poetry notebook

In this blood that runs in arteries not yet filled with

latex for dissection

a trillion tiny beings swim

blending with billions of zoophite transcenders

In this blood chameleon of red and blue 

universal plasma flows in lighted cells

In this blood personality-crowded 

dominance, submission, violence, quiescence 

desire to stand apart, the drive to unite 

perversity and sanity subjectively defined 

froth form shift foam into believed-in solidity

In this blood the ones six 

arms three faces

dance fucking pose 

Rudra and Buddha seem

to change in the flickering 

attentions contending 

parties believe they in 

habit a separate world

In this blood ones serene in lotus 

union compassion and wisdom in deep 

bliss prism the light which is 

always one essence

In this blood each social

miscreant murderer thief

pedophile liar and braggart

and burgher 

and compassionate

one loving one kind one

ethical one saint even

humble

high minded and free

framed in quotidian 

reference point

conjunctions

of habit.

What transformation of something

called sound before one hears it

must as Proteus change media

or bodies before it goes conscious

to one who feels the she or he

is some kind of unity the sound

something that actually exists

as she hears it

and this too in this blood

When you cut me I bleed

as do you what we assume

merely pipes through organs

and muscles to bring and 

to dispose

which when we run out we die

but more than that in each

drop so many beings so much

consciousness we can’t see

as we are if we did

our heads would exploded as 

Semelê turned ash

when she saw 

the real Zeus

Maintained by this blood

the intelligences

moving data in packets

sense pressure and temperature

gently caress the inner thigh

in wonder at the thrill of sensation

fraction approaching the limit

of tolerances beyond

its reach.

This blood so close to the surface

of shape receptors who say

nothing but you think they want

you to judge and you do out of habit

like salt and dislike slime

but what is it even that you 

experience with my tongue other

than the tongue’s special function

to guess nutrient or poison

by microscopic form but no

property inherent

yet to speak

In this blood the blood Kassandra smelled 

when the god made it clear she would die.

In this blood a plasma ghost

that bathes gel in sockets

latticed by muscles that feed on this blood

to aim the apparatus at

light such minimal

capture as eyeballs make 

suffices

for beauty to exceed

capacity to see

if the whole spectrum were

suddenly known 

Shantideva’s sword  

that burned 

the king’s 

uncovered

eye