Thursday, May 30, 2013

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

Would you like to hear the author read you this Synesthesia poem?

16 comments:

Brian Miller said...

I only know they are primal, rolling
one into the other,
heart, speech, crotch--...ha, nice progression in that...love the six string jazz jelly too...ha...wicked flow brother...keep poeting man, the pain & bliss is just one of the perks....smiles.

Claudia said...

love the images...my fav stanza...all kick-ass six-string blues bleeding
into fireworks jazz jelly, as they pass,
roll, jiggle & slide through willing cortical
passageways, chambers, & portals;....ah...i smell the music..smiles

jane hewey said...

the comment from Adam Hewey was actually me, Jane Hewey. (Sorry, we share a desktop computer.)
Anyway, to the point:
Your synesthetic imagery is great. I esp. like
kelp snarls the nostrils and
fours are always teal and taste like ginger.
great piece, Glenn.

Björn said...

Great images: kelp and salt water... really great flow that I read through several times and will return to... Thank you :-)

flaubert said...

I love the ending to this, Glenn. It is like a list poem and I admire that, since I am not very good at them.

Pamela

Victoria said...

Glenn, just amazing. I started to copy and past a stanza I especially liked but then kept reading another and another and couldn't decide which one. Ha--just noticed that Claudia picked up on the one I began with. This prompt seemed to come to you as a natural process.

anotherwanderingsoul said...

vivid images, such strength in your words...
loved the ending!

Heaven said...

I like the part about the colors, primal rolling, bleeding into fireworks, allowing the river to become the sea....powerful images here ~

Laurie Kolp said...

Wonderful, Glenn. I especially like this stanza:

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,

zongrik said...

there's so much i like, but especially the kick ass six string blues

George Polley said...

Thanks Glenn. Burroughs was a very interesting fellow.

George

henna ink said...

I LOVE Stanzas 4 and 5, Glenn. And hey, let me know if you ever want me to e-mail you a word list.

Lady In Read said...

the words all just flow into each other so well

loved - because fours are always teal
and taste like ginger

rowantaw.com said...

Lots to love in this, but I'd single out the lines:
"just as kelp snarls the nostrils, driving
out the sweetness of clover
with the sting of iodine & salt,"

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Anonymous said...

EXCELLENT

Melodious to read aloud