage & shone like a sage
That you might too, experience inspiration & birth
An enlightened sun?!
One thing. One thing, still a puzzle:
The way Morpheus rang down thru the aftermath
& like a woven dream, sang to me:
"Rainbows never end, you know... you never reach
The pot of gold... you always reach the same distance,
You can never out-run it..."

Moonstruck

I’m curious how many people are actually watching
Me lose all sense of stability
In those one-minute-intervals the stop-light is red.
A car ride is such a foreseen release until then;
I never look sideways, but assume I’m like a bonfire
Inept to be subtle…
For each teardrop is a translucent flame,
Cruel souvenir of the cursed light my heart initiates.

I’m curious how many people are actually watching
Me lose all sense of taste
In those one-minute-intervals the stop-light is red.
I bet you I’m a circus commodity;
Shackled to a canon, I am being launched
For all to smile and pont a finger...
But this troubadour doesn’t have a safety net,
Or a parachute. Or a cartoon melody.

I’m curious how many people are actually watching
Me lose all sense of appeal
In those one-minute-intervals the stop-light is red.
I bet you some even spare me some empathy;
I bet the religious pray, that my soul is saved,
I bet they wish I’d have a better complexion…
But I don’t look like their abstract Jesus.
My skin isn’t white. I am violet. I am violet.

I’m curious how many people are actually watching
Me lose all sense of place
In those one-minute-intervals the stop-light is red.
I dream I am driving on a bridge where time collapsed;
My windows are down, the mud splashes in
& I say to the halcyon world:
“Dorothy’s got a new ride… & she’s going to fly…
Fly far away f/ Kansas, fly far away f/ Oz!”