a caterpillar's
            ,
    a butterfly's
most sublime moment
is when it's neither,
    when in the chrysalis cathedral
               dissolves 
               into the primordial waters 
              of Maria
and knows fully it's hollow
(                                                                       )
(                                                                       )
The butter-pillar from where the sun God
       (   )  Eyes  (   )
      its dissolution
and the bliss of its gaze
is the shape of the butterfly,
seal of the light through sight, 
ray of joy that wings breeze

   First
at all costs
edge bleeding intoxication
of barbed wire breaching
   first to reach
   first to bleed
   on new strands

    Blind Pioneer
  aiming as the spear
                                     flies
               to be one
 with the target

        ANGER;
The Divine Responsibility
         of Justice,
   The sacredness 
       of Impulse,
      of Origins
      inescrutable
     reverence of:

       The First

      Loyalty 
     to purity
   of energies' 
  ¡¡¡¡¡¡¡Burst!!!!!

Any beginning 
   is reckless
           ,
The conquests
of blood boiling 
  red with iron
     driving
 hot muscle
           into action
 In thrill:
   ever faster
   ever stronger
   ever brighter
       metal 
 shining solar 
      a hymn
      horned
a ram through thorns
sunset and dawn
meeting in form
as obstacles crumble
as sweat springs
   in blissful exhaustion
     and 
   death's motherly pride

Aquiles lived just one second
 
    The World is my enemy
          and I will win:

  Love     through    Opponents

ESOTERIC SECTION:

Read more

As spears at war
Birth blood baths,
Cast crimson clash,
Determine death,
Ecstasy exists 
Far from foreign floors'
Ghosts long gone
Home with hot haste.
I indicate igneous 
Jokes, just jests
Kindling kerosene skulls,
Lovers' lost laughter
Mighty men
Needed not 
On lonely ossuaries,
Parting plurality's
Quests quelling queries
Rising rotund rallies.
So soon softly sound
The temple enters,
Us humans humbly
Vow votes vast
When awe wanes,
Xenophobiacly exiles
Zones azure's blaze.

Esoteric Commentary:

Read more

The stone rolled away
from the tomb 
in reverence
animade in grace
and gratefulness
the quiet stone
witness sole
of resurrection
now obstreperous
in joy
from honor unbound
now quiet
in love
to burden not
who just woke up
who for three days laid 
as a rock
for Death
did not have 
the Word
for Death is mute
mute as a rock
quiet as the rocks
and not loud as all Miracles
matter's shouts as creation
praising its Creator.

A short poem about Easter inspired by ‘s note:

She says:
  Look at the sky
I say:
  The moon is the greatest liar
She retorts:
  Why do you always have to be like this?
I think_
The only answer is unsatisfactory:
Because I exist-

   We walk on.

I do not voice my conclusion,
she probably knows it:

 hold tight

why is my spirit
so big tonight
why can't we blend
and make it grand
but we can't
we're not so strong,
   children...
  after all,
after all this time-
no,
that's unfair...
we lost the dignity
of children
and live
in tortures lapsed
between meals

we'll never remember

we've given too much
but as secret ploys to steal
for we really can give so little,
as we're so small
we barely exist
in this explosion
that is so baffling
and beautiful
with barely any time
to pick up
the parts
we leprously drop-

  We look at each other

but our sights 
only reach
half the trip,
we smile
and feel cold
under moon blown winds
that coerce the trees
into cowardice
under raining lunalight
and if I could add any words
that had the consistency of tears:

         I would...

    love is for kids

drugs is for adults

kids don't need drugs,
they allrreedy high
and mighty 
and if there was a drug 
that'd let us feel 
as when we where small
and hearthy
we'd sell everything
  but 
  we 
  cling 
to what gives 
half the kick
with no real cost
and loose 
everything 
except 
  what
   we
   need
to loose
in order to 
  feel
  
  again

  Love

Slang some bars about Bigfoot’s broken lonely heart “they think they see me, but I’ve never truly felt SEEN” -

Love in the Lacandon -

Everyone wants to see me
until they do,
I have never known 
how eyes look 
thralled in love
except in dreams...
Wild terror,
Wild desire
are the sad fare
I subsist with-
     I hide!
  Not from fear,
  Not from mystery,
    But Ennui!
Yet, If I'm allowed philosophy,
it is the fear of the same
which is the fear 
of negation
of any hope,
I am the exception
and because of that
I get only the expected:
Fear and Desire,
the meager salary
of my soul

My revenge is repetition
with which I punish myself
as Sisyphus blandishing his rock
as a weapon on his wrists,
I bring my cock 
as a flail of perdition
and crack the males
desperate
in their amazement,
pitiful
in their discovery
and satisfy the females'
deranged 
adoration,
without 
pleasure,
just 
masochist
sadistic 
completion
of their expectations,
and then... 
my only reward
in this isolation:
mountain tears,
my only knowledge
of the ocean
.
.
.
.

When worry's roots
       grasped 
  my bones
I became
  the only 
    Sober Fool
and praised
iDioticly 
intelligence

All look'd silent 
   and perverse
and not even 
  the MooN 
would talk to me
          I!
Forcibly carried
Off the banquet
Draped garishly
by the jest bearable
    humiliation...
     A so called prince?
    A beggar!
 Living off the Alms
of the wind... . . . .  . .  . 
   Reduced to 
    tolerating 
    the pressure
      as if air 
                 a stone
               w
            a
          t
         e
         r
         f
         a
         l
         l
          ,
   Reduced 
to counting 
  SufferIng 
      by 
 s e c o n d s
         ,
     then 
 by h-ours
until y-ears
 where counted
  as if carried
   / in a burlap 
 /           sack
/   (with no knowledge of its value,
      and that soon it would buy
           *¨Heavens!¨*)

Until!
  From ||| The Dagger |||
             |||  Forest |||
             my heart 
           kingdom was,
             I found Death 
                   one day
                  Eloquent:
                  Finally
                 ceased 
                killing
               its pleas 
             for audience,
                 no longer 
                 the dread 
                     warn 
                     wasp 
                     waste
                     But: 
   The Long Awaited Messenger
       The Guide off the SubLunar
         The Disdained and Maligned Usher 
                    to the Banquet
                       and I 
                 The no longer Eternal
               Penitent:
            Apologized 
         and followed
    Braving 
 the Hurls of
The Demon Judges
with folly's art 
and heartfully
         
         Then!

   I k|new It 

: from the decades thirst
that k|new itself quenched,
   I was drunk again
    white with smile
as if the air turned wine
          and Saw
                , 
           Thanks 
                to 
        ° The Great °
  Water Bearer of Light,
of which all speech is imitation
                     :
       That Everything 
      was Drunk 
             as I
      with it's
       Liquor
         :
The birds: 
      where wasted!
                The trees :
         tipsy and swaying!
       Clouds 
       controlled not
   their 
 whimsy
              and rolled
           inebriated
                  as
¨¨The¨Sky¨Fermented¨¨¨¨
¨With¨Astral¨Ebullience¨ 
                 and 
        The mOon,
          the vat ,
~~The Pulque POOL~~,
          the vast
    *Luminescent* 
       In the cool
            Dark
      Tar expanse
    *That's Home*

Lost my mind, by Chema Mendez

I'm going Supernova
gone past the gates of Saturn
ready to take on the Throne
of Poet Solar
I'll flood the screens
with Sunlight
I'm Promethean
I'm Apollonian
I pollinate ears and eras
with Spirit's Fragrance
bathe the eyes
with Clarity Eternal
the dream promise 
      Fulfilled


At the end of Winter
Winter started again
Spring Oblivion

But the cold will end
as the new Sun Rises



For twenty years
I was a scrounger
a pioneer of the Abyss
and now I've come back
   Back to Ithaca
carrying ore from Hell's Gorges
to build artifacts gold
fire that will kindle centuries

I've accrued the blessings of the Gods
Defeated Saturn and earned his respect
Venus' favor and Jupiter's pride
Mercury's admiration and brotherhood from Mars

I'm a pioneer of the Underworld
the New Born Sun
gestated in the Nether's Womb
I'm the Dawn
Prometheus unbound
with a new fire
that rises to Olympus

I come to you in the middle of war
in spite of best wishes
to remain fixed on the enemy
even he
the God of War
commands interstices
the more ridiculous 
the better
tea parties
small verses
war looses meaning
without time
for poems
drink
refreshments
for horror
everything needs rhythm
to live

even war

even peace

Attention, ladies and gentlemen, one moment of your attention:
For an instant turn your gaze towards this side of the republic,
Forget for one night all your personal matters,
Pain and pleasure can wait at the door:
A voice is heard from this side of the republic.
Attention! Ladies and gentlemen! One moment of your attention!
A soul that has been bottled through years
In a a sort of psycho-sexual abyss,
Scarcely feeding itself from the nose,
Wishes to be heard.
I wish to be informed upon certain matters,
I need a little bit of light, the garden's getting covered with flies,
I find myself in a disastrous state of mind,
I reason according to my logic;
As I say these things I see a bicycle resting on a wall,
I see a bridge
And a car that disappears between buildings.
You all fix your hair, that's true, walk barefoot through gardens,
And under your skin you have another skin,
You possess a seventh sense
That allows you to enter and exit automatically.
But I'm an infant that calls to his mother behind the rocks,
I'm a pilgrim that makes stones jump to the heights of his nose,
A tree that demands with cries to be covered with leafs.

Nicanor Parra is a Chilean poet, he studied math and physics, maybe one could be tempted to call him an anti-poet considering he referred to his word assemblies as anti-poems. As a mathematician it’s hard to say what an anti-poem could be structurally, since the definition of poetry is almost the opposite of a definition, it’s the anti-definition of things. There’s also a temptation to search for the operation of which the anti-poem is the inverse negative, I think it’s everyone’s interest to find the poetical annihilation of such a process.

In this poem we at least see the operations that are involved regarding the nose, establishing a relationship between stones and food, height’s and scarcity; that is, poetical inverses. The seventh sense seems to be equally connected to the nose, the only sensual part that is bi-directional.

This is Roberto Bolaño on Parra (I have mutilated the text, and ponder what would be considered treachery in translation, and can only come up with: being obvious about your treachery):

Let whoever is brave follow Parra. Only the young are brave, only the young have the pure spirit among the pure. But Parra does not write youthful poetry. Parra does not write about purity. He does write about pain and solitude; about useless yet necessary challenges; about words condemned to disintegrate just as the tribe is also condemned to disintegrate. Parra writes as if he were going to be electrocuted the next day. The Mexican poet Mario Santiago, as far as I know, was the only one who made a lucid reading of his work. The rest of us have only seen a dark meteorite. First requirement of a masterpiece: to go unnoticed.”

...nor the zombies strolling through the village of Santiago {I think it’s important to jump here to remark the importance of the city and poet, Bolaño’s friend, being namesakes} have been able to take him down. Not even Parra’s followers have been able to take him down. In fact, I would say—surely carried away by enthusiasm—that not only Parra, but also his siblings, with Violeta at the forefront, and his Rabelaisian parents, have put into practice one of the greatest ambitions of poetry throughout the ages: to annoy the hell out of the public.”{This hyperbole by Bolaño is a clue to why he never succeeded as a poet}

“Verses taken at random. It is a mistake to believe that the stars can be used to cure cancer, said Parra. {I’m not sure, but I do think they can cause cancer} He has more sense than a saint. By the way, regarding shotguns, I remind you that the soul is immortal, said Parra. {What I think is relevant is to ponder the immortality (and immorality) of shotguns} He has more sense than a saint. And we could go on like this until no one is left. Anyway, I remind you that Parra is also a sculptor. Or a visual artist. These clarifications are perfectly useless. Parra is also a literary critic. Once he summed up the entire history of Chilean literature in three lines. They are these: ‘The four great poets of Chile / Are three / Alonso de Ercilla and Rubén Darío.’”{Note to self: read Alonso de Ercilla}

“The poetry of the first decades of the 21st century will be hybrid poetry, as narrative already is. {It is important here to mention, re: the def of poetry, that it is always hybrid} We are possibly heading, with terrifying slowness, toward new formal tremors {We’re past the first quarter of the 21st century, the formal tremors is precisely the corpse of the 20th century that smells}. In that uncertain future, our children will witness the encounter on an operating table of the poet sleeping in a chair with the black bird of the desert, the one that feeds on the parasites of camels{This is correct}. On one occasion, in the last years of his life, Breton spoke of the need for surrealism to go underground, to plunge into the sewers of cities and libraries. He never touched on the subject again. It doesn’t matter who said it: The time to settle down will never come.” {He never touched the subject again because he went to Mexico (Nicanor Parra outlived Roberto Bolaño by 15 years and died a 103 years old, more than double Bolaño’s 50, his coffin had written on it: «Voy&Vuelvo» )}

Die Insekten, Tausendfüssler und Spinnen Alfred Edmund Brehm

Any dream
long enough
becomes reality
by which I mean:
    stale
    spleen 

     Floating
       on 
         silk 
           strands
              like 
               an 
                 angel
is a divine thrill
for the months it takes
to become walking,
   and the friction
   of the irritated
  silk holes,
     dread

    People get confused:
      I don't wear a suit 
  to cover my true identity
  but to cover my fake one,
my human face is the cover 
        of my monstrosity
I carefully hide my other eyes
            (o OoOo )
              ( o o o)

     Mary 
    no longer 
  interests me.
     Sexually 
  only myth 
  stimulates 
        me:
    Aracne!
   Or Skylla! 
Maybe a monster
   is that which cannot 
   and should not 
                  reproduce...

    My only pleasure 
       is in hurting
                ...
        Monsters
                ...
      but human criminals
  I have a taste for too

      #The grid# 
       #like city#
       #my web#

     ¡¡¡Spider sense!!!
Someone committed 
       petty theft!
              😱
         I now get 
           to do 
           what 
           I will

         *Punch!* 
           *Pow!*
    *Beat to death!*

"I enjoy fighting against crime":
      my public line...

    I enjoy the hunt
  and the insect joy 
      of violence

     I stop crime
  (but not too much...)
 May it forever come.
 Do not leave me alone!
 With Monstrous Bulge!
  of } } twitching {{  legs
             in a: 
*Happy City of Humans*

 Give Me Criminals!
      Fill My web!
          More
         GORE!
         MORE
      Monsters!
     ¡¡¡MORE,
       BETTER
     VIOLENCE!!!

Luis Perez Banus

One can only be familiar 
with things one does not observe,
if we see the sky, the sun 
   and not wonder
it's because we see the words: 
   sky, sun
and know them 
(and how to impose them/over)
but if you stared 
at the sky
and the sun
without any words
they are:
  strange/abrasive/terrible
and what could we call them
'cept:
          angels
         a word we know
about which we know 
         nothing

for beauty 
causes horror
humans cover 
everything with words
  (except the poet
  tasked to tolerate
  them raw
     {For if Adam named things
     it's because he was ashamed})
for nothing 
is separate
in this wilderness
of forces

if I 
after having dreamt
going to spirit~land
 (in a luck-chance-vessel)
wake up displaced 
from myself
and cannot wake
throughout the rays
and the selfsame tissue
that covered gloom
over the radiant display
then pours rain
  (as an unclogged liver
  upon the first meal
  of the day)
and then the sky shines
and the air purifae'd sings 
  (a song of petrichor)
and the world is washed
so that it is violently
  sacrificed 
      and remade
and I watch 
the sky clouds
in their forbidden 
   nakedness
so that it deranges 
 my senses
  (for my self was also:
     robbed/replaced/metamorphosed)
(and why should my bile
 be in accord with the rain
             and my liver
          to the dream world)
and I go wild eyed
into the city,
how will I explain
my dream of spirit~land
if I meet anyone
and the avians that grew faces
so that birds' singing
now seems suspicious
  (and that bile~rain
    has made me 
   unrecognizable)?

I see no dry land
before 
       or after me
and I'm not what I'm supposed to be

      all my fights end in ruin

all my compasses are mad

   the rudder mocks
my empty helm 

Struggling with the wheel
            shipwrecked
floundered
         drunk and drowned 
in the seas 
               of wine

        I've reached!!
towards siren's moist lips
     with children's blood
and cowered before winds 
    blowing towards home

Without control or helm,
    
      Storm Paper Boat,

        my feet are the waves,
   the winds are my wings, 
      sails set to all blows:

        "I need not know"
       is the wind
    carrying forth

In the rolls
                the ocean throws
is a fate divined
              that proves benign
to those that laugh
             before shipwreck

   Shores unreal
on beats of rain,
      lightning 
    that reveals
islands strange
   as sails reach
towards unseen ends

To terrible waves,
  if invisible,
 may my wheel 
    not turn,
  so I reach 
  novel strands,
impossible sands:

the I-land of spirit
..............................
Inside the ribs
     of wood
beats 
   a heart
dry 
  by some miracle
   not given
 to paper

          .   .   .  .    
       .     .  .  .   .  .
     .   . .   .    .   .   . 
—Winter Silence—
           Snow 
      of a million 
   dead mosquitos
   .   . .   .    .   .   . 
    .     .  .  .   .  .
        .   .   .  .  


/Grandfather's Relics\
   Bug Burial Plots
           (...¥...)



    A dead squirrel,
    torn dove wings
 /_Hopping_Crows_/



(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
Tulip exiles—
Cardinals carrying
all their petals
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((( 



-x-Barbed Wire-x-
 Flowers aroused
 by black thistle
-x---x---x---x---x-



Home's entrance
____æ__+__æ____
Butterfly Cemetery



▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
       Sun 
    burning 
the mountain
  falcon ashes
▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒



New year at dawn
 * The spirits *
 * in the wind *
        hush



\\_Laying on the weeds_//
         Vultures 
          eclipse 
        the moon



| White wall |
         A 
     cypress 
  hosts God



|/||/_/||///\\_/_///_\\||\\///
Garden nap—
Block printed on my skin:
The Book of Grass
|/||/_/||///\\_/_///_\\||\\///



 ~ ~   ~ ~   ~ ~   ~ ~   ~ ~  
~ ~  Winter Dusk ~ ~  
  ~  A plastic bag ~( )~  
   in the Wind World
   ~ ~    ~   ~ ~     ~ ~  
 ~ ~   ~ ~   ~ ~   ~ ~   ~ ~
               


  Withering 
  Jacarandas 
    "Ý""Ý"
       "Ý"
 coraling leaves
 ocean the sky
"Ý""Ý""Ý""Ý"



_.^, _Two cardinals sing 
          in the wasteland  _ .^,_
               the first 
               and last 
                myth 



Winter wings—
Black leaves 
       fall 
 from 
         the 
      Moon
           (                    
        ¢    ¢
      ¢    ¢    ¢



Dead trees
¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥
Birds nest
in their
skeletons
¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥



      «Jilguero»
|~| songs bounce |~|
 |~| in the walls |~|
 |~| of wind |~|




   Golden Flies 
|*    *    *     *   *     *|
      SUNLIT
   CEMETERY



       Clear sky
       Jacaranda 
    .v.  blooms' .v.
 .v.v. emptiness .v.v.
.v..v..v..v..v..v..v..v..v..v.



   Distracted 
rows of cypress 
     A_┼_A
  Exhumation
   on Friday



I crush
a spider
   _$_
Behind 
evil laughs
of flies
§   §   §



          * ¥ *
     Diamonds
         Sun 
     through 
dead wasp wings
         * ¥ *



      Purple Sky
~~a~~~~~a~~~~a~~
   The red clouds'
       remains 
     of the sun
~~a~~~~~a~~~~a~~

Crows and the Moon by Ogata Kōrin

As tides
night expands
til day
islands dark
and
utterly spent,
the
sun
sinks
d 
 r
o 
 w
n
   . 
No decrease
in his solemn gait,
or imperfection in his joy,
as he falls
deep
solar-seed
upon uncharted tomb
and 
the 
tower 
falls
on drowsy weeds
and river thick marshes 
and rain
rains over mud
and freezes
still
until
the sun hid
in night's charnel houses,
stirs birth and rises.

It should be obvious to you that U is the most problematic vowel. First, it doesn’t have enough grammatical scaffolds to get much umph, but U also seem to innately favor profanities, indulge childishly in the eschatological, as well as refuse to adapt outside slang.

I was disgusted with the direction U wanted to go… But I calmed down, listened to what it needed to say and had to concede that insults, comebacks, word-battles, et cetera, have been inseparable aspects of poetry, its poor maligned child, the bitter twin resentful, deigned deformed, suffering priapism, locked up and hidden behind the cellar door, exiled from the loftiness azure where high poetry suffers from abdominal distension and gas. Our ancients, with their profound hierarchy of reputation, taught to specially fear poets, for a blade wound can heal, but the spite of a poet can last centuries. The inferno, from the most-high-brow’d Divine Comedy, is equivalent to an album of dis-tracks.

As with the O-vowel, U strayed more into the fictional. Even though I wrote this in the same sprint the others where, this was the only one I didn’t really know what to do with, as I almost feel like I needed to apologize for it, for the gleeful mischief and lechery bent of this calliban letter, but fun sums up u’s pur’ truth. Don’t discriminate U, with all its deformities, it’s worthwhile thinking why the fuck does FUCK rule over English words.

sup!

uhmm

u dumb? put up ur sum!

u must dun, huh?

thus much's just

just?! bruh...

u bum bucks...

uhmmm

thus...

u surplus suck!

u untrustful punk, much spur thru bums, much dumb thru duns, put up ur sum!

u sus...

sus?! u untruthful slum fuck

church sums surplus cuts unjust

thus church guru's truth, huh?

thru church runs truth! thru us turns just!

thru trust runs truth, u grunt! church just pumps trust surplus, thus just turns unjust!

u skulldug

u church's butt sputum

u cunt bug

u sub-junk slum fuck up

u butt plug gunk suck

u guru rump dump cup

u mumps-full cunt curd

u lupus nun cunt burp

u junk's nut's fungus slurp

u untruth's cummulus!

uhu, but...

but wut?!

but gun!

u puss

shut up! Gun, thus truth!

bruh... just full puss, huh? pull!

That damn vowel U right? Anyways, if you wanna cleanse your palate with some of the other vowels, here’s the links:

-A-

-E-

-I-

-O-

As a child
I built a fort
made of 
pillows
cushions
blankets,
I designed 
complex labyrinths
and went in
and the cord
     broke

In the vast corridors
I found many things,
snuff films
and pornographic magazines,
images of Ariadne,
and then forgot:
was I lost?
trapped?
The icons,
did they lead out
or deeper?
Am I:
Theseus 
or Minotaur?
I feel my horns,
I feel my sword,

is Ariadne waiting for me
or sending my assassin?

Those vast corridors
littered with many images,
snuff films
and pornographic magazines,
where a kid recognizes
the mask-less face 
of Death
as those near birth
still remember it,
a shore
which was before,
is underneath,
no absence:
just a bigger fort
where life is a corridor
one gets lost in

Bach cantatas
and switchblade knifes,
dreams of murder,
something I call
my European blood

Hymns and daggers’
metals clanging
saints in medals,
ring in:

||| Sacred Woods' ||| 
       /churches/
  where children's
    prayer's play

       Dawns 
from vinyl rituals
  build libraries
    in the wind
as the morning slumbers
and my ancestors’
pillars of blood
        tower 
          in 
      cold 
          air

Growing's learning
to detest perfection
the seducing fallen angel,
as does God
who shows up in fractures,
catastrophes and wounds,

  so you find
in the wind 
   you breathe:
                       ... life!

Harmony and metallurgy,
    duels and waltz,
the reluctant trance
of stories that must be,
of stages that must be 
           filled
      with blood 
         or seed,
for every great dance
          ends 
         in sex 
       or death

It so happens
that I get tired
of being God
it so happens 
that I get tired
of raining
over the flood

It so happens
that in here
nothing happens
except rain
except rain
      rain
      rain
      rain 

Efraín Huerta Roma (June 18, 1914 – February 3, 1982) was a Mexican poet and journalist.

     Autumn sun 
             -O-
Butterflies play dead
  
         & 
                       &
              &

      )   flying!       )
     ) once again! )                 
       feathers
       plucked
       by Cats
 


Rotting oranges
  on the grass...
       the sun 
       sets by

         ...O...


   Autumn
   cashless
   ashamed
   dry trees
     
     .Y.Y.Y.
      
The moon avoids
my phlegm spit
|   |   |   O   |   |    |
  Autumn rain



    (Her face)
Passing clouds
          over  
the moon



Stare
the sun’s 
ghost son
in your eye



Rotting pumpkins
             {O}
     moon altars
   inside puddles
           


Butterfly 
      -&
The commerce of wind
with shadows



 —Waiting to be real
the clouds pass—
    Autumn moon



—Dawn—
Black is not yet
crows, wires, trees



        /Anxiety|
I check on the spider
to see who’s aging faster...



Hanging my clothes
                 |
 the hanging spider
        is startled



    Aries Moon
drunk by the roof
     dragonflies 
            
           =|=

_The dead cow_
 ~Sacred temple
    of fly larva~


 A mosquito
from the past
   bites me
          |
          |

—Stagnant pond—
    a frog’s death
 soundless in water



     (Inside 
 of the loquat)
 a bee ‘s anima



 ...Dawn...
ants crowd
my midnight 
   phlegm


  *Fireflies*
  light-leaks 
     in the 
   night-sky


Crowds of black ants 
           finish—
  moon white bones

   
 
             an ant
                 climbs 
                       and slips.              
(dead ants in the sink...)
           



A dragonfly 
  in a pond
        =|=
A child sees 
other worlds



Grief
fireflies abort
stars
     in the 
night



“The”burning”tree”
  	   ash 
  caresses
          at the 
           sky



     Dawn
a moon fruits   
      in the   °/
  \   orange 
        tree



  _*Garden ruins*_
  a black cat stares
     at poinsettias

Teagan White, Moondance