2 Poems . . .

You try, but . . . some days the words just go where they want to . . .


Being Led By Pictures . . .

A doorway. A tear. An arm with a need . . .

Said her name was kristamas.

But her eyes made me forget little bad girls. Ripe-fruit open mouths, emphasis venture. Panties down around their pale ankles.

What’s her name? She must have one? In some life of pictures adorned with masks and loved madly she had one? Must have . . .

The way she parades, scootin’ nipples ready to whirrrr. Why won’t she take off her dark darkmask?

Miles’ trumpet heats her toes. Snow white, curled—what diaries her toes must have written, bite by bite, in the calendars that vanished in graves.

I want to talk to her. Whisper about the bite of the spider. Those legs, that’s the side I want to be lost on. I want to kiss her with my teeth.

“El Prince, loose your ebb and flow processional. The oracle in my fahrenheit itches.”

Shaman-song mouth of rothko shadows colors my mind, peels me till I capsize. Eyes—it’s about that time. Eyes—what if my dainty moondream-valentine klangs when the black satin X of your fox steps from angel to flame. Eyes—every small tiger-face window open with ghosts. Want her gamut to cry without hesitation, want her tongue full of me too, me too.

She knots her joy to the lisp and chat of the drums. Toes . . . Toes—true and pretty, whisper, “Oh.”

Her meow, petite as a knife, is upside down. Knees, smooth as art painted in midnight ivy, redecorates the poof of my stunts . . .

Eyes and toes and nipples, the room dances till it can’t—till it can’t.

[after the art of Kristamas Klousch]

[David Sylvian SLEEPWALKERS]

(c) Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. 2010



The Ground She Sleeps Upon Is A Clue . . . and a mystery


The trauma of chasm is obvious. Can’t delete the world of deadman feats.
Too many surfaces. Tomorrow dies.
Innocent Erendira doubts . . .
In-between the vanishing smoke of love,
Her where-am-I vessel of cracked-diamond stars and amnesia,
Wounds the blue dance of the door.
A day away from further
Her fingers, an exiled patchwork of self injury
And coiled architecture,
Lose their grip on the prayer-bridge.
A butterfly
—(no arc of kite-dance above the snail)
—(its tongue of secrets sends no word),
Scarred by a whisper of breath,
Rests on her shoulder as she slumbers . . .
There’s no anger in dust.

[again, after the art of Kristamas Klousch]

[David Sylvian - "Ride"]

(c) Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. 2010