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Wild Moon Transit - Gold Jimmy Warner's Wild Moon Transit
MAY  2000

Sun Animation

The flower nearly rising , always trying
to raise her futuristic phrases to my ear
is like your distant syllables of love,
a gradual song I am desperate to hear.



Sun-driven air waits for dawn to break,

irritates the drake of an oil slick lagoon.

Unmated crickets continue chirping

as their sounds turn-tide on silver-blue

and slip seaward on the last moon-swells.

Birds wake before the gray light takes them,

long before the fishers break the smooth horizon.

Front-line trees with uncertain motion

start to fluff and prune their pink leaves,

each morning between first light and first thing.



Around a brackish lagoon lie dead

and grotesque shapes of twisted search,

the vines that die while twisting for light.

The reeds and cat-tails pollinate me

while wondrous agents suck my toes,

and harvest the slow seed of the muck.


My head is bathed in lightheaded whorl

as I wander off inoculated by the swamp.

I take another drag of poisonous fluff

or swirl an exotic sip across the palette,

sample psychedelic mushroom spores

of earth and dust until a mental flavor,

a meaningful measure of musty breath

defines the lightness I am living for.


Scratches and redness make my addiction.

Body brushed by fever, thatch and burr,

the brambles and briars satisfy the ache

for earthbound potions and residues of rose.

I stumble and sway, or make my drunken lunge

and merge with bog as one infectious mirage.


Fading glimmer of sun excites an inner glow

that fills an instantaneous organ full

of a moldy bright elixir of recognition,

crashing all the barriers of my senses.


Out of silent search for seed and rays

of numinous light on gross lagoon,

its luminous gas like burning spirit

sick with urge and wandering,

roils out of carcass, lightly spinning.

Placid for the final twist, I leap by wing

and linger on a passionate lark of light.



kneeling before sky break

awkward night settles into puddles

and the long "ah" sound

over a continent carved and green

reaches with nerve ends

unprepared to touch,

though urgently, darkly shaped by mouth

it signals bravely

a new slant and spill

of desire's watery undercurrent

and a prophecy of flowers

hollowed from the winter ice.


I can promise you

a miracle with lace wings arising

from the starch of seasons,

and at least one new summer field

where the billowing daisy

will once again tease your breast.



Sunrise launches fire from a frozen vault
where holding up a polished rock desired
by seashore insight you can glimpse the salt.

The leap of silverlicks from rosy brimstone
frees the sun, another mimics your own.
Moon rise clips the shivering pines by choice
and coats her silver beam once more with sleep.

The forest throat on waking deepens her voice.
The journey, mostly dream, contorts your face
while light goes climbing to a brighter place.



All this green and blue-brown

pouring down on cows and somehow

smells like clover find their way

through ripe peaches and horses.

Her words like a horde of lunatics,

and flocks of large meadow-loving birds,

or beautifully brocade toreadors

pull her down into wheat-tall grasses,

holding on to her bright black savior

where sex is just another breeze

rippling the next field like a flag.

Lying deep in her crop circle

of scattered thoughts and garments

lives the true nakedness of her love,

her warm earth and her whirlwind sky.


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