Sunday, February 13, 2005

The poetry of storms at night. Storms are explorations of states of being and can be rather interesting expressions of limit experiences. They are less about people and more about an epistemology that privileges postmodernist fragmentation with constructivist notions of reality as something to bring it back together.

Play the podcast.


The brilliance of thunder
droplets against the sheen of night
leaves torn by wind
my fingertips raw with wanting;
I hang on
yes, I hang on
and when we tear each other open
like pale hearts of palm peeling,
smooth is our oblivion
and the confluence of taste,
touch, sound, sight -- my heart
beating like staggered wings
taking flight
every five seconds or so –
upon the rapture of electricity
breaking itself brilliant
over our mutual skies.


I entered you like the sea
my salt mixed with the molecules of your waters
our forms in suspension, dissolved into each other
an emulsion of salt, foam, and hope
crashing onto rocks or ripping under tides
masked by a surface as smooth as thighs
or infinite sighs --

We are ships moving along the dark, starry night
we navigate our dreams along pinpoints of silent light
north for freedom
north for lands unknown
my heart pounding
my compass is unwound
needle detached
I spin in dizzy spirals;
We are ships borne by the power of dreams.

You entered me like the sea
my heart mixed with the depths of your mind
made into a dangerous compass, spinning around
all our circumstances of sea, salt, foam & need
and still the realities of our indelible forms --
you are my water, I am your salt
your precipitous crystal
my slow, luxurious drownings
as night melts into day.