by Greg Baysans


Under Throes of Alchemy

for JP


These are notes taken explosively, under throes of alchemy,
a cornucopia full of baby mash, electric map of the space
between dealt cards, swamp cosmology.
Hallucinatory halls and avenues beckon thirstily,
salivate, moon-magnificent and bright.

Virgo.  Aquamarine. The rooster. Mata Hari.
Cigarette obsession. Grocery lists, grocery lists.
Astral signposts appear, vivid landmines,
crimes, crucial epiphanies, right in your eyes,
rumble in summer evening thunder.
There is intelligent life here.
Cells rebuild in atomic eternity.
We have that in common. No. Yes. Instead,
Neptune's trident. Broadway. Dreams of Bernini.
Gingham.  Nihilism. A unicorn horn.

		I find myself 
		wanting to know how he kisses.
		I find myself joyed by his joy.


A leaf, when I dream I'm the tree.
The tree, when I dream I'm the sky.

I consist of Gertrude Stein Bucky-balls, Vidal organs,
Eliot ions, Ginsberg spinach neutrons, Vonnegut vinaigrette electrons,
Kafka protons, Ferlinghetti spaghetti, Bukowski burnt brain cells,
Keats melon tissue, Kerouac apple pie tears.

Love permeates time's limestone layers,
disintegrates in saline. I go where cold
is a word in a toy box of words
larger than kindergarten classroom.
Pick favorites. Place them on the mental chalkboard.
Enact this myth-festooned shared fantasy,
leap off cliffs into chiffon, liquid dawn.
Tonight the stars align just right
for me to tell the story
Gertrude told thirty years ago
(but I demure).
Good God wrote the checkmate
before starting the game.

		In his arms I am small in a vast universe.


Sebastian, my bored representative,
finds no secret agenda in alchemy,
history, hear-say, heresy.
I am Iamblichus wanting no more secrets.
Sex and souls are two of these.
Galileo drops imaginary balls, falling
on Newton's head, now in yours. Landing.

Not wanting it bad;
wanting it good badly.

Joyful music cascades while
conceptual handshakes morph into orgies,
lip-inclusive. We wake together
in Rimbaud's "new sound." Baroque
tinkerings accumulate, knot, unknot
in real cities, hang on the very atoms
of imagination, neural constellation
in the night which doesn't fall but
creeps over the wall like ivy.

		Belated, this glory 
		of breathing and being.