Outlaw Wings

image borrowed from bing

Outlaw Wings

“In my writing I am a map maker, and explorer

of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space.”

---William S. Burroughs

I can never perch on a mossy rock

by a raging river without first the vegetation

conjuring up gnomes & sprites who always

dart behind toadstools and thick tree trunks,

as the roar of the powerful volume of water

crashing into boulders and logs produces

an involuntary lid closure--

and within that self-induced blindness,

the absence of outside light, where upon

the cones of the retina are not stimulated,

I still see colors.

Where do they originate or spring from?

Are they chakra-induced, soul inspired,

helix manifestations, dimensional portals?

I only know they are primal, rolling

one into the other,

heart, speech, crotch--

green, blue, red, mixing

like chemicals poured into beakers,

yellow to orange, leading to crown lavender,

all kick-ass six-string blues bleeding

into fireworks jazz jelly, as they pass,

roll, jiggle & slide through willing cortical

passageways, chambers, & portals;

allowing the river to become the sea

with garrulous gulls crying from far off,

flying low over tributaries, alone

and in flocks,

just as kelp snarls the nostrils, driving

out the sweetness of clover

with the sting of iodine & salt,

stirring up primordial memories of deep darkness,

of swimming frantically, inexorably toward the light,

of the mystical transformations,

like the loss of gills,

the dropping off of tails,

the blossoming of fingers from fins,

and the sprouting of mad hair follicles

like a berserk Chia-pet, before deeply

seated lust adventures led to the

inevitable creation of divers cousins; 

stimulating the eyes wide open as imagery

floods our sensorium, words, paintings,

photography, films, games, movies & music,

captured still alive, vibrant, sentient within

every precious moment of our private perceptual

tagging & cataloging, bending our light receptors,

teasing our shadows, tinting our various filters,

reminding me that every time I’m in the presence

of mountains I can hear angels singing, or 

strolling in forests I can smell the Sasquatch

lurking, or on the empty desert on starry nights

I await the next alien encounter,

and every single time I hear a certain tone

of cello strings I release a burst of irrational

inexplicable tears, because fours are always teal

and taste like ginger, and I’m grateful

that a pair of them represent the moment

I entered, or re-entered the beauteous fray,

and even now as I struggle to share

while in the autumn of this lesson,

I remain proud & privileged 

to be a poet, always volunteering

for the pain,

for the bliss,

for the explication,

for the challenge,

for the dancing,

for the silent screaming,

for the resistance;

to forever be a spokesperson,

a chaser of chaos,

a heart surgeon,

a ghost hunter,

a pariah, whistle blower & reporter,

and a loving conscience

for the throngs of brethren

beneath my outlaw wings. 

Glenn Buttkus

May 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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