by Jurado
I dig near the roots of Oak trees
for anthills.
An anthill always
follows the curvature of the earth.
Anthills can cure
the backache
of any psychic.
Anthills form slowly
in the distance of whispers.
I smell anthills
in the latent perfume
under lilac bushes.
I search for anthills
in my ears.
An African legend says
the bright sun
sleeps
in a different anthill
every night.
I wait
for long rain,
to rot
the white peonies,
and attract
the anthills.
An anthill
will tie
our wishes
into knots.
An anthill can have different shapes:
a line forming a scent dance around a rose,
a moving parallelogram of weather patterns,
or a gyrating square for tight defense.
The optical illusion
of an anthill
will give you
a headache.
The syrup
of my cactus shadow,
with my hair sticky with needles,
sometimes drips in the grass,
leading me
to the lost City of Gold
of these anthills.
All mirages
begin
as anthills.
Anthills can teach you
about the mirror of the senses,
where understanding
has become a myth.
For example, an anthill
tastes like the thunderstorm in a tomato.
An anthill
is like zero,
the ghost of all numbers.
I ring an anthill
like a temple bell.
I wash my face
with anthills.
-- originally published in "GRIST On-Line #1"
*****
I am in the doorway of a mushroom,
learning to listen.
The color is grey.
I listen
to the melody of thunder.
Mushrooms
are the children of thunderland.
After lightning
goes kite-flying
with the rain,
over dark fields,
the rain goes planting
the seeds of lightning;
and mushrooms appear
in the uncertainty
of the wet shadows.
I have learned about the magic
of making things appear or disappear
in strange, dark, and moist places.
The color is grey.
Mushrooms come out in fairy rings,
and dance barefoot
their mushroom ballet.
The color is yellow.
I have seen lightning
scalp a wolf
above a mountain ledge.
I have seen lightning
smile
and split a tree in half.
I have seen lightning strike
a forest on a hill at night
and all the birds lit up
like burning candles
on a birthday cake.
I once saw lightning crack the air
in half
above a green lake,
and a rainbow glowed,
out of the mirror of nothingness
left behind.
Now the color is bright yellow.
A mushroom smokes the pipe
of Rene Magritte.
This is not Rene Magritte.
I have a mushroom blanket
where night sleeps undisturbed
during the day.
In the living forest canopy
of giant lamp-shade leaves,
the gothic architecture
of sunlit beams
illuminates all that's green;
But far below the forest floor,
a calumet of mushrooms
gives off its own incense,
long sinewy trails of smoke rings
rising into the light.
This is how a mushroom
defines the prayer
repeating
the larger perspective
over thousands of years.
The color is grey.
Mushrooms take the strangest shapes
of musical instruments,
puffballs broad breath-taking saxophones,
chanterelles shiny as pearl trumpets,
polypores skinned-alive club drums,
and the metal cymbals of gilled mushrooms.
Deep in their own shed,
mushrooms
are well apprenticed in the dark,
as if snoring by magic,
talking the talk,
walking the walk,
kissing the dark lips
of their deformities
with masterful jazz riffs.
The color is grey.
I have a mushroom blanket
where night sleeps undisturbed
during the day.
Mushrooms seem to embody change.
They take a chance with form.
I look cross-eyed
at a mushroom
as if it were a mountain.
I admire the odd
pieces of nature
in a mushroom.
I even take off my eyeglasses,
out of respect,
to see the mushrooms in a blur.
Mushrooms
can be made
into jewelry.
The color is grey.
Walking in the labyrinth of prayer,
mushrooms can kiss you
with a thousand lips.
I play cards with mushrooms
on the porch.
The color is white.
Mushrooms glow in the dark,
their divinity is purely on a subjective level.
Mushrooms correspond
to the lower depths
of our soul-making dreams.
Between their poisonous counterparts
and the nutty flavor
of their gourmet delicacy,
Truffles, Chanterelles, Boletes, and Morels
challenge our very existence.
Mushrooms ring
the bell
of fallen dead trees,
resonating
within the lower depths
of mia culpa.
The color is black.
You can hear the distant forest
when you place a mushroom
to the ear of a child.
The color is green.
A mushroom smokes a pipe
with the sound of thunder.
The enormous hand of this thunder
interrogates me.
The color returns to grey for contrast.
The mushroom's cap is most conspicuous,
round at first, then flat
with uplifted edges,
like the upturned ears of a cat,
sometimes with a knob in the center,
in-rolled, wavy, or smooth;
often a little hanging veil
remains along the margin
of the white page, furrowed,
wrinkled or pitted.
I have learned to tell time
by mushrooms.
I saw lightning
wearing my wrist watch.
Mushrooms have long stalks,
often located at the center of the cap,
with a bulbous base, or tapering,
smooth, dotted, or powdery,
even rubbery to touch
The remnant of a veil.
is often seen, hanging
from the edge of the stalk
like a pendant, flaring,
or a sheathing ring.
The color is blue.
After birth,
Jung was named
after his mother
made him a soup of black mushrooms.
Mushrooms are a peculiar set of
mind games,
always engaged
in the alchemy of soul.
Jung spent his clairvoyant life
in the analysis of mushrooms.
All Church organ music
begins
as a mushroom.
The color is grey.
I play cards with mushrooms
on the porch.
I have learned to appear
like mushrooms
inexplicably
in strange, dark, and moist places.
I have learned
to tell time
by mushrooms.
Mushrooms are erotic.
They seem to say,
bend over,
rub me,
there.
The color is grey.
My jealousy
makes the mushrooms grow
abundant in the forest.
I married a mushroom.
She shaves her legs
with mushrooms
under the pale moonlight.
She makes cotton candy,
stroking her breasts
on the mushrooms.
She wore lipstick made
from African mushrooms.
And she has been found in the shower,
massaging her clitoris
using milk of mushroom shampoo.
I have a mushroom
wedding ring
that looks like a hair-lip.
The color is grey.
Mushrooms are divine.
They glow in the dark.
Purely on a subjective level,
they correspond
to the unconscious part
of our soul-making dreams,
challenging us with their
nutty taste and gourmet odors.
Truffles, Boletes, Chanterelles,
and Morels--some of these are edible,
and they fetch high prices
for their mystery.
Wild fungi tastes better
picked fresh,
and not cultivated
in flushes.
Never drink wine with a good mushroom meal.
The color is grey.
A small rain shower
ties the mushrooms
into a knot.
With jugglers hands,
I untie the mushrooms
and sleep in their dirt,
in their crowded bed,
hallucinating next to dead trees,
about an unemployment line.
The color is grey.
I recommend
going to x-rated movies
with shy mushrooms
that mature in less
than 48 hours.
I make spore prints
by turning mushrooms upside down
on some white paper overnight,
and while I fall asleep with nausea,
not far from other cabins,
I redefine the pattern
of my speech acts
to the American Legion.
The color is grey.
I remember a small girl
in the circus
blowing a balloon
and making thousands of shapes
with her mushroom tongue.
You can hear the distant forest
when you place a mushroom
to the ear of a child.
The color is grey.
Mushrooms have long stalks,
often located at the center of the cap,
with a bulbous base, or tapering,
smooth, dotted, or powdery,
even rubbery to touch
The remnant of a veil
is often seen, hanging
from the edge of the stalk
like a pendant, flaring,
or a sheathing ring.
I refuse to understand why
mushrooms insist on wearing
nylon stockings in the forest.
The color is grey.
Symptoms of mushroom poisoning
are diarrhea, cramps, vomiting,
abdominal pains, jaundice, renal failure,
faintness, loss of coordination, salivation,
tears, constriction of the pupils, hilarity,
dizziness, delusions, blurred vision, spasms,
muscular weakness, flushing face,
palpitations, hypertension, swelling, profuse
perspiration, staggering, liver dysfunction,
and distension of neck veins. Sounds
familiar?
Chanterelles are already spicy;
they need little seasoning.
Truffles can be grated over pasta
or into omelettes, releasing
their pungent odor.
Morels are best dried, rehydrated, sliced
in cream, and cooked. Saute them
and serve them with veal.
Black Trumpets are good for making pate.
Actually, it is fragrant, and fruity.
Yellow Witches' Butter is good for country soup,
picked best off beech trees, right after
a winter thaw, and throughout cool, wet spring.
The Hen of the Woods, or the Chicken mushroom,
is a fine poultry substitute, served pickled or
in stews.
The color is grey.
One corner
of consciousness
is folded.
Always be alert to some mushrooms
that live on the border between life and death:
like Dead Man's Fingers, Netted Stinkhorn,
Bladder Stalks, Dye-Maker's False Puffball,
Violet-branched Coral, Destroying Angel,
Death Cap, Carbon Balls, Wolf's Milk Slime,
Skull-Shaped Puffball, Pigskin Poison Puffball,
Arched Earthstar, White-Egg Bird's Nest,
Elf Cup, Tree Ear, Devil's Urn, Black Jelly Drops,
Cannon Fungus, Bearded Tooth, and Reddish-Brown
Crust.
Never smell the armpits
of these strangers.
A mushroom smokes the pipe of Rene Magritte.
This is not Rene Magritte.
This is not a poem about meditation,
nor is it really about mushrooms;
it is the prayer beyond the literal,
like a painting by Jackson Pollack,
or the jazz riffs of Miles Davis
on his golden trumpet.
The color is yellow.
The subtext of the poem is about
metaphor
as the mushroom of language.
The color is white.
To lift the cap of a mushroom
and reveal the edge of the world,
this is the first step
in the spiritual understanding
of language.
The color is blue.
God is the noble savage
hidden in the text.
And metaphor is the thunder of the mind.
The color is now grey.
Symptoms of mushroom poisoning
are diarrhea, cramps, vomiting,
abdominal pains, jaundice, renal failure,
faintness, loss of coordination, salivation,
tears, constriction of the pupils, hilarity,
dizziness, delusions, blurred vision, spasms,
muscular weakness, flushing face, palpitations,
hypertension, swelling, profuse perspiration,
staggering, liver dysfunction, and distension
of neck veins.
The color is black.
All around the Earth,
in secret places,
mushrooms grow quietly
in nuclear warheads.
The color is grey.
After kissing the book of the dead,
mushrooms give me a haircut,
preparing me
for deeper prayer.
-- originally published in "GRIST On-Line #3"
*****
From the Rpoetik Internet Archive
Jorado
Jorado is a sparkplug in the NYC poetry scene. He's active in public
access cable TV, a workshop and a little magazine called META4.
JURADO
1793 RIVERSIDE DRIVE #3F
NEW YORK, NY 10034
Sleep is a fast river
leaving great canyons of dreams
in the wind.
A juggler of whispers came by,
memorizing his suffering
for some happier day.
I wear the distant sound
of a freight train
as a tie.
I am washing the feet
of clamboy.
Clamboy spends the day
tying flies
into knots.
Clamboy knew how to dance
like a mirror,
caressing a woman.
I think about a country
where dizziness
is the source of wisdom.
Clamboy works all week
on his boat, raking
the clam beds.
From shucking clams,
he learned how to kiss.
There's a pile of dolls
in clam boy's yard
behind the metal shack.
Clamboy stutters whenever
a village girl drops by,
to feel his muscles.
Clamboy can pick up a girl,
lift her up
over his shoulders,
and run with her
into the towering surf,
surprising her
in a dangerous way.
Clamboy knew
how to wet the reed of an oboe,
and play a melancholy tune
over the sweet, quiet bay waters,
singing to the clam beds
about the art of love.
He dances a wild story in the sand
seen by the seagulls,
kicking the shore with his feet.
Clamboy gives excellent swimming lessons
with his tongue.
Some women said he kisses like a hummingbird.
Other women claim he has a gypsy kiss,
long, passionate, and out of control.
Clamboy's kiss is soft
and surprising
as a baby's opening fist.
Clamboy understood
the range of kissing,
from a rough style
to a gentler touch.
Clamboy knew the rule---
why a kiss wrestles for awhile
on the lips.
Eating raw clams on a half-shell,
Clamboy learned the soft method.
Clamboy kisses
even the guard dogs
behind chain fences
to practice the technique.
A kiss is made from a thousand dreams.
There is no end
to the rules of love.
He never spun a knife
on a table, after a kiss.
The pulse of his heart
is on every lip he has touched.
Tonight, I am washing the feet
of clamboy
as drums fly in the night.
I am preparing him
for the kiss of his life.
I lick a postage stamp
and change the shape
of the universe.
JURADO
The wheel of the wind sleeps
inside a blueberry.
Talking is a form of glue.
It is wise to be like the wheel of wind,
silent, drying inside of things,
like a cough drop.
Have you touched the eyeeye?
The man with an orchid face,
whose crooked finger
can turn you inside out
like a paper brown bag.
Using only a white basin
she bends over
washing her smooth butt
in apple cider.
Have you seen the Dobo Mon?
The man who is often up in a tree,
with a head more radiant
than the sun,
looking for a cemetary
where he can find something good to eat.
Celeste does a somersault
with the tropical birds,
which I paint
on the inside of a coconut
with my penis.
Have you see a Lanipan?
That is the name of
a snake that pets a cat.
Have you seen any Jivenas ?
a nude woman
who greases her midriff,
twists her body,
leaves her legs standing,
while the top of her torso
swivles through the trees,
tormenting the sleep of bearded men
with her fangs.
Celeste brings me a black bat,
it's fried wings dipped in honey,
as she hypnotizes me
feeding me
with her licking smile,
her lips, perforated
with 3 tiny seashells,
making the gundy-gundy sign
with her free breasts.
Have you heard the Gulperon ?
That is the name of
a black spider
fanning itself
in the Amazon jungle
waiting for a human leg
to store its eggs.
Have you tasted a Tamonsana ?
With one sip
a man can drink his ceiling,
even whales could not drink
the entire ocean
to quench such a thirst.
She sprinkles ant eggs on hot chile.
I love her caterpillar-corn bread.
She spits and makes mashed grasshoppers
taste like buttered lobster.
She swallows a sugared wasp with rice.
I have a bee, fried in chocolate.
Have you smelled a Poroforaco ?
I learned from this worm
how to throw stones
a great distance,
where the afternoon is transparent
as a grain of rice.
We are nude, together, tonight,
wearing only the rain's
moonlit legs,
dancing outside our sleeping bodies,
over our long white hammocks
under the forest canopy,
meeting the tree spirits
smelling like resin.
Have you seen the Bo Crespo ?
That is the old man
who carves puppets
under the Mimosa trees,
swarming with red ladybugs
between his fingers
and knife.
Celeste lights herself
like a sacred candle.
Have you seen
the usha Cashew tree?
The seed of the nate fruit
gives the Curandero
the power vision
to undertstand
the symmetry
of earthly things.
The last thing I remembered
was this long brown tube
which Celeste held in her mouth
and the other end was up my nose
through which she blew my brains out
into the bark of a nutmeg tree
scraping the remains of me,
spitting on it,
mixing it with red sap,
scratching me,
and adding some mint leaves,
where I experienced
the wheel of the wind
talking
as I dried out.
And I am still waiting,
where everything
is made out of laughter.
Jorado
I'm naked
on the back of a coal truck
together with my optician
making me
try on different lenses
while I look up
and see route 80
and all the luminescent trucks
of New Jersey
across the night sky.
Yesterday, I spent the day
looking right at the corona of the sun,
seeing anthills in my own eye,
going blind with each sunspot.
This is how the artist studies a cloud
to learn the virtuosity
for making a single brushstroke.
Then, it happened.
My hand snapped open to grip
the falling sky
and hold it,
turning blue.
After deep chest pains,
the lower bottom of my heart
hung like a potato.
Now, under my kangaroo eyelids,
I read the map of your flirting.
I spend the night in barren offices
staring into copier machines,
my retina turning into a rainbow.
I see People walking on electricity,
everywhere.
The sadness
under the leaf
of consciousness
is overwhelming.
The optician sleeps
with his office window open
with the fragrance of linden trees
and a distant bakery
in the air.
What is the meaning
of an eyelid?
I can see your face,
---------the 13,461 pillows
which you have rested upon it,
on every night of your life
tossing and turning,
never really sleeping well.
The optician
is there
to check our eyesight
with his magic chart.
If you could open this room
like a book, you would see
a naked man and woman
lying there together,
sperm like a cobweb
hanging dark, over a hard brush.
The optician gives me
a new pair of eyeglasses.
In the moving shadows
of a Marathon race
just inside the canopy of light,
Azaleas eclipse my curious face
like stars in a penumbra,
waving the runners on.
I see the optician's hand
served as if saying, "goodbye"
on a silver tray, garnished
with golden raisens.
I'm walking in the Botanical gardens,
one bright day in December.
And I see a classical garden,
where the logic of its cut hedges
is irrefutable,
even if a white dove
steps over that own edge,
and drops into the green labyrinth
disappearing
under my eyelid.
It proves my face is nothing
but an eyelid,
now closed,
now open,
just flirting
with reality.