by Paul Nelson

     Horse flies are smudges on the air.
             — Ramón Gomez de la Serna

Dragonflies are silent fireworks.  Into the heart of a carnivore we go & see her arrive 30mph on the solstice see her stalk the rushes & sedges   recon the ponds    work the grass tips    maybe let the fresh sperm be scooped out to mate again maybe see you out thousands of individual eyes maybe shoot up to spy another dragonfly 125 feet above.

Dragonfly  older than dinosaur  cardinal meadowhawk filigree skimmers    western forktail coal-fronted threadtail  Apache dancer  Aztec dan- cer immortal unreliable more spark than flame more action than lengua mala  more meat eater than lilac – sniffer   more drunk than your last hallu – cination   four wing’d independent flight.

Gauzy wings glitter
in summer solstice
sun.

7:04P – 6.25.11

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2015387489_solstice22m.html

by Neeli Cherkovski 

in the hills
which are prelude
to disaster

famine, monsoon central
planning, but I plant jasmine
on your shoulder, and tend
fields of organic tomatoes, and build

hot houses . . . save us love, I glow, your smile
alone
over there in Da Lat, for the law of wood and jade

the lines are drawn, you look so much
like you were by the mountain pool, cold

army of mist, gray soldiers aiming
at the necks
of anonymous Montagnards, you know

cool jasmine grows not only here, but

over there
the heat
and hear bees, jewels of the Mandarin, a lamp
in an ancient hall . . .

one mile further over

against all music, a cloud fortress moving,
anger

cruel, lovely, amusing

knowing
how to wait calmly
before jasmine
17 plants ago
or so
I know when to believe

by Neeli Cherkovski

consider the blue and the red,
take your pain to the hills, do not allow envy or anger
into the house, step over the dying leaves
and let no man cast a spell over your daydream
the women are enigmatic in so much of what
is seen on the walls, emerging
from the corner of the gallery comes
a ghost out of another time, he
explains how to listen to the images,
some men are in love and others
spread malicious talk
over the town, then remember
to shut your eyes for a moment
in the gallery, or before the alter
Mantegna’s “Christ in scruto”
has toes curled inward, they touch
the viewer, his arms are in repose,
his face leans to the left.
the foreshortened perspective goes
where it should not go,
this is a most human God,
and goes toward dread desire
the dead God is obscene,
two old women weeping
appear to represent everyman
living in fear of what is coming,
but then the eyes of the deity
are slammed shut, his bellybutton
is a human one, he has
a bulge in the right location,
and there are holes on the backside of his hands
where the Romans nailed him
so he would hang forever

by Neeli Cherkovski

being, love, water, the harbor
where we turn, suddenly it envelopes us
and there is no turning back,
shadows illuminate gated houses
on the snake – like road leading to the fire pits
I unbutton your shirt, alone, and swear to remember
what is good and luscious in the Song of Songs,
strong enough to stand with these houses
that populate the hillsides, I kiss you
in memory of our first touch, your electricity
pulsed through me, I could look into your eyes
and seize the river of a deeper dream,
an oxidizing moment, I know you as nobody knows you,
this is the sea – cliff, a dirt path takes us
on the shoulder, as I love myself I love what is
inside of you, your animal, your anima, your pain,
the roar of roses, rough weather, calm, you