La Bellezza

 Ars Poetica - To His Coy Mathematician - Only Connect - Whirlpool Cosmogony

Ars Poetica


I see her  

staring out to sea

her coal black eyes

her silhouette

tall, slim


of glistening hair

ravens are no darker than

down smooth shoulders

shirt frayed at

the edges

slim hips drifting

like fine sand into the

clear hour of my glass

a clear, salted glass

of a Margarita

the stuff of



or so to

the tourist


green  eyes

 it        seems.


To His Coy Mathematician


Lured by a world of forms —

the circle of the breast

the straight line of the calf —

what would be the point

of discussing any tangent

that didn’t curve back

to a union of body and mind?


Only Connect


For the monk, alone in his cell

it's the erotic versus the spiritual

eros vs. agape

la via sinistra non è destra

not on Earth as it is in Heaven

give unto God that which is everything

because he's celibate, cellular

and those circuits in his head don't connect


Whatever greater forces may or may not be at work

our experience is a function of neurons

connected to neurons

through massive junctions;

our being jumps from cell to cell

a million neurons deep

running in thick circuits

fields, planes, waves, loops

whatever they end up being

they only connect or they don't

They only connect to everything you are 

to everything you think

about God and the contour of a breast 

and to everything you feel

about love and your tongue along her thigh  

or they don't

So when they talk about how bitter that apple was

you turn around and wonder if you missed something — or did they?

When all the abstract truths end up in doubt

you conclude that Keats may be right:

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," --

That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,

and then you wonder

what the fuss was all about


Whirlpool Cosmogony


In the beginning was a whirlpool.

Jets flung far across the bubbled deep,

fishes forgot their names,

and fished about in a swimming sleep.


A mestiza beauty stepped into the pool

currents swished around ankles

chlorine bleached skin to porcelain.


Bored, the goddess stretched her languid foot

into the currents of Time

the web of Maya,

the mirage of sense

swirling through invisible toes.


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