by Greg Baysans

Poet X
Recent Poems


	(Excursion du Corps Grand)

	"The visions and celestial sounds invoked in theurgies
	 were perceived with the spirit-body’s organs. And it is 
	in this vehicle of imagination that the soul meets the gods."
			 - Leonard George


These walls exude furnace heat.

And beyond?  A room to inhabit.  We don

suits of state-of-the-art super-resistance.

The place is furnished, exquisite

down to the green of books, red walls,

yellow sofa, blue serving set.

A plain room until a worker enters

when walls become Roccoco candy,

pulse at his movement.

Piece work, the green book to keep tally 

of gristly balls with black pattern, random, 

exact, followed by violet.  One.  Two.

Three.  That will never be enough.

The room is remade for

the next book's motif.


Spiders crawl on dusty cobwebs

that have their own cobwebs.  Sounds

occur as dull memories heard

from a radio station

far away, a station

you'd rather not listen to but

it's the only one coming in well

water curtain clapboard clipboard

happenchance passersby fly.


Another room, this place a drinking

straw at times, a bulging universe

wide, safety-netlessly indescribable,

impossible to set to a sudoku frame

penetrates an apple in

and out the same peach seven times

two continuing tubes past ignoring yet en-

compassing drive-in chapels and books

on tape.  Just in that straw tube, say,

hay straws in a stack, not at all 

concerned with the needles therein,

but with impending Beethoven.


Molecules churn, sharp darkness,

the vision seen soon made

an antebellum scene twisting

taste closing in on destruction

in the middle of night, moonlight

before and after the snake

crowd unseen coming in in the dark

and as soon made mythic

vision whirling in the maze

of fatalism, forward falling down stairs

unseen in dark bubbles,

unnatural, unknown, unnumbered.


The story of the room forgotten,

transcription impossible when

there's no storm to tell except

the whole cosmology painted 

onto veils in words, a lay guide 

to theurgy leads to inclusion in

film school splices, the lecture

given green pause.  It is not the story

of obfuscation is an astral favorite

food, atom, element, combi-

nation too seldom intelligent, but and yet

with hands tied now and again

a room in consternation, throw in love

insufficient chalk stuffings stab

astride an eggplant elephant.


The complex is as large as air

in a jar of marbles, but only air

and not the space filled by

marbles, misshapen air

curves and arcs irregularly

regular curving, complex air

in a jar of marbles, regular size

or irregular, air marbles curve and

arc, irregularly forgotten what

started in a complex air jar of

not marbles but large loops

irregularly curve arcs in only air.


Here a vast plateau, bleak and barren, arid, empty, endless,

the only sign of activity holes in the sandlike floor made by

hordes of dreadful machines, worms of ultimate essence.

And imaginary sunshine in oppressive shovelfuls,

heat increasing though intolerable long before, time

not a part of the picture nor relief, only distance and dearth,

an utter lacking, limitless, colorless, silent, incessant landscape

without ease, idea, water, weight, dimension or sense except

the vibration of mechanic worms and purposeless burrowing.


Not four walls but a star chamber --

hundreds of points in every direction

describe infinity is at last a math

thing things, ping pings, blip blips

on a radar screen screens four-dimen-

sional, flashes of electricity the only

light in the place illuminating furtive

circuitry, secretive wiring, clandestine

connections, mysterious meetings

attended by spies of the highest 

spiritual order plotting miraculous

tomorrows and tinkering with yester-

days' endless shooting, floating

heiroglyphics and indeciferable sound,

a fall into Icarus's deep, inviting sea.


Fact bluffs of sandstone or lime

in layers fall infinitely.  So it seems 

because the falling is constant

rock breaking into ever smaller rock

guitar heard first by the refrigerator

is in a forest alley being passed by

mere camel dissonance, hip wounds,

a drumbeat in dread black as memory.

Night is a paved hill and bleeding

challenge to climb, antique frogs to argue,

hate-psalms brimming with questions

masquerading as fact bluffs of sandstone.


Choices: nude, costumes, body paint,

any or all, any and all, all and the gamut

involved in the amphitheater here,

large as a balloon's inside stretched

bigger than the moon, overgrown with

vines and ivy, vivid pantaloons, a room

not for children but a circus and car-

nival rolled into one tent, three tents, seven

rings, four leaf clovers and over and

over the same not the same ride and no 

waiting lines but purples and oval versions

of candycane Egyptian soap hurricane

raining sweetness, coins and churling 

smoke, unforgettable orchestras, lucid 

rainbows crash, waves of ecstasy 

splash over the same not circus circuit

urchins and versions of icing-clad permanent

play unexpected as that sinister cloud's clown.


A white room with mud stains

on the floor and tire tracks, sink

holes, so there's a road for certain

corners and corridors and more choices

than green or red or yellow lights. Here

there's purple, magenta, mauve, silver,

gold leaf on the furniture and picture

frames, uncountable billions, enough to

completely cover walls, so you can't

really see that it's a white room but 

when the sun falls you discern watermelon

felon plastic, an acid version of vision.


Broken eggs, the mess albumin, cumin

everywhere, a rolling barn dance, never a chance

mention of adventure nor sensational

cereal accusations commonplace sunlight

answers, echo streams in e-mail for cement snow

weather changes, those eggs again, a Halloween

mask broken spell that, and that fits too, lies

lonesome in some angel glory found

and lost at the grace gloss halftime

score known days before dinosaurs could

have tramped there, trampled there, trampled

their progeny littering atheist orange groves

humanely harvested of clues amid morning dews

and free to pay to choose your poison pen letter

to be read on stage by (insert your name here).