Portmanteau

("Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll)

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

UnSuffer me, Dear Bandersnatch

(A follow-up by Kimberly Potts to the Portmanteau)

Dear Bandersnatch...

I thought that I would mark the time upon the Wabe.
I will never forget the uffish.

I have forgotten the poor Vietnamese borogove, and now I am relieved. I do not have to wreck my life for a rath... yet the tulgey wretch that was "You-and-Me" I will always remember vividly.

I know that I am meaningless. What does that mean, without it meaning everything? Je faive le blanc…

Remember this confabulation always: Forever. Now what does that mean? "Thank You" is what that means. I will manage without.

Bandersnatch, you have taught me how not to breathe, yet still I survive.
I refuse to understand. Go your way, I’ll go mine. UnSuffer me.

Well anyway… well anyway… well anyway… well anyway… When I am 190 years old… well anyway. Relentless, I will dream up the answers, while you close your gimbles.

Bandersnatch, beautiful stranger. I take you too seriously, really. I am your Jujug. Close your gimbles, please.

My body forsakes the jabberwocky, which tears out the life; robs a mind of sanity and life of chastity. Tragic, yet still I dream up these answers, ever galumphing.

I would not have considered Anyone for the task. Why did life strike me as perfect as a catalogue? I would have given it all to the Bandersnatch... with its frumious mouth, the mouth of a jealous star. What is right with me is wrong with it, vice-versa.

Ironically, and undeservedly, I will remember its burbles vividly and mark the brillig with a chortle… a taste of the truth: Goodbye!

Should I thank it? That seed in time? Yes! As I am still here to pray.

I now find myself un-bitter, alas confused… Relentless, but yet here.

I blame my humanness. I blame its frabjous. How quick am I to define. Mome is my Manxone Libertine, lost in mimsy. Grateful outgrabe, bitter and confused no more! I will manage without, thank you. In this the vorpal will plunge.

Never forget, Bandersnatch, because I am the carry angel, meant to protect your made-up memory. Forever I will drive you to mimsy. Alas, you are the tove that shatters the ground of The Ages. You will forever slithy upstream.

Close your eyes, Bandersnatch. You are proof of one thing (other than the fact that I cannot breathe); that I am selfish, Ruy Lopez. Gyre, my Tao still fights with the mean rath.

I win.

Perhaps we'll meet again upstream and outrun the tulgey that is You-and-Me. Perhaps we'll start the game all over again. Jabberwocky.

k.p.

Wash Me

Wash me, and then drain the marrow.

I will square myself to starve… for the usual things. Healing, but then you know me…
I am naked, touching it. Take it. And now we’re together.
Wash me …

You like me, so take me…
I’m weak, I melt, so take me.

Wash me.

You like it. Lick it. Take it. Touch it…

When we’re together, I lose my voice.
You’re a killer. You murderer, this pain!
I hope you pay for what you meant to say…

I forget too quick what you meant to say, and then I consider death.
And now you are breaking my bones.

I will survive this killing ecstasy that we call You.

Wading in… Wading out… Wading in… Wading out.
Fading in… fading out… and now I am done with your beautiful memory.

We all depend upon someone…so picture me giving a damn about You. And now I’m asking questions, begging forgiveness.

I will return to the inception.
Wash me.

k.p.

A hope... wild as the wind

A hope... that you will come back to me someday.

I don’t know why, for it is impossible, but I do hope.


Did you find me wanting or just simply unoccupied? Your lies have short legs; my misunderstandings, long arms.

Beyond the point of caring, armed with a new religion: Every day I face West and blow you a kiss, wild as the wind that carries it. I pray that it blows through your skin.

I am the prize fighter that still says please. I hit hard but stay away... from the impossible things.

Do you face East to bribe the impossible... or to beg off? I would thank you either way.

Luck or chance? It is irrelevant. A contemplation of the absurd. You've given to me your slow-bloom, as you seduce your way through life by your sheer beauty and unaccountable magnetism.

Is it really possible that you have not bestowed your diamond eyes? Unlikely -- liars need longer memories... fools need shorter ones.

I will liberate me from you... or perhaps me from myself. A hope as wild as the wind.


K.P.

"If you continue in my word, then you are my disciples . . . And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." (John 8:32)

From Kissing the Witch...

There is a peculiar knocking within my skull… from kissing the witch.

Quirky-alone thoughts hit me in little waves. I will pour them out in big buckets of common longing. Can you hear it?

Let me tell you why I love the negro woman with her children: She understands the glory of alone.

Her diametrical solitude is delivered in hammerlocks and haymakers -- Break my bones but not my heart, she says.

An incorruptible ethos: Simply knowing that you are dangerous will suffice.

Blow hot, blow cold, but know this, Curia Romana: You blow.

K.P.

Just Ask...

My life is something different now.
I am awake to all that I have not allowed.

Is any one person worth exposing the truth to... the madness of my heart?

Society shows me time and time again…

No, abso-fucking-lutely not.

But just ask.

Where am I?…
Someplace I never counted on; someplace I did not believe in.

I belong to no one but God -- but I prefer you.

I understand a certain definition now; that it does not mean contentment...

...because my life is something different now.

K.P.

Chelsea Ahead

“You will have to double your efforts!”
Ms. Logic tells me that this will never happen.

Say it real fast… so it doesn’t hurt quite as bad.

Dirty-thirty (nine): A tragic scene.

Save your teeth; the doctor says we are through.
Save your crying for her.

A crowded place, an atom ball.
Aren’t I entitled to play?

Of all the days you chose to ignore...
Dirty-thirty (nine).

I’m just an innocent.
What in the hell are you?

You want here? Sorry, Chelsea ahead.

Challenge me on this.

You want here? Sorry.

Cover it in chocolate, for public consumption, and then Imagine.
We’ll trot out Estelle. And now my ass itches; that’s a problem.

Give me my own reunion tour; something to take to my grave!
Ms. Logic tells me that this will never happen. An aspiration to grace will have to do.

You want here? Sorry, Chelsea ahead.


K.P.
Birthday liturgy

Poetic Justice

Forever it seems I’ve loved you… forever it seems, yet at some distance. What other place?

“CAGE” -- a thieve's argot. Behind this bridle, a seizure by the denizens.
Behind a bar of metal, of soap or of popular opinion?

…until the only thing left to decide is… what to do (but I won’t ruin it for the rest of you.)

Theory-lending by the effete. Tired allegories. Truth or something like it
(and leave it at that). It’s all a matter of shadings.

And so it goes. This part is over. Poetic justice? I only wish.

K.P.
* I understand you, B -- in acknowledgement to "Piers Plowman."

The Power of Crazy

The Power of Crazy…

The beauty of a place like this -- (squid ink protection for we and our little chimps.)

Together we have discovered the miracle of disappointment. Release! Women and children first.

Parked cars, brief pockets of fun, lovers kissing (trying to look ironic) and then confusion sets in.

Alas, a situation that must wait…

Deep are the flavors of our smoke; edibles in abnormally dark colors.
And still we wait! -- lest our delicacy of equilibrium be interrupted.

Nothing good can come from any exercise; barring an aspiration to grace -- the largest the law will allow!

Sing to us your Scary Jesus Songs, with your fiddles, for we have lost our way.

k.p.

Something's Wrong Again

Something’s wrong again

Something’s wrong again. Paradoxical humor.

The Spectrum: A visual pollution you call fashion.
A pandering glance…permission to smother in one’s sleep.

Upon this famously useless victim I am pulling the plug.
A phantom imprint or its large barge?… I simply don’t know.

A delusion to haunt; A borrowed nostalgia to protect.

The Ignis Circle…an octave overheard. (Für Elise) -- You arrogant whore. I will lick your face; You know I want to.

A space to catalogue; a sequence of steps to knock one into silence.
- Ashes to ashes.

A pretty pattern? I simply don’t know…

k.p.

** weaning

Monster or a God

Monster or a God…

My spirit has been petitioned by the prayers of another Zion. Sent to save me from this comfortable, black moon?

From folds of The Unfathomable, I smell an alchemistic perfume... and choose to follow its spice trail. I reach out for The Intended.

A child’s intention or the angel working the gears? A new awareness has exposed the absence.

Its countenance has enslaved me, spiking into my nebulous aura. A destruction of the negatives or an elaborate noose?

(Awaken) ...to find myself walking barefoot upon burning ice. Coax me to you. Your crystalline eyes are a gravity unmeasured, not understood in this place.

I gave to you, will you give to me? Which of us is most selfish? I ask You.

An offering or a sacrifice?

A contemplation to turn the course ? A reason to acquaint with The Order?
I desperately hope so… we desperately hope not.

I offer penitence, though my nostrils flare. A circadian rhythm that my spirit does not abide, yet I dance.

These prayers now echo with time; come to my spirit through orbs. A volley of Gods? A flawed ideal -- a hopeless idea?

Pay heed, as I am expected to fly. Alas, I am a child. And now you understand why I try…and why you cannot touch me, unless I allow it…

(Faith)

I pretend to understand, therefore I pretend to be patient. I smell like fire. You cannot conceive the pleasures behind my torment.

Come child, rescue me.

I am held still (the calling angel) for I am a precious child... but these angels are lost in their own.

I must remember that I was not taught to breathe; breathing sustains the epiphany.

If faith ends with a cry, will this cry be answered by the Seeker? Must I reach out to the Bethlehem that I know?

I desperately hope not...we desperately hope so.

My Dear Grace, have I made myself love you…or am I lying to myself?
My Dear Grace, are you lying to me?

A Monster or a God?

K.P.

(a coda - )
To teach is to grow, to grow is to learn…to learn is to reach, to reach is to touch…to touch is to want, to want is to desire… to desire is to yearn, to yearn is to seek… to seek is to find, to find is to question… to question is to grasp, to grasp is to enlighten… to be enlightened is to again question… to again question is to doubt, to doubt is to choose.