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Love Jungle Apocalypse III
I awake amnestic in the puzzle.
Three full moons
cover my naked face.
Where has the day gone
the one
that took me back
to the undiscovered forest
of early touches?
Here is a mouthful of silent screams
never grown to maturity
in those chasms of emptiness.
Here is a library full of roads
ready to take us
to the hinterlands of understanding
where galaxies of sense and laughter
offer endless palettes filled with light.
You who knew me before time
when the oceans did not yet
feel their immensity,
when the warm blood of mammals
was only a vague idea
buried in the heart of a seed,
will you speak to me
now that the wars have ended
now that my hands
have colored themselves with everything
and all the fine books
have been swallowed and passed?
I'll gather for you
a bouquet of relics
broken watches, paper crosses
and portraits
painted on the head of the bed.
I'll sing for you
the ancient songs of luxury and languor
like a flock of hammocks
gently circling the sea
or a bed of roses
listening through the night
for the first bird of dawn.
I'll dance with you
as the gypsies dance
ravaging the earth
with impossible meters and movements
heedless of design or purpose
dances only beautiful and true
wherein the blood boils
and the spittles and sweats
of the lakes where we floated
on the back of a swan
ferment in the heat of bridges burning.
How could I awake without a garden
to show me the way to the future,
without plants furled like torsos
anxious for the sun's caresses?
Too many nights have passed in silence.
I prefer the sound of the river
that gurgle of a baby
leading us back to the tree in the meadow.
Too many shades of orange
have made their way to the mountains,
too many blues have sunk from sight.
Why disturb the purity of darkness?
I remember too well
the mishandling of treasure,
the daily feast
attended by a host of phantoms,
how we sometimes mistook
our battles and revelries
for the sound of a symphony,
how the earth cracked and split
and scattered our tattered flesh
and the shards
of all our carefully crafted vessels.
Now you will find me
stumbling like a newborn hippopotamus
down a boulevard somewhere
laughing at the scars on my shield,
mumbling questions about the ecstasies of dolls.
I will carry a fountain in my hand
where your tears and mine will mingle,
a red balloon on a string
will follow overhead.
And there along the invisible sidewalks
with your chorus of smiles
your incense from uncharted territories
all the gestures you learned in my absence
with the music you took
straight from strings
your eyes filled with scenes
from the histories of heroes,
there with beauties
you have etched on my eyelids
and the magic lamp you gave me
as that final gift
of pleasure and mystification
you will bring me the world
once again.ow comes the porpoise from the sea,
now comes the falcon over the desert;
now comes the first grade teacher
with her purple hair
and the old wooden baseball I found
while digging a hole for a little box
filled with various treasures:
keys to unknown locks
another model of the Earth
several coins from Mexico
with the eagle
the snake and the cactus
held in a very small pouch
made from the skin of a sheep
who lived on a farm in Nebraska
who felt the sun and his power
who felt hunger and peace and fear
whose father had horns that were magic;
and a bracelet made of silver
mined in Wyoming
by some men from China.
What else?
I can't remember.
You did not give me light enough
to see into the depths,
you did not show me all the colors
or teach me how to fly.
But you gave me freedom,
you gave me space,
and you even gave me wings.
Perhaps you knew what you were doing
when you left me there alone
among the rocks and trees,
alone with a thousand questions,
alone with a thousand dreams,
and nothing ahead but a story
waiting to be told.
I played some songs
that are part of the picture,
because of their sadness
or because of their grandeur.
I ate a fish
that may have been a cousin
many years ago,
before time,
what does it matter?
Everything has eyes,
that is the message.
All can see or can be seen.
Everything becomes alive
when it enters the tapestry
noticed and named
remembered for its hue
or its form,
remembered for its patience
or the noise it makes,
which may have signaled
the start of Creation,
when the deeds of heroes
and the endless hordes
of sacrificial beings
were only particles together,
leaning on eachother
in a darkness that was only desire,
unknown to itself,
so mighty. Unimaginable.
Then came the shadows of the gods,
real people
who knew what time it was.
Look for the one who defies gravity.
Look for the one whose feathers,
growing from the head
or any other part of the body,
do not constitute a hoax.
Look for the potted plant
in the lower lefthand corner.
Look at the face of the parent.
Look at the pile of bones
that were not yours
but belonged to something else
that by its gentleness and beauty,
by its natural agility,
its allseeing eyes,
its real knowledge
and selfpossession,
came to be also
a part of the story.
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