magic bugs

                                           magic bugs

   magic bugs

           in the undergrowth  make you wonder

   what mechanisms course through their not -very -veins

           below their silver skins below silver skeins

of moon light the way  they

       change,  mouthparts  seeming one  way  , then

                  another  in the tricky light-  quiet

      sounds  of click and whisper  in the night  as

                 they

                       rearrange  the twigs and branches  on the ground

                             and    braid the furze

                                                        to greet the day

                             with a forest  like

                                                 vision on acid -words etched

                            and hidden everywhere  shifting  half-meanings hid

                       in what is still everyday  and growing -and

                                 which bugs are they?  you might catch one

                       in the gloaming , and crush it in your hand

                                   the tiny machines to reveal -but then

                        a thousand lights like fireflies

                                                    might gather  round  you

                           and decorate the forest

                                                       with strands of your hair

                          and  scraps of your scent (the missing

                                  persons hounds to confounde- ) even  - echoes

                           of  your laughter and wonder, as you beheld

                       the truth behind the secrets of the morning

                                                          and went - glad

                            in the  going

                                                with    that     knowledge

                              (even so,  cyber -entomologist  and

                                                                    seeker of secrets - even so

                                          might you go).

2011.

reading: that cat

children's rhymse ii

that cat she wanted to go for a sail

to feel the crisp wind

to spin a great tale

and so she stitched

bits of leaf with her whiskers

and bound many sticks

with the help of her sisters

'til her craft was done:

cat-sized, quite small,

but sturdy, and tipsy,

then steady in squalls.

ii: the Whale

and so when the cat

was well out from land

she saw a fine beach

green trees

golden sand

so beaching her boat

she stepped on the shore:

and of cat, boat, and island

nowt was heard more.

iii: Riches: The Return:

'til later

much later

after spit-up and gale

our cat washed ashore

all glued up

and blue.

But when her five sisters

undid all her wrack

they found 'twas ambergris

and now they're quite rich.

Meow.

2009 Peter Greene.

Samael

                            the balloonists

            there were many

                   who went by balloon in those days

            and       there was one

                 who  found a way to throw

                      clods of mud

                 from the ground

                             to the balloons -sometimes

         He knocked them sideways, blocked an

              ascent valve,  or just spattered

         the gondola's occupants  .Still , the

      balloons   followed  the wind , which formed

             ridges

                  in the sky

        that  they  would  drift  along the edges  of

              not  blind  , not uncaring

       just   not  particularly motile

                    without the wind .Reaching higher

    many joined great stratospheric wind-lines

           and scudded rapid  through the sky

    below  , Tom (the mud guy)  could see  this organization,  far

         above his throwing range and

    whirling up the sky behind him and  before him ; mad

      with fear , he fled  one way and then another , eventually

            to collapse upon the ground,  arms

            folded over his head, weeping,  terrified.

2010 Peter Greene.

reading: red leather den talk

red leather den talk

i'd rather be sexless

      than an old husk masturbating ; i prefer empty

    to   half or less full of turgid water - i suspect

       this   is the edge  of the prefectures of death: I

  protest  only occasionally

                           the way that food , no longer desirable

  will not settle in me -the fact

                that the glow of the wine is almost outrun

  right away

             by the heat and pressure of the sugar-fed bacteria

   in the cracks in my sinus - minus

       the minute , i pass things over to you , time

  to sip red wine, and wait and smoke and die.

2010 Peter Greene.

reading: new york buried in crushed snow

                    new york buried in crushed snow

       snow gets dirty so fast

        someone is coughing

                 in the next room

    interrupting this poem.

        Snow is falling outside - and already

in my previous crumping footsteps

        shows - a certain pattern 

                   of spots of brown - shit,

    i've trodden on it,

                    borne upon my airy clouds

 that to me seem hard slow and compressible_but

         to the inhabitants below, an endless crystal dream

 imagine if our sky

                   was suddenly covered , the planet encased

      like a Christmas ball turning the lights

             of the solar system all prism

          as it hung , glorious.

               Imagine if someone stepped on it! New York,

                            buried in crushed snow.

Peter Greene 2010.

                caper! 

              black rhymes

              and piquant seeds ; these

              i call my currant-tree - i

              planted not nor did i water

              and i shall eat

              what i have got of her - 

2010 Peter Greene.