My beautiful America,
land of Walt Whitman,
liberty,
free-speaking individuality,
empathy for the poor:
gone with the planting of a bush
and the embrace of a perle.
7/20/06, the brink of WW3
~
They're getting ready
the young ones
with army boots and pierced nipples
they 're getting ready
for the wars
coming later already begun
they're getting ready
with wild songs
hell-raisers co-opting nirvana
they're getting ready
for chaos
to trample the reign with a whimper
and bang and start again
they're getting ready
the young ones
tattooed warriors poised to leap
into the quantum void
they're getting ready
for the end
and they're screeching swan songs with buzzsaws
they're toughening up
the young ones
embracing despair like it was hope.
Georgelle - 1994
~
NEW FRONTIERS
Experiencing a particularly dark mood, she sought centering in her sacred
space, and to focus her thoughts, unwrapped her Tarot deck and chose three cards. At
the moment the third card was turned over, she began to chant, while on the roof above,
unknown to her, her future lover had just landed, an elder from another solar system
galaxies away. Her singing was the first sound that he heard on earth.
georgelle - 1996
short short story for a Message Box assemblage
~
MY LAST WARRIOR
I cannot help another man.
I cannot be the tits that nourish his suckling need.
I cannot deplete my energy so another cock can swell.
I cannot diminish my magnitude so his waning light can shine.
Though I love you, warrior of lives and loves past;
though the dream we built together is tempting,
it's ancient history,
a treasured memory of Genghis Khan and Cossack warcamps,
gypsy woman and savage soldier warming meat-greased hands over the fire,
fucking in furs and blood with greedy passion.
No more.
Not now, brother, will we find comfort in fondling each other.
Now we implore the raw grace of God
to descend and uplift our fierce natures:
memory's love gives way to transformation.
Maybe then,
when the phoenix of Self
rises from the ashes of ego
will we be given time to live in Light.
But now,
I cannot help another man.
I cannot be the tits that nourish his suckling need.
I cannot deplete my energy so another cock can swell.
I cannot diminish my magnitude so his waning light can shine.
I cannot specialize my nurturing.
My love is for All.
georgelle
Venice, Ca. 1980
~
For an Alcoholic
He's a shit-knowing lord O'Reilly
from the steaming city streets,
a Hell's Kitchen leprechaun
performing hard-edge feats.
He protects his soul with humor
and his love with kinky sex
while he investigates the furor
this armoring begets,
downing alcoholic semen
to slow the spermatozoon swim,
daring no further specimen
to birth and mirror him
til the ladder is descended
and there's no way out but up
and the sorrow is transcended
that first broke his Holy Cup.
georgelle
Venice, Ca. 1979
~
oh christ i am bound in many
so many
shells and cases
a moment in public
and i am shrouded
with my game
i am only a soft soul looking
for the universe
in a kiss
a conversation
a hug
a moment
but i don't want you to know that
any of you
out there
paranoia is bred by fact.
georgelle
Albuquerque, N.M. 1974
IMPROVE REALITY
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