Bantering with Octagons

Columbus braved the void and rounded the straight line, avoiding scurvy, like the best of fruits. His unanchoring unanchored the most surely anchored facts. Find your haven and I will berth in you. In that safe protected womb, unpatented, unique, cell by cell, tomorrow's vessels grow. The cargo, precious, blessed, divine.
 
born on columbus day
not exactly the 4th of july
but it's not like i was part of the planning

three ships sailing across an emptiness of sea
an act of courage
to brave the oceans
and ride the currents to fame


smallpox
genocide
greed
lust
betrayal
paternalism


cattle for crazy horse graze the prairies down until the dogs in their burrows forget the endless tramp of buffalo and sing the song of white antelope and bear to fly your spirit quest to the wolf den at sunrise

but don't piss off the wolf
 
Why not piss of the wolf? His injustice is as morbid as any bipedal locomotive has the right to be. No underwere there, either. Today I recieved a gift of toes. They were longer than they had the right to be. Followed up by Hermann Munster, head like a square hole. Flex the left arm follow the cloth on down, longer than you have the right to follow. The written language predates most american males by a minimum of the westminster abbey. Little tiny mice scurry around, eating more food than they have the right to eat. When things are at their worst, remember that you still have the right to remain silent. Beautiful, cleansing silence.

Aaaah...

-I
 
things moving on my keyboard
too little for mice
specks that scuttle about
until i look at them
then they're gone

jaw tight jaw bright
fist jaw i saw tonight
fingers in that fist
nails upon the fingers
i see one's cracked
damn damn damn
 
You have such beautiful hands...

I can trace lines of eternity along your fingers, I see the tension of your ligaments beneath your flesh. Flesh...that sensual covering, it holds togehter the spots on the palm of your soul that connect me to you. Here, I press, and your body melts around me. I pool you togher and place you in the bath and admire your beautiful hands.

-I
 
to be carried to bath
where it's steaming
already drawn and scented and waiting
his hands upon my clothes
pulling them away
i'm naked in his arms as he lowers me into hot waters

and then he admires my hands
hmmmm


(now where did i leave my dildo?)
 
Wallowing not drowning
Purveyor of serenity,
mood-changing immersion.
A baptism.

No Eureka! now.
I know my hands, long ago discovered,
They have served me well
And know my secrets.
 
My hands are bastions of virtue.
My left plies the strings, while my left weilds the bow.
My left holds the groceries, my right opens the door.
My left writes the essay, my righ turns the page.
My left wrings pleasure from her body, my right holds her down.
My left flips the pancake, my right holds the pan.
My left holds my right, my right holds my left.

-I
 
Left, right, then left again. Neurons firing at will, too fast to keep up with the frenetic pace of whimsy and intellect. My brain is discussing me within its synapses, and I am left in the dark.
 
In the dark, between the canvas and the tree, after the bombs had fallen and before the paint was dry. The Guardia Civil brutally searched the jeep, looking for weapons and overlooked the cannabis. It was Nicolai's last visit to Guernica. He preferred to hang himself before he could return.
 
He left, not right, hanging himself and me in an eternity of wondering why? Today, though the sunn battles the fog in the chill of early morning, today will be made of light and apple blossoms because left and right don't always have to be the only hands one uses.
 
Nor right and wrong the only moral tones pitched in this concerto for an orchard. Sinister indeed, one life-line gone, rudderless, the mainsail howls: there is no albatross in view. My finger finds a pulse between the thumb and index, precisely on the isthmus of delight.
 
The pulse right above the sweep of my tongue. It's beating , no trilling like a c7 in an 8th grader's pocket. White gloved brass fondled by supple skin.
 
More bronze than brass, this heavy smell is virgin in these rocks. Grass cuttings, dusky breath, running in gutters of my hair. Body shop labels betray the body. Hic est enim corpus meum.
 
Ah virginity! Innocence lost, ne'er regain, ne'er mourned overmuch but for the occasional confused strandings of skin dashed to bronzed bits on the rocks of life's continuing merry waltz into the future.
 
waltz to the future
slide towards the days to come
feed a fish along the way
to see it grow as you go

i grow ever larger within myself only to find a cancer in my breast and i say nevermore to the world for the future can't contain this, can't reconcile such with the needs for breath and beauty and joy
 
We all have needs for love and donkeys. Muhammad once said that no toothache will undermine the will of a thousand crabs. A self-adressed envelope was the cause of the sencond Balkan war. No one had ever even heard of chickadees before the Katana became popular. Shattered glass was the norm back then, whittling away at chicken fried steak. Your Kung fu is beligerant, but it cannot feel the music as can a true elbow, one trained in the way of the Honkey-tonk. Inuendo leaves me breathless, gasping for raw sewage. Blink, and you think she's naked again, she's got huge expectations for the future of mankind. Both of em.

-I
 
Our bodies speak to us of what our souls produce and replicate our sufferings in our cells. The future need not be as we assume or fear. This flurry in my heart is cold. Your words have written beauty in my inner voids: I believe they are eternal.
 
Body slumping, rolling, curving downwards towards the comfort of the floor. Flurrying lightly, the air dusts my back causing a chill to spread unevenly. Wrapping the blanket close, warming my cheeks against the oaken grained boards, curl into the pattern as the flurries continue.
 
Flurries: NEVERMORE i croak, alarmed, shivering at the barest brush of the word, while memories of threat, of black of snow clouds gallop nightmarishly among the synaptic gentleness of the weather of my youth. Ah! The gentleness gone, subsumed, lost now. Overtaken by the flurries, furies in truth.
 
Black snow in Pompeii. The nightmare blanket draped around the frozen corpse, preserved in dust. Better to flow than to erupt, to feel and relish than to break and bleed. Conscious control of my seismic spasms is possible so long as my end of the seesaw is down. Unstable equilibrium is a peace which cannot hold.
 
Equilibrium shifts with whim and vigor. Digging into gravity, using both hands, using both minds, one eye green one eye blue.
Oh Bowie, I'll love you till Tuesday. And maybe I'll stretch it to Wednesday. But then again, time may shift, and we'll have Sunday morning to laise as we banter.
 
It is the yahs I am the always saying about the equilibrium for the balancing is the needed for all the parts of the body especially when it is the big penis that is shiting the weight the so much to the front. But nevermore it is I am the saying to the each and the everyone of you that it is the any the more the hiding that the body language is the speaking the out loud what it is the hot sex is being all the about. It is the never being the innocence that is being the lost in the dance. It is only the false sense there is the having that there is the ever really been the any innocence at all. This is the society that I am the telling the all of you that is making it seem that there is the any the kind of loss involved in this at the all! It is not the lost! It is the finding of the true selves that we are the being.

I am the octagon man, oh yahs!
 
it is not the lost
who fear the rage of the master of scarred souls
for the lost are those he can't find
it's the found who must fear
for the scourge is upon them

flee if you can
to the realm of lost souls
safe forever from the master's rebuke
flee to me
to me i say
for i am lost already
never never never to be found
 
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