The Golden Alkali of Her Breath

Prose Poems

J. Karl Bogartte

The Golden Alkali of Her Breath
“Knowledge, hunger and transparency were their major games, played with all the fierceness of their ancestors. But death, as we know it… death, for them, was never a natural occurrence, only the direct result of what they called: “the misfortune of an improper move.”

The most arrogant of dreams, if dreams can be arrogant, or powerful and detached, enter into language by the lucidity of their proximity to distant mysteries, to the imagery and magical arts of restlessness; often there were astonishing animals taking blood from your bright and eager spirit, while the scent of killing filled the air with singing... “Precious anomaly, I adore the grappling of your feverish quest for tenderness in the mouth of the sleeping beast, eluded by roses and large numbers...” * The sudden astrology of your face rubbing frantically against the glass, in the field where the warmth of expression and sinew meets the isolation of stone spreading sparks in every direction... where there was once an architectural resonance there is now the watery stimulus of dreams and the EXIT sign beckoning with the language of arousal made visible... She offers her face, and you release fireflies inside, in the raging of that silence only moments before a storm. You swim in her expression of thirst, rescuing that prison of light, that edge of inkling and undeniable aberration. Her blood is clairvoyant. Her eyes, desperate. * Reindeer phantoms leading the way, in whose eyes could be found those aboriginal flowers growing luxuriant locks of auburn and sunlight, and sepia-inhabited group portraits wandering in the forest of exquisite corpses and dressmaker’s dummies, where identity and gender infuse the curious gamelans of disorientation. The aurora howls for your approval; your pose is exactly the reverse of what is always expected: deep in the gamble there are thoughts of you in the otherness of those who give birth its venerable shape. The river that follows her face is threaded with the gold of striking gestures, amorphous tropisms, sinister jetties... You change places with the fountain that sees you. Your smile is unfinished...

* Springtime is an obscure alphabet for the bathing bodies swimming through night, and haunted by the intersection of sudden dreams that detach the strangers from their phantoms, without a scent or trace of hemlock, impeded only by your refusal to sever the black mirror from its bride. While she sleeps, conspiracies undermine the brightness of unnatural acts. Only the sublimely hidden recalls the necessity of a lost gesture, an intimate touch. She is playing, perhaps dreaming of her death, or her birth, with a detailed vengeance comparable only to the phases of the moon... * She spreads her body of dark ages and splendor in the chromatic radiation of crystals that reflect the cities into which are poured the marvelous manias that never fail to awaken the poppies, the black ones, for the voyage home, and the sinister red anemone with the poisoned eyelids, for the winter solstice. She draws the fluids out of your dreams, like one besieged by desires of broken Flemish porcelain. Silence was her Mercurochrome, or her twin sister... She loved you because of your despair. * Your messages, filled with the quartz of undeniable yearning, follow the patterns of flight designated by imaginary acts of paranoia and displacement, while the mind and body of grazing triangles places the double solstice on the stone of primitive fears. Lightning conjures the future when struck on the stone of another’s ironic gaze. Love is the conjuration, becoming the antidote, of madmen and witches: “She loves me light, she loves me dark, she loves me there, she loves me here, she is the window, she is the fuse, she is the claw...” At noon you are the turning of the tale, and the clock stopped, spinning for fire. * She is etched into the surface: when dark is bright as water, and a grooming bridle, vicuña of illustrious vertigo, eyes that betray irony in unsettling dreams, unfinished conversation shaping the landscape, a memory of inconceivable feathers growing beautifully out of rotting trees, hidden meanings that dissolve the distance between opposing movements, slow wrenching of perceptive gears, light-burnishing altimeter, silent gatling of pollen, veil of the hive, sadistic alchemy powered by a handful of eggs, the dust of sienna in immaculate edges that defy gravity, perfume of pale thirst, arc of the dive that opens the doorway of the city... * The anvil of striking desires into throwing knives at questionable beauty, foreshadows the movement of hovering shadows divided into the conquests of the hunter when moonlight sheds its body, clawing at blissful accidents. Aimless steps are taken for the privileges of the mantis playing. She releases the glow from her glands, setting up watchtowers that summon the violins of dubious suitors and other perfectly symmetrical bowls used for irritating

solutions. Her amusements resemble the jeweler’s vice in the early morning hours just before waking, alone and glowing with improper analysis. The quiver of light captures unrelenting circles. Her laughter is insurmountable, but fertilized with life, touched by anthracite, and answered in the order of appearance, and polished beyond recognition. * “Let us prey...” and “Do they bleed for us, or vanish?” are patterns of navigation, attracted to each other in the way that they come closest to masterminding the ambivalence of gothic pleading in the library, the sumptuous tears, and furtive glances, and the crimes that follow you with their quiet memories. It is not the silence that is tragic for the ancient groom, the careless mason or the splendid Lepidoptera, but the intoxicating daughter of anxiety, and the death-defying nature of the evening fusion... When the amorous key takes you by surprise–– thrown in for good measure––and unlocks itself, shamelessly. * It is camouflage in nature, and delirious invention in the mind that keeps the field of stars and the raging fires intermingling in the fabric of your own glimpse and your own shipwreck, and makes everything brighter, more lucid and more unique, and finally, at the end of an image in time, makes your hunger darker and more real––It is that illusion that matters most... * Your return to innocence in the ambivalent territories near the city of a last resort, your emergence in the unreasonable zones and forbidden places where desire grooms and replicates, your fires, your barely remembered signals and signs, your fading in and out, your chemicals, your flowering cells, bursting origins, glistening pods and dripping seeds. You are the reflection of senses unlike your own, emitting magical substances––she is never at the point of divulging her secrets, and she hoards them like serpents or benevolent weapons shaped by discoveries in abandoned observatories. * There is the passage of early shapes, like sudden flashes of intuition, aviary senses zeroing in and unnatural disguises in the timing, and the slashing of each veil that takes your breath away: it is the nighttime movement of your dimension, passing time, a pure solar morphology that speaks with signatures, swift and unnoticed changes of direction. The blending of colors is inevitable and the names that arouse distant schemes, when flying is like seeing, or swimming. She does not arrive on time, and you know that there are wonders in the miming, of her hours and the alkali of her 14th Century manners, and the mining of all that once was a vague conception of intimacy... The bête noire of milk pitchers and cunning retorts are filled with mantic interludes that yield highly superstitious wedding nights.

* From your eyes through hers, a circle surrendered, an oval cracked open, a passageway blurred in wind, a death arranged in medieval times to reverse the refraction of light, a shadow cast across centuries like an obscure landing site that mimics the fog, a zero stained with acid and attached to a prism like an owl white as blood, like a phantom sensation that clings to you with love, a vessel of unorthodox gestures, a vessel of evening and a vessel of dawn, a vessel that covers your tracks and one that forges your hollow and radiant stone. She moves with you around the wedding night, bathing the birth of another light, another hour swarming with ocular pollination, growing hallucinations out of nothing lost, or forgotten. You follow her procession, a talisman of waking outside of yourself. * The astrological wheelchair of embedded roses and maiden voyages, for the magical art of slipping out of character, the nomad’s weapon circulates in the blood stream of nightlights engaging the delicate savagery of dazzling interdictions (covered with wet fur in the garden) and the silver nitrate of slender legs parted, chased by predictions and eyelids, phantom spirits (those that burn with glowing trees and fierce abandon) from a northern reconnaissance, and the convex mirror that feeds the freshness of your kills with an abundant sense of purification and unexpected amusements. Solitude unravels the stitching of why you are not, who speaks for certain, all that precedes you and keeps you from harm, and in place, who you are, from light, reflecting... There are things only the silence understands. * In the last quadrant of the city held intact by the light of stars, there is blood flowing from the beauty of her intricate invasions. The Night-Keeper dreams of his negative solutions so long ago ignited by those randomly spinning signs of life having taken up residence in the gardens of a periphery encounter. Visions were like golden pebbles among the roots of the tree of night, slowly moving behind you, breathing heavily, ripening, obscene... * In that place where life and death pass by unnoticed, the Messengers without their shadows light up the fabric of unauthorized expectations, like vague recollections of thoughts that were never yours, or another form of magic, or perfidious logic, when it multiplies your body out of the space that occupies your body, out of the circle of your ageless metamorphosis within a further space more paradoxical than the others, when you follow the births and funerals of a consciousness that resembles the sea, like a firepropagating game of chance... * The flow of light through the body of evidence follows the path taken at random by the sleepwalker down the stairs and into the face of a dangerous moment in time, where great

risks are nurtured, and the moon provides the color of your blood when it flowers in the garden and intensifies the sense of fear, or loathing. There are no moral principles comparable to pleasure worthy of violation. Absolute recklessness prevails. * The pure fruit of an emergency landing, is a last ditch effort, a glowing hunger strung up by its ankles from the rafters, and impersonating the sputtering compass when it loses all sense of direction, kneels and licks your precious feet... then dashes off, exhilarated and beside itself. There is humor in the word: “precious.” The fruit is a night-light for the children who walk in their sleep––and therefore, the night is a narcissistic diversion... an act of irony that makes for intimate conversation between total strangers, when hidden meanings are always appreciated... when no one is present. * Reality is the amorous disruption of the wedding night, its fables and narratives in the black glass of the zookeepers’ promiscuous twin, the leopard’s robe of ingenious escapes, and the promenade of wonders... * Love is subversion of the senses, the negative light of magnetic sensations that cover you with the black dust of wings in the continuous vessel that reproduces your presence, and overflows. A singular plurality out of which are coaxed the drops of poison, of light, or words, a language of dew in the early morning, the dangerous clairvoyance of the body that swims in the bright water of its own two-way mirror. The psychosomatic eggs of an open window. Black honey, a pure black stone with a faithless heart of fire. Illusive and impeccable intervention. * When the laws of nature intercede on her behalf, footprints are sent scurrying in every direction, and when the coordinates mimic the exact measurements needed to trigger the alchemical vessels that seduce the weather, that whir and hum like simian lanterns held up to warn of impending dangers and invisible locks, she enters the forest from behind, where the spirits speak only Spanish and the nights are without equal. It is necessary to harness these wonders. The minerals of distraction, molecules of light. * Her flesh of poppies reflects the sun while her shadow impersonates the moon. The history of perversions is the gold of science. She is an endlessly bathing light. *

There is the movement of stone like clockwork, precise and hypnotic, like the slowly unfolding, nocturnally blooming flowers of capture and conquest, captive and ravisher, vessel and salamander... like the scent of milk when it flows from the furnace in your skeletal courtyard... like that coven of witches caressed by farewells, and luminous with protective measures that shame even the senseless codes of mystery, while the music of the spheres animates each movement, each gesture and each singular drop of moisture in every glance... Pure carbon! A barely audible sigh, like a precious body of water kept alive and aroused for centuries. * The owl’s cape on the throne of the King, where tigers fight for the mirror and spill your royal blood in the afternoon, in the middle of the 3rd hour, in the reflecting pools that pour you back and forth till the riddle is solved in the 2nd half of the space of an ordinary day. A privilege for the yearning that gambles claws and tricks every groan and sigh out of desperation... The mask that sputters around on the floor like a haunted scepter. The impossible flying machine that attaches itself to your hunger, and throws the switches that navigate the shallows. In the photograph, only an empty landscape where one somnambulist meets another... They bathe together in sleep. * “Amethyst and accomplice, precious arsenal of wandering, my adoration of you and your dizzying properties follows the sirens of intangible fascination, precious denizen of looting... It is to your credit that the stilts which accompany your divagations and prerequisites are musically inclined enough to scour the living and light up the dead. Splinters of your memory follow the black target of disruption, and I have followed you to that irony and golden alkali of doorways through which your web-like body passes, dressed in fog and calculations, engaged in the most perfect exploits. Your eyelids in the shape of my desires, your feet of dust for my incense, and the watermarks of your heavy breath in my invisible writing. The chaste striations of irreversible hunger. Improbable fuse..." * Amethyst of exchanging blood that ravages equality in the mother tongue, when the moon is a cat’s cradle in the sea of consciousness, of civil war in the telepathy of rebellious spirits, lovers in the fields of lunacy... * The poetic spirit of disconcerting chimera guides you, playing games of delirious wedding nights scattered like spores, or knives thrown long distances with painful precision into targets of receding conflict. It was that moment that heralded the invention of fire.

*

Often, the imperative measures to evade the negation of identity, wherein the wheelchair conversing with the swan, in an almost transparent state of immoral behavior, stunning in an embryonic sense, became a sunrise in a battle of wits with the Milky Way... * She was conscious of the purity of revenge, and he, the color of Central Asia at noon, always knew the mirror of her arousal. Together they avoided detection. Together, they were distant treasures. * When she releases the bright oils and fumes of her immaculate printing press, her gears cast shadows of mirrors grinding up endless nights and mornings in the quicksand of dazzling exploits. She spreads her lobes, dripping mouth-watering syrups out of buzzing hive entrances, where elaborate spyglasses unleash a fury of hummingbirds that drain the light out of every nook and cranny... A dream is like a flood taking everything in its path. Candles are lit for ritual scarring. Twins become precious minerals. * The sexualities of plants and omens together at last, the physical demeanor of the hummingbird with its feminine bottles of amaranthine fastened to trees of prophetic incest by the tripod of your voice, and your perfume still coming from the later half of the Middle Ages, festooned to the moon in the water that often resembles your wishbone face... This was your language against language, your love against love, and the motors of resolution. Your axe grinding of light... Your seed... * The strangers come and go like phantom sensations in the apothecaries of her nightly charade, when she is pompous and slender, and rich in ambiguity, when her central nervous system idles in its dream-like state of readiness, she licks her claws and grooms her mirrors. Each entrance into the city is triangulated by the green vials of the psyche. The wind is the sea of your gratuitous flame in waves and particles... where the ruins light up and come to greet you. You are more than one, and touched many times for the invisible light that keeps your presence intact and visible. She eats your fruit. She is multitudinous. * In the stillness of a marvelous holding pattern, the spine-tingling motors are polishing the mandarin threads of night and day. Where the river ends, the flood begins it’s joyful wailing, and the hour is luminous. The humor of cruelty is especially beautiful. * She moves like a ghost ship on the dance floor, full of springtime and levitation when she turns around, steering the chiaroscuro of brilliant thefts, coincidental exploits, and fitful

nights. Her reality needs to end before you are allowed to touch her to the extent that she demands. She and her opposite are a balanced transparency, a talisman of wild dimensions. * You unmask a revelation in the woods at dusk, when it spirals into the city square from underground, and you leave no trace of it for anyone... except the mask it came in, that now covers the sleeping woman. Secret meetings were held involving the thief and his lover, their bodies that dream of their minds, and the secret of the universe––all taking place in the wink of an eye. The wolf always takes her by surprise. The owl denies her questions, yet shares her secrets. A perilous resolution doubles in proportion to the analogy of her random pleasures... She has only just arrived, and she is hungry for diversion. A conspiracy of the human spirit is chiseled in stone. The light is stolen. The darkness illuminated only by your breath, your breathing becomes inspired. * In this place there is a fear of fading, and under these leaves there is the mint of insomnia, when it becomes unstable and brilliant and passes through walls littered with feathers and promiscuous daughters with beautiful voices. * Lovers are more dangerous even than murderers. An engaging kiss between assassins, a sweet-tasting poison... * From the moment you leave, until the moment you return, the world reverses itself and shimmers in your mind, flowing through the arteries and streams of the thought that trowels its lair outside of your mind, guarded by the daughter of the owls and the Navigators who never sleep – ignited by meteors in cabinets of imaginary space that multiplies with the speed of light… It is you, at the gate, sleek and angular as a panther, and propelled by optical tangents filled with the healing substances of night runners and jugglers of the highest degree. A single drop of silver will always announce the moment of your receptivity to the changing of the guard, the tapping of a blind man’s cane, and with the most dangerous grace, the long-stemmed black rose finds its way, without fanfare, into the antechamber where the secrets of the universe are humming and rattling like wind-up toys. It is no wonder, then, that the Diviner is in love, and has always been in love, with the refraction of moonlight in the golden alkali of your heavy breath, and the rapidity of crystal on your lips… When you move, the thought of transparency weighs heavier than the aurora when it lands, and is for all time transferred onto the door of no return, which only opens for the clairvoyance of the key, to which she has appended herself. * Often, when the howling opens the rose at peculiar hours, levels the despair that only invites a confused exit from the maze of perception (when, instead, it is the heart of the maze that knows you from the siren of your presence), where the Aurochs playing chess with

the Priestess mimes the windmill of an improper move, tattooed, pierced and marked with light, burning like the water that identifies a pagan needlework of purely transparent utterances, marked, lanced and laced, bathing night with manic precision; dream-wax burnt directly into flesh. You have nowhere to go but through it, a random Tarot-throw of mysterious gestures designed to intoxicate and feed with power. You caress the negative, your twin, aroused with antlers. * She assumes the disguise of controls worked with uncommon expertise, and her gown is the pilot of cherished promenades, longhaired spores leading your mercurial triangles through esoteric folds of nomadic tribes casting impossible tales of a luminous flow of blood. You share the distance with her whirling shell, a pulse of death passing, expanding between arteries of a backward glance that throws pyramids, torches that resemble her when she sleeps, absinthe flowing from her lips onto the ladles of arousal, and she crawls to you, her landing gears tearing up the curtains... her signals overwhelm your reticence. Towers are abandoned. In her refusal to compromise, she forms the eclipse that covers your tracks. Night is visibly shaken. Night rains in exile, profound and innumerable. * The groom is grooming the sand with his questions, the horses, polishing his bones, the windows, springing from his well with anointments, the wheels, firebombing the bells of sleep, he is glowing the wind for his hoar-faced objects, the sirens, that interrupt the oval rigging of distilled rubies and identified as you, as in the ghostly passageway, in your more refined moments, slowly sinking your teeth in the rind. The nature of things that stoke the iris being assaulted by the landscape, and the fleeting nature of your purity, however sinister and sensual, what remains to be discovered, pleasure is glass in restraint, and the tyranny of desire igniting in the center of a world and burning outwards... * The blue frogs and the black roses in the marsh at night, inexplicable torches guided by sovereign menses, enlivened by holograms of approaching planets, when the long-haired reflections come to molt and lapse into whining... in the castle, in a cage of fireflies, like a flying machine waiting for a goddess in the center of a tumultuous gravity. Initiation is always worth the weight of a spell, and the mysteries are always exchanged when the key enters the lock of a sudden recognition. The streets are empty when the words come out to play, and the roots caress your face, opening doors. * Light is in the nature of your body, and in its expression, configurations of fire, out of which the environs darken at the edges and in shivering curves bear the fruit of each other, as reflections are seeded and tendered by wind and silence, the wilderness of your nature’s body in the rain separated by a thread of darkness into ambiguous intonations of pure desire. You give birth in the body of the landscape, and bleed rivers, stabbed with constellations, screaming suns... On the table of consciousness a shadow is dancing...

* Moonlight is a glowing stain on an ancient fabric dug out of the earth in a moment of doubt about the center of time. What remains to be done demands a certain amount of violence, impassioned precision, seduction. “Be swift, poisoned flower!” * Desire is the wound made by the passage of darkness through your body. No one notices, but there is blood everywhere, flowering, leading, scripting codes. * Night torments you, and releases the chemicals of unforeseen windows shattered by pleasure. Light is the honey of lunatics invaded by empirical decisions, startling inclusions. Night occurs in spite of noon, when hands dismantle the gentle swaying of all that remains illusive to the touch. Beauty is transformed by the pitchfork, and rendered too bright to see. * Birth and death coexisting brilliantly for a sudden downpour in the unconscious Ojibwa of a stellar game, played between opposites, where they still hang silently, poised, between moments, cowried by starlight, occulted in pollen and made to work miracles among the raging of cicadas that are your flesh, your voice and the awareness of being alive, sprayed like perfume.

J. Karl Bogartte

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