hurricane
I rise
alive to the color of your eyes
and shout your name
your lips open into a perfect kiss
your hardening nipple presses into my hand
send me rising like a bird in the grey violence of rain and mud
earth washing the feathers and encrusting the wings of laughter
I stand in the midst of the storm
and the wind bends me like a blossom
whose stem supple and green bends to the breath of God
into the darkness
into the heavy sleep of hot summer rooms
rooms of dreams
rooms of sweat
and fear and isolation
into this darkness you swept
into wind which your mouth captures and guides along my neck
we glide in slow and graceful steps from Plonchit to Safed
in genetic entanglements knots monstrosities excavations
exhumations screams births
tiger
asp
rattlesnake
canyons
faces in the rain
in the window of the storm
total clarity
your weakness
your cerebral meditations
your infant quietudes
juxtapositions
turning frenetic exturpitives into island waves of coconut bliss
confronting Judaic dancers in joyful God-hooting
and cerebric numeric ecstasy in silence of Wat Pra Kao
"awake!"
shouts this soul whose Negev quietude and desert diet enabled the soul to hear the angels sing
"awake and hear the Song of God"
I know the precise tunes of heaven and have heard its constant variation
it is not unlike your Siametic movements
it is not unlike an electric current in a pool of water
dangerous
and conductive;
jazz-like.
again: that face by the open window
the rain
the mist dampening this room
that face, frozen by the window of formless rooms
of confusion
of sleep
out of sleepy dreams of color
swirling impressions
of the colors of mud
and flowers of blood
and sperm
and in this typhoon
hair combed slick and wet:
Oriental island storm
inversions of impression: for it is your room
swirling in waves of color
and my face by your window
a clear beacon whose stark contour is swathed by your brush
a modernist color bath streaks this Mosaic beard
as tigers celebrate their strength
this city
this concrete
this prayer for blood
pray for violence with me little Buddha
pray for quiet after the storm
and tigers
pray for the rainbow on the gulf to link with the brothel
pray to find the pulse of conversation
it is in the window
in the storm
in this city of steel
if this city were not so washed in torrential rains
if boulevards were not only for the rich
to display marbled dreams
I would have seen you more clearly
I would have seen you more clearly
without the blinding shadows of the subways
I, along with men shadows of men in suits whose cuffs are frayed
I failed to see you
that day that rained so hard
I was lost in thoughts about the power of death
I do not know if it was the rain
or the scream of the subway
I do not know if it was the the strorm
or my broken heart blinding me
that kept me
on the street
tonight
I remember
paranoid fits
your lips
malcolm x
walter benjamin
prapootajao
the smell of ozone
the smell of gasoline
and rose