THE PRAYER OF ANTHILLS by Jurado I dig near the roots of Oak trees for anthills. An anthill always follows the curvature of the earth. Anthills can cure the backache of any psychic. Anthills form slowly in the distance of whispers. I smell anthills in the latent perfume under lilac bushes. I search for anthills in my ears. An African legend says the bright sun sleeps in a different anthill every night. I wait for long rain, to rot the white peonies, and attract the anthills. An anthill will tie our wishes into knots. An anthill can have different shapes: a line forming a scent dance around a rose, a moving parallelogram of weather patterns, or a gyrating square for tight defense. The optical illusion of an anthill will give you a headache. The syrup of my cactus shadow, with my hair sticky with needles, sometimes drips in the grass, leading me to the lost City of Gold of these anthills. All mirages begin as anthills. Anthills can teach you about the mirror of the senses, where understanding has become a myth. For example, an anthill tastes like the thunderstorm in a tomato. An anthill is like zero, the ghost of all numbers. I ring an anthill like a temple bell. I wash my face with anthills. -- originally published in "GRIST On-Line #1" ***** THE PRAYER OF MUSHROOMS by JURADO I am in the doorway of a mushroom, learning to listen. The color is grey. I listen to the melody of thunder. Mushrooms are the children of thunderland. After lightning goes kite-flying with the rain, over dark fields, the rain goes planting the seeds of lightning; and mushrooms appear in the uncertainty of the wet shadows. I have learned about the magic of making things appear or disappear in strange, dark, and moist places. The color is grey. Mushrooms come out in fairy rings, and dance barefoot their mushroom ballet. The color is yellow. I have seen lightning scalp a wolf above a mountain ledge. I have seen lightning smile and split a tree in half. I have seen lightning strike a forest on a hill at night and all the birds lit up like burning candles on a birthday cake. I once saw lightning crack the air in half above a green lake, and a rainbow glowed, out of the mirror of nothingness left behind. Now the color is bright yellow. A mushroom smokes the pipe of Rene Magritte. This is not Rene Magritte. I have a mushroom blanket where night sleeps undisturbed during the day. In the living forest canopy of giant lamp-shade leaves, the gothic architecture of sunlit beams illuminates all that's green; But far below the forest floor, a calumet of mushrooms gives off its own incense, long sinewy trails of smoke rings rising into the light. This is how a mushroom defines the prayer repeating the larger perspective over thousands of years. The color is grey. Mushrooms take the strangest shapes of musical instruments, puffballs broad breath-taking saxophones, chanterelles shiny as pearl trumpets, polypores skinned-alive club drums, and the metal cymbals of gilled mushrooms. Deep in their own shed, mushrooms are well apprenticed in the dark, as if snoring by magic, talking the talk, walking the walk, kissing the dark lips of their deformities with masterful jazz riffs. The color is grey. I have a mushroom blanket where night sleeps undisturbed during the day. Mushrooms seem to embody change. They take a chance with form. I look cross-eyed at a mushroom as if it were a mountain. I admire the odd pieces of nature in a mushroom. I even take off my eyeglasses, out of respect, to see the mushrooms in a blur. Mushrooms can be made into jewelry. The color is grey. Walking in the labyrinth of prayer, mushrooms can kiss you with a thousand lips. I play cards with mushrooms on the porch. The color is white. Mushrooms glow in the dark, their divinity is purely on a subjective level. Mushrooms correspond to the lower depths of our soul-making dreams. Between their poisonous counterparts and the nutty flavor of their gourmet delicacy, Truffles, Chanterelles, Boletes, and Morels challenge our very existence. Mushrooms ring the bell of fallen dead trees, resonating within the lower depths of mia culpa. The color is black. You can hear the distant forest when you place a mushroom to the ear of a child. The color is green. A mushroom smokes a pipe with the sound of thunder. The enormous hand of this thunder interrogates me. The color returns to grey for contrast. The mushroom's cap is most conspicuous, round at first, then flat with uplifted edges, like the upturned ears of a cat, sometimes with a knob in the center, in-rolled, wavy, or smooth; often a little hanging veil remains along the margin of the white page, furrowed, wrinkled or pitted. I have learned to tell time by mushrooms. I saw lightning wearing my wrist watch. Mushrooms have long stalks, often located at the center of the cap, with a bulbous base, or tapering, smooth, dotted, or powdery, even rubbery to touch The remnant of a veil. is often seen, hanging from the edge of the stalk like a pendant, flaring, or a sheathing ring. The color is blue. After birth, Jung was named after his mother made him a soup of black mushrooms. Mushrooms are a peculiar set of mind games, always engaged in the alchemy of soul. Jung spent his clairvoyant life in the analysis of mushrooms. All Church organ music begins as a mushroom. The color is grey. I play cards with mushrooms on the porch. I have learned to appear like mushrooms inexplicably in strange, dark, and moist places. I have learned to tell time by mushrooms. Mushrooms are erotic. They seem to say, bend over, rub me, there. The color is grey. My jealousy makes the mushrooms grow abundant in the forest. I married a mushroom. She shaves her legs with mushrooms under the pale moonlight. She makes cotton candy, stroking her breasts on the mushrooms. She wore lipstick made from African mushrooms. And she has been found in the shower, massaging her clitoris using milk of mushroom shampoo. I have a mushroom wedding ring that looks like a hair-lip. The color is grey. Mushrooms are divine. They glow in the dark. Purely on a subjective level, they correspond to the unconscious part of our soul-making dreams, challenging us with their nutty taste and gourmet odors. Truffles, Boletes, Chanterelles, and Morels--some of these are edible, and they fetch high prices for their mystery. Wild fungi tastes better picked fresh, and not cultivated in flushes. Never drink wine with a good mushroom meal. The color is grey. A small rain shower ties the mushrooms into a knot. With jugglers hands, I untie the mushrooms and sleep in their dirt, in their crowded bed, hallucinating next to dead trees, about an unemployment line. The color is grey. I recommend going to x-rated movies with shy mushrooms that mature in less than 48 hours. I make spore prints by turning mushrooms upside down on some white paper overnight, and while I fall asleep with nausea, not far from other cabins, I redefine the pattern of my speech acts to the American Legion. The color is grey. I remember a small girl in the circus blowing a balloon and making thousands of shapes with her mushroom tongue. You can hear the distant forest when you place a mushroom to the ear of a child. The color is grey. Mushrooms have long stalks, often located at the center of the cap, with a bulbous base, or tapering, smooth, dotted, or powdery, even rubbery to touch The remnant of a veil is often seen, hanging from the edge of the stalk like a pendant, flaring, or a sheathing ring. I refuse to understand why mushrooms insist on wearing nylon stockings in the forest. The color is grey. Symptoms of mushroom poisoning are diarrhea, cramps, vomiting, abdominal pains, jaundice, renal failure, faintness, loss of coordination, salivation, tears, constriction of the pupils, hilarity, dizziness, delusions, blurred vision, spasms, muscular weakness, flushing face, palpitations, hypertension, swelling, profuse perspiration, staggering, liver dysfunction, and distension of neck veins. Sounds familiar? Chanterelles are already spicy; they need little seasoning. Truffles can be grated over pasta or into omelettes, releasing their pungent odor. Morels are best dried, rehydrated, sliced in cream, and cooked. Saute them and serve them with veal. Black Trumpets are good for making pate. Actually, it is fragrant, and fruity. Yellow Witches' Butter is good for country soup, picked best off beech trees, right after a winter thaw, and throughout cool, wet spring. The Hen of the Woods, or the Chicken mushroom, is a fine poultry substitute, served pickled or in stews. The color is grey. One corner of consciousness is folded. Always be alert to some mushrooms that live on the border between life and death: like Dead Man's Fingers, Netted Stinkhorn, Bladder Stalks, Dye-Maker's False Puffball, Violet-branched Coral, Destroying Angel, Death Cap, Carbon Balls, Wolf's Milk Slime, Skull-Shaped Puffball, Pigskin Poison Puffball, Arched Earthstar, White-Egg Bird's Nest, Elf Cup, Tree Ear, Devil's Urn, Black Jelly Drops, Cannon Fungus, Bearded Tooth, and Reddish-Brown Crust. Never smell the armpits of these strangers. A mushroom smokes the pipe of Rene Magritte. This is not Rene Magritte. This is not a poem about meditation, nor is it really about mushrooms; it is the prayer beyond the literal, like a painting by Jackson Pollack, or the jazz riffs of Miles Davis on his golden trumpet. The color is yellow. The subtext of the poem is about metaphor as the mushroom of language. The color is white. To lift the cap of a mushroom and reveal the edge of the world, this is the first step in the spiritual understanding of language. The color is blue. God is the noble savage hidden in the text. And metaphor is the thunder of the mind. The color is now grey. Symptoms of mushroom poisoning are diarrhea, cramps, vomiting, abdominal pains, jaundice, renal failure, faintness, loss of coordination, salivation, tears, constriction of the pupils, hilarity, dizziness, delusions, blurred vision, spasms, muscular weakness, flushing face, palpitations, hypertension, swelling, profuse perspiration, staggering, liver dysfunction, and distension of neck veins. The color is black. All around the Earth, in secret places, mushrooms grow quietly in nuclear warheads. The color is grey. After kissing the book of the dead, mushrooms give me a haircut, preparing me for deeper prayer. -- originally published in "GRIST On-Line #3" ***** From the Rpoetik Internet Archive Jorado Jorado is a sparkplug in the NYC poetry scene. He's active in public access cable TV, a workshop and a little magazine called META4. JURADO 1793 RIVERSIDE DRIVE #3F NEW YORK, NY 10034 CLAMBOY Sleep is a fast river leaving great canyons of dreams in the wind. A juggler of whispers came by, memorizing his suffering for some happier day. I wear the distant sound of a freight train as a tie. I am washing the feet of clamboy. Clamboy spends the day tying flies into knots. Clamboy knew how to dance like a mirror, caressing a woman. I think about a country where dizziness is the source of wisdom. Clamboy works all week on his boat, raking the clam beds. From shucking clams, he learned how to kiss. There's a pile of dolls in clam boy's yard behind the metal shack. Clamboy stutters whenever a village girl drops by, to feel his muscles. Clamboy can pick up a girl, lift her up over his shoulders, and run with her into the towering surf, surprising her in a dangerous way. Clamboy knew how to wet the reed of an oboe, and play a melancholy tune over the sweet, quiet bay waters, singing to the clam beds about the art of love. He dances a wild story in the sand seen by the seagulls, kicking the shore with his feet. Clamboy gives excellent swimming lessons with his tongue. Some women said he kisses like a hummingbird. Other women claim he has a gypsy kiss, long, passionate, and out of control. Clamboy's kiss is soft and surprising as a baby's opening fist. Clamboy understood the range of kissing, from a rough style to a gentler touch. Clamboy knew the rule--- why a kiss wrestles for awhile on the lips. Eating raw clams on a half-shell, Clamboy learned the soft method. Clamboy kisses even the guard dogs behind chain fences to practice the technique. A kiss is made from a thousand dreams. There is no end to the rules of love. He never spun a knife on a table, after a kiss. The pulse of his heart is on every lip he has touched. Tonight, I am washing the feet of clamboy as drums fly in the night. I am preparing him for the kiss of his life. I lick a postage stamp and change the shape of the universe. JURADO TALKING TO THE WHEEL OF THE WIND The wheel of the wind sleeps inside a blueberry. Talking is a form of glue. It is wise to be like the wheel of wind, silent, drying inside of things, like a cough drop. Have you touched the eyeeye? The man with an orchid face, whose crooked finger can turn you inside out like a paper brown bag. Using only a white basin she bends over washing her smooth butt in apple cider. Have you seen the Dobo Mon? The man who is often up in a tree, with a head more radiant than the sun, looking for a cemetary where he can find something good to eat. Celeste does a somersault with the tropical birds, which I paint on the inside of a coconut with my penis. Have you see a Lanipan? That is the name of a snake that pets a cat. Have you seen any Jivenas ? a nude woman who greases her midriff, twists her body, leaves her legs standing, while the top of her torso swivles through the trees, tormenting the sleep of bearded men with her fangs. Celeste brings me a black bat, it's fried wings dipped in honey, as she hypnotizes me feeding me with her licking smile, her lips, perforated with 3 tiny seashells, making the gundy-gundy sign with her free breasts. Have you heard the Gulperon ? That is the name of a black spider fanning itself in the Amazon jungle waiting for a human leg to store its eggs. Have you tasted a Tamonsana ? With one sip a man can drink his ceiling, even whales could not drink the entire ocean to quench such a thirst. She sprinkles ant eggs on hot chile. I love her caterpillar-corn bread. She spits and makes mashed grasshoppers taste like buttered lobster. She swallows a sugared wasp with rice. I have a bee, fried in chocolate. Have you smelled a Poroforaco ? I learned from this worm how to throw stones a great distance, where the afternoon is transparent as a grain of rice. We are nude, together, tonight, wearing only the rain's moonlit legs, dancing outside our sleeping bodies, over our long white hammocks under the forest canopy, meeting the tree spirits smelling like resin. Have you seen the Bo Crespo ? That is the old man who carves puppets under the Mimosa trees, swarming with red ladybugs between his fingers and knife. Celeste lights herself like a sacred candle. Have you seen the usha Cashew tree? The seed of the nate fruit gives the Curandero the power vision to undertstand the symmetry of earthly things. The last thing I remembered was this long brown tube which Celeste held in her mouth and the other end was up my nose through which she blew my brains out into the bark of a nutmeg tree scraping the remains of me, spitting on it, mixing it with red sap, scratching me, and adding some mint leaves, where I experienced the wheel of the wind talking as I dried out. And I am still waiting, where everything is made out of laughter. Jorado THE OPTICIAN I'm naked on the back of a coal truck together with my optician making me try on different lenses while I look up and see route 80 and all the luminescent trucks of New Jersey across the night sky. Yesterday, I spent the day looking right at the corona of the sun, seeing anthills in my own eye, going blind with each sunspot. This is how the artist studies a cloud to learn the virtuosity for making a single brushstroke. Then, it happened. My hand snapped open to grip the falling sky and hold it, turning blue. After deep chest pains, the lower bottom of my heart hung like a potato. Now, under my kangaroo eyelids, I read the map of your flirting. I spend the night in barren offices staring into copier machines, my retina turning into a rainbow. I see People walking on electricity, everywhere. The sadness under the leaf of consciousness is overwhelming. The optician sleeps with his office window open with the fragrance of linden trees and a distant bakery in the air. What is the meaning of an eyelid? I can see your face, ---------the 13,461 pillows which you have rested upon it, on every night of your life tossing and turning, never really sleeping well. The optician is there to check our eyesight with his magic chart. If you could open this room like a book, you would see a naked man and woman lying there together, sperm like a cobweb hanging dark, over a hard brush. The optician gives me a new pair of eyeglasses. In the moving shadows of a Marathon race just inside the canopy of light, Azaleas eclipse my curious face like stars in a penumbra, waving the runners on. I see the optician's hand served as if saying, "goodbye" on a silver tray, garnished with golden raisens. I'm walking in the Botanical gardens, one bright day in December. And I see a classical garden, where the logic of its cut hedges is irrefutable, even if a white dove steps over that own edge, and drops into the green labyrinth disappearing under my eyelid. It proves my face is nothing but an eyelid, now closed, now open, just flirting with reality. Jorado