Calla Lilly & the Hawk Moth
In the Garden of Dragon Flies

We are wasted. They cut us up,
burn our fields carry omens away.
Beauty is fancy but you are
last in the universe to consider
the romance of the Hawk Moth
and his lady, the Calla Lilly.
Whisper! Please whisper secrets here.
Look into the cut of my mandible.
Place love there. Fly until cities
hatch and blue field in hemisphere
curls to the edge and disappears.
Liquid sky becomes the last
gasp of space where nothing
knows its name or can speak
fortissimo until beasts that are not
you announce a cappella arrangement
of sopranos and stentorian tenors
running through the park
with venerable moths in their mouth.


1.
The dragon had no flies in her pocket.
She stammers as she raids the eyes
where ogres often trade secrets. She
whistles lovely as the age of man
decreases into a thin stagnant stream.
She is the good fairy and one that
Alice Wonderland would take to heart.
She is K the woman with pure mind.

2.
"Perfect," she claims. "I can take this
stagnant swirl of heat and not break
their magnificent eggs. I can populate
what is with that peculiar other gust
of wind that rides up skirts
and tickle testicles
to stew what was great
feast pungent in the garden.
Lilies strike pure;
beauty gains hold.
Breathe until death
us do part. I can stop
the molting my opera
will not tell the truth
unless singers can forget
the notes charted to keep
them in line over and over
again until nothing is sane.
I am the world in terrible war;
agony my destiny falls away
until the midnight bomber
comes to crack bones and
stop sun light with a sad face
clown who does not know
his alphabet or dictionary
words and is set to the back
of the third grade room to
be ridiculed for his perfection.

3.
You opulent miserable human being
that cowers in the vestibule. Stop now.
Stare at the new breed of tubular flower.
Her breasts and tubers growl from their
pedestal until they are harvest for
heaven's floral nightingales to sing
unspeakable songs that have no
meaning left at all just call them
ordinary flowers of vulgar words.
I am your lovely organ grinder, master
of ceremonies; good evening Ladies and
Gents, the world is over except
for this orgy filled with embrace.
Dear Glorious Eve and several Adams
you arrived to late to reduce the squabble
as it becomes a high school melodrama
of fists that hit nothing but the bull's dung.
Is there belief in pretense and pose?
What happens when the automatic
weapons set to click give birth to lilies?
Yes, I know where dreams end.

4.
I will join this blue grass song festival
complete with Jazz trumpet and Saxophone.
We are more than any ordinary woman.
We translate holy books to craft
another order for easy declension
of evolutionary tempest and desert.
Why do we need to show gender,
number or grammatical case
to defy what we once said
Great Chain of Being as chime
or Curse so loud God hears it
finally and in disgust raises us
to live more and of course suffer.

5.
Our terrain declines into its pit.
We watch the strata design coils
for our insectaria display at once
becalmed by the shutter of wings.
She is Calla Lilly embodied
as faultless form; nothing
can stop descent into love.
She is my omen the Moth
spoke as he wrote down eyes
for the last symbols of Yes.
He says to her, serious
and fearful that his ugly
face will wretch her eyes
off the summer patch of
moss separate from yellow
and white wild flowers
struck without name
to the carpet of the wood.
"Look in my pocket," he said
Red deep black rose shuffles
petals until it is nude, and one
calla lily said to another how
rain makes thy face a sonnet.
Words do not make form. No sonnet
exists without argument for disorder
made to appear as perfect speech.
Why do the best of us lie to keep
beauty alive and to help the lilies
become more than symbols of
graveyards in battlefields of glory.

No order is complete without
revised color charts and miracle
grows with or without consent.


Human Beings Last Speak

Every dragonfly is a rainbow.
Million eyes stretch petals of
or dirty red rose into favorite space
where everything falls still like
the photograph in Nam of the man
before the bullet hits his VC brain.