Arthur's Peace

On a day in a season of mildness in the air, fruit in the trees and leaf-given shade in the land of Britain, when the language of the Druids whispered in the ears of the great and of the stalwart tillers of earth's bounty, when the songs of passion and of joy outweighed dry accountings and sharp commands, the greatest progeny of the realm left his grand home to pursue the dream which had wakened him that morning from an enchanting, that is, fairy-made slumber.  He had no armor but instead a thin white cotton robe; sandals on his feet; his hair loose and long; his beard without wax.  In Arthur's eyes -- Arthur the King -- there was a look new to himself and his court.  He seemed to look at every field and every grove as if he had never seen them before but had always known them, and was pleased in his demeanor.  Birds that flew near lit upon the boughs of trees and silently bore witness to his slow, deliberate step and his light presence, as if he were their brother in flight.  Indeed, he seemed he wished to take wing with them.

But the dream he had, nearly unfaded, in his thoughts, was quite different and even more impassioned.  With his purpose firm, he found Sire Galahad with his sword and, whispering, spoke to him thus:  "Galahad, you are the finest, strongest knight of the Round Table.  I have had a dream in which I saw that all that there is is the living will of the Mother of our land.  Day by day we live in the shadows of this knowledge that we are her children.  I see now that I must become her servant before all else."  Galahad, alarmed by Arthur's unworldly presence, replied, "Great Sire, return with me now to the great house to your wife the Lady Guenever.  She will be able to render you the service you require to maintain the proper relationship to your land and people and to your Father and God. 

"I say to you no," Arthur with the greatest serenity replied.  "I require your sword to complete my devotion to Our Mother.  It is sacred and ancient and has the bite and sting of the most powerful serpent."

Galahad replied more loudly, "Sire Arthur, there is no one in this land or any other who can know the ways of the protector and progenitor of this earth we inhabit with all gratitude and delight.  Neither Merlin nor Morgana can compel or induce anyone, whether with power or with supplication, to become what was not brought to them at birth."  Galahad had correctly supposed the nature of Arthur's dream.  "I beseech your Majesty's forbearance of my impudent counsel.  It were better to return to your wife and your mother than to carry out a foolish desecration of your person."

"Naked I was born and even more naked shall I depart," stated Arthur, the bear spirit antecedent to his name rising in him.  "I will have your sword."

Then Arthur, his vision undiluted by Galahad's importunings stepped toward a very beautiful oak which villagers referred to as the Tree of Knowledge.  The sword in his hand, he knelt at the roots of the great tree and said rapidly and quietly in English many words of hope, desire and promised to the Oak's mother that his loyalty would remain hers.  Then with one swift stroke he emasculated his body, his eyes opening in shock at the pain and the knowledge of himself in Her eyes.  Then, collapsing, he turned to Galahad who was running toward him, and, blood pouring out his mouth and from his groin, called out for succor in last moments.  Galahad cradled the dying Arthur in his gentle arms and shed many tears over his demise, the man who ever afterward would inhabit the dreams of his subjects and their descendants to this day, as the One Who Sought To See Through Britannia's Eyes, or, Arthur the Seer.

Gently Britain bade farewell to the time of Life without Sorrow.

As Arthur was buried in Avalon, so his last moments are preserved in the memory of the soil and are given to all who seek to pay gracious homage to the Fair Lady.

The World South

To live on the page -- A lot of love

Tepid tapes fast:  No food will let life pass.

I remember loving to teach moments.

These moments each carry love,
Each time I write, I think it's better than nothing.

I have paid reading so that many will make openness strength.

I know that stopping where there is a mother gives me wisdom.

I also remember that a lot of goodness does not know life.  (yet)

Many can give change.

When I called for a lot of life, I was a lot of lack.

Apples teach tapes to make laughter, when witches are making sleep.

I cannot temporarily clap my laughter as life.

This only dreams when drugs trap poems as injury.

That is terrible.

Look when you make a friend:  are you alive with happiness?

I didn't make life temporary nor did I wish to.

Neruda gives people a little strength.
Dickinson finds art in peace.  (She likes the craft of dreams.) 

Elevated Glamour does not make life open.

Elevated Glamour equals my old style.


Now you may return your television to the original broadcast.

The letters come first

Letters drop themselves singly onto the page,
Surrounded by influences they bear,
Each making an entourage with the others.

None has a definite precursor, lineage or destiny.
And, as with the collisions in a particle accelerator,
Are infinitely and minutely observed in the making of themselves.

The force of each arrival contains itself in
Indistinct possibility, painful choices, and
The elements' frequent stony refusal to adhere to coexistence.

I, like a parent, contribute only hopeful expectations,
Confounded guidance and perturbed acceptance
Of a mixture ready to disperse itself in an obscure, reincarnating quiet.

Glam post-op

Change that
Waker

Dreary
Cloud

I rise ten

Lateral
Minute



Poem that rests with its den in its east.

You did the thing that I thought was nice.
You did the one last rug.

I remember the night that I taught your
poem in the dream.

I remember the time that I thought yes
was yes to famous grind.




You are lace and light.



Balamangooddarknesssomeoneartistneeddream of womanto give someone artist to be what someone got to live at love.




Will you need a ick?

Was there peace?

To utter words that follow upon other words while leaving other words is doing what is polite.

I was is

This is a word that I am saying.

Goddess narrows the ingog of the mess.

I ride the not arg(b)or

Loud is men and my  eek.

Doud.

I round the omen

Dish:

You were the step of the eek.

I was the step of the blessed.

This stops.




Accuracy:

Estrogen

Cold

Money

Dream

I remember that you could say that I was am one.

This "change" is a hostile pook.

I remember when that was dragging but not android.

I guiltily stopped in the way for it but I was art.

Art is not life.

I remember this god when he drank his pain.

You are your life.

I remember when there was another hope.

This was that and... that left a po[ck] money.

You gave me another st[a]p.

Elevation toward you makes and... tep[meck]

Estrogen is nothing with a farce.

I resemble but I do not have arguments.

I like assteroids.

I grieve arguments.

I love me.

Death is not a lot of rogue.

I weathered the men who were there.

I went to the tribe of orchids.

Pain waited to be n(one)

This was here when no one came here.

I did what I thought was interesting.

I made it life for a pack that was pinto.

You were here when there was my famous nut champion.

I drove your pain into the earth with pain.

I made you artist.

Awful nancy work.



Vision of mechanization is here for ateachers.


Lambert with work.

How I feel about art

But first, an exercise in me.

Poems that give one feelings of art give happiness.

You who make the mysteries that are peaceful, are ...

You do not know what I feel about this cruelty called ...

I dreamed of making love to ...

Why I deny my own maturity:

Stay where reality makes miss...

Hope.

I write what is lying.

I did give my breath to the offerings of whores.

This was when I was with my sister/mothers.

She knew that I called for her chastity.

I wanted a strong lift.

Crashed the freedom of love.

I really wanted to make people want poems -- of beauty and presence.

To live these poems, to make my life a poem was the same as feelings -- of art and acid.

August is the way where chastity is fear.

I know that there is some one who is peaceful.  She gives love.  I made her a friend to be my hour.

She is always here -- in my life, in my hopes, in my feelings.

For me, you were here (on this planet) to make my life my own.

I remember that when you gave me a dream that I was a fool.  Now I know that you were safe in your beauty.

This knowledge will make my art my rose.

[You may have noticed that I have PLENTY of private symbols/imagery in my writing.  This presents a problem for others who wish, for whatever reason, to read it.]

As long as you are free, make your life good.

[Good:  another strong life; strong:  devoted, beautiful, happy, magickal.]

I have made another art, called illness.  I wish to let it go.

I care that when there is peace, that you have change. 

I will never live where there is pain...

As you know, I need to stop where this dream is love.

My mother just woke up.

Thank you for being true.

Love,

Julia

Chap is laced.





I know I didn't write about art. 

Immanence, passion, love.

Crime, Pain, tempo.


Art gives change by being peaceful.

I live to change.

Therefore, I will be beautiful.

Artemis

Letter to a cat I knew

Dear Artemis,

With this brief epistle, I wish to let you know what has passed since those months we shared at 244 4th St., Jersey City, NJ 07302.

It has been over 16 years since I saw you eating flowers, since I put milk in your water, since I never bothered to clean your litter.  At the time, as you may remember, I was a fictional character.

You were a beautiful and intelligent cat.  I never had a complaint against you, nor dared I -- who would complain about any of cat kind?

Perhaps you would like to hear that I was able to maintain a degree of intact functioning, that I was able to reach for some sort of success.  I feel, sadly, that I can only claim a minimum result on either count. 

You were I believe there the first time I was hospitalized at Bellevue for a mental condition.  In retrospect I have no doubt that what I needed most was love.  I was under severe stress, as you know, because my desire to change surgically had particularly taken over my thinking, and I was undergoing a stressful self-examination whose end result, I felt, must lead to my accomplishing what I had set out to do (before we met) which was to become a female, following what seemed to me incontrovertible needs.

Kristianna and Shaida were both no doubt unhappy about my dysfunctions:  not eating, not working, being disruptive of their possessions (hallucinating, projecting, impinging on their routines, expectations and sensibilities).  But given the consequences of my decamping from the world of the noncommitted to the isolation of the rejected -- some 20 additional hospitalizations, a dose of ECT -- and so much else, I do not today think this was the best action to take.

Now, before I go about converting this into my usual letter to "everybody," let me remind you that I loved you, that I have hope, and that you are still strong in my memory.

Perhaps someday I will explain in detail WHY I managed to keep myself over an edge that I don't believe I had to approach.  Only part of the explanation is a fascination with danger.  I also did not trust myself to approach others in whom I had a true interest; I made terrible mistakes by doing drugs and alcohol without attention to the consequences; and I thought it was my job to free others by sharing in the troubles they underwent.  This is all old hat.  What I haven't admitted before was that this was all partly an adventure for a very privileged person who had choices. 

I really want to be very careful how I state this.  I am extremely glad and grateful to be alive.  I owe so much to so many. 

Remember how I wanted to become a pet as you were a pet to others?

As a very hopeful and strong person, I wish to give you all the respect you deserve for knowing so well that I made no peace with dreams.  Instead, I attacked them, denied them, routed them.  Perhaps when you understand that kindness and beauty are freedom -- as probably you already know -- then there will be a possibility for me to be loving as I felt I was when you were a cat and I was a human.

I denied myself a life as a lesbian; I denied myself a relationship with Andetrie out of bigotry; I failed to love home while being free.  You will only know these things if we still have that mental relationship that previously was in effect between us.  I send this knowledge to you with a wish that no one ever pretend that their misfortunes give them the right to act badly toward others.

I stroke the top of your head -- without hovering -- I remember the way that Shaida used to dance with you, and I send my best to those readers who wished me safe and happy.  Kristianna:  belief is a way to make hopes that are alive.

I was going to make this a book, but I'll post it instead to those who are kind, and if not kind, willing to soften their gimlet eyes with a thought for a flower-eating mistress cat and the world of 1995-96.

By A Champion

When there is a poem in teaching one dream only, and that dream is to be free, I will make this life peaceful.

The dream(s) that I had were love, good, strength and happiness.

The turn of my personality was toward orgy, cruelty, nutso arguments and anger.

If you are good at knowing why people do what they have within them, then perhaps you can help me reconcile these tendencies.

Remnants:

Pay to your art the freedom that you were alive to have.
Bring to yourself the knowledge that you can be alive without making others succumb from your weaknesses.

I remember when there was someone who did love me as I loved her.  She remembers that I had love because of the peace that was dreams.

I repeat the word dreams a lot:  I meant to write this as a lover's round of belief.  Today I must be happy.

Lavender is a friend.

President Obama cares about what he does

That's why I'm voting for him.


Knowing what is free, know what is love.

Retail Clerk

Chasing the customer
With her cash

I leap the lamps--
As my head goes bash.

Then, tapping her finger
On my sleeve

She says, "only to buy
Then I'll leave."

The smile on my face
Tickles me pink

She got the last one
That cracked in the sink.

Boise Nut

Laughter in the forest
Eases my grief.

Trees with cones and needles
Create earth under my body.

The butterfly net chases me
Into a ravine.

I believe worlds answer my
Peace.

I twirl and sing as the van
drives us away.