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The flower nearly rising , always trying
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.
DELTA LIGHT AND SILENCE 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.
WINTER THAW 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. CLIMBING Sunrise launches fire from a frozen vault The leap of silverlicks from rosy brimstone The forest throat on waking deepens her voice.
CROP CIRCLES 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.
jimmy's poetry
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Jimmy Warner's Wild Moon Transit 