Grasping Forest Dancer

The Grasping Forest Dancer (Kali Dasasay)


No thoughts

No thoughts

Mindless visits to Nirvana

and the dancing flames which my love

names james

I smile and wonder why

I look

not at her nose nor foot, nor singular differences

but search in her dual eyeponds

as deep as my night thrustings

I see her delight in my

reddened captured brother hottened by james

whom the ancient forest ones taught my teacher-man to tame,

and bring forth into being

out of rain-rubber trees

we two youngs, living on the plain

near warm winds and rushing rivers

Others down farther rushing stream, others

who not bother

yet

I fought both men, Us

and saw

as we scrambled bloodily falling

over rocks and earth that we are Us

and know need

The bright ball fades again

and I kneel as my teacher-man knelt to silence

When the ball is prayed to return

the forest noises no bother

Arise their joyous songs!

So I mystery smile and she

smilingly rekindles james's coal

Us two retreat into dark secure bedloin

and another beginning of warm huddled postures

Reposed papyrous infinitudes

absorb cold silent death-light

commanded by the man among men

and I rise to heights of clouded visions

floating listlessly I see

antlike worshippers of carnal delights

do dastardly deeds of hateful occupation

only to bathe each night

in the writhings of once young, given,

form-driven shadows

slithering into constructed metropolized futility

and a blind barrelling of destiny

beyond the apocalyptic nature

of the grasping forest dancer

Not obeying laws of composition

and structured reasons

but listening

serenely

to the busy

hungry brothers

unrapt by societal power pleasures

and, indeed, they are ensuring

the far-out affections for deeply sacrificed

petty negations tropaically striving

for the perfect imagery

in forgotten fevers of mid-morning

Long ago lands

brinked on hovering breakdowns

like flitting fingers,

as incredible as the stationary delights

of soaring yet not soaring ocean avians

And they're mine, chosen by me

not to disgrace in hefting meaningless boxes

of this wasteful wanting experiment

whose treasures eons hence

will be stumbled upon by an eyes-wide child

who breathes poison and prophetically tosses

the charred remnants of our race of racers

Bottled bodies maintain their space bubbles

and ignore the bumpers bumbling

in confused pickled ecstacy,

Flipped a coin!

Not allowed by themselves

to raw their own flesh

to freshly opened air

JMJ/10-1982. For more info on this poem, see Amness