Torus

"All living forms produce an electrical field because in
some sense everything has an electromagnetic element
or basis, but a heart cell's electrical output is exceptional.
That congregation with in us, billions of little generators
working in unison, produces two and a half watts of
electrical energy with each heartbeat at an amplitude
forty to sixty times greater than that of brain waves-
enough to light a small electric bulb. This energy forms
an electromagnetic field that radiates out some 12-15 feet
beyond our body itself"  Joseph Chilton Pearce


Torus

A lone heart cell pulses for a while
then fibrillates
and dies.
Two live heart cells,
separated on a slide,
begin to fibrillate.
Move them closer.
At some point of spatial proximity
they pulse in syncronicity.

This is what we fear:
there are no angels,
God is a ghostly nimbus,
man mere rubbish,
destined for disposal,
to disappear like melting snow.

This is what we have: a pulse,
all that self perpetuates,
that extends
from cell to human to planet,
and beyond.

This is what I have to offer:
The precious babble of the mind
speaks in plenary mumbles,
atttempts to smooth and tune the universe
but wobbles inside the skull.

The grace of beating hearts
is where we approach infinity,
the how defined
by what we know as love.
   
   
   
   

A Second Cup

Toronto Morning (Post SARS)

Zeus (by God, that was his name)
talked me into caramel from creme brulee.
A better mix, he cooed, more suited to my style.
Oh, Zeus! How ill conceived your boyfriend's love,
to hold, at bay, from womanhood,
your muscled grace!
East Front Street lay beneath my feet congealed in pools of melted sun,
late summer au lait naked sky caused dogs to blush.
Fat ladies sporting pink spiked hair let out their tongues,
morning nappers basked like molting seals throughout the park.
Sweet city plagued by virus wooings nimbussed in the air
now offers clouds of sandal wood and myrrh to ease the pain.
Goodbye, goodbye, I will return another day
horizons beyond visions call, unwalled and full.

Foundling

.
It came to pass, I found a lump.
A general mumble felt but
gut is faceless, quiet, I could not place a name.
It sent its poison thought throughout
the sinew and gristle wound about my bone,
and built its nests in bankrupt cells, displacing
dreams and all that is unreal,
throwing spears to pierce
the salient oneness that I shared with former me.
I bled, Oh Lord, I bled into the sheets,
the scent gathered in a silky shroud of fear.
A rupture feels imminent, I have no wings to carry me away.
Silent leech, without much pain, I feed you.
The doubt of all my yesterdays give way,
I surrender to your arms.

Day Lily

I am a downtown wind-scream
against the all glass brittle air,
transparent but for paper fists flying
through a hammerfall of gusts,
blind dervish dust reflected in the window light
mistaken for a dance.
I am without a thing to say,
all scatter shot, momentary, missing shadow.
I heard of a man who sculpted cherry bowls.
He killed his wife.I watched a fat man wade
into the undertow and knew he would not live.
Every night, I fall right through my bed.

Match.Com

Elizabeth, so what do you think of this site?
Had any success?
I must tell you in advance
that I am only attracted to slim/slender ladies with ample chests
so, that being said, if that doesn't work for you
then I certainly understand.
No sense in proceeding if it's not the case.
I like to have personal time/space in the mornings
with the Enquirer crossword puzzle.
I'm a chiropractic physician
and I have a feeling I am who you are searching for.
Eagerly waiting,
Lionel

Lionel, speak softly,dance with abandon,
have courage in love,
faith in your heart, respect for your body,
find peace in solitude, joy in being,
confidence in relationship,
posess an abiding ability to share.
Be beautiful, strong, sing each day.
Plant perennials, nurture diversity.
Be kind to insects, recognize local squirrels,
teach mockingbirds new runs.
Listen to the song of a woodthrush rising through a sundappled forest.
Play an instrument and be able to laugh until you cry.
Or not. What do I know?

PS
I am a perfect size 6.
A real man completes the NYT Sunday
crossword in less than an hour.
A chiropractor is NOT a physician.
Go fuck yourself.

Affectionately,

Elizabeth

Sautillé

Swallow of bitters, warm Pellegrino,
the cool cello rests between my knees.
What bowed nonsense escapes in fretted mistakes
of sharp and flatted letters
running along the tracks of a wobbly staff?
Sautillé a lullabye. Nothing changes,
who wants to sleep,
who could put together words with four letters,
of only open notes? Leaving.
It's about the ecstasy of release,
surrender the brief fusion and then move on.
Music falls like snowflakes, love like rain,
santa claus brings happiness once each year.
Waves come and go in single file,
disappearing must be busy work.
A grey gull smashes against the window.
Beyond, an old woman moves fetus-like
curled in smoke and tattered coat.
I dance the bow above the f holes,
the cello is my magic 8 ball,
I wait for answers, she waits for me to play.