She wasn’t exactly sure where and she wasn’t exactly sure how, but she had the sudden overwhelming feeling that she had just been born into a world of words. Into a pile of steaming celebrity of sounds, and a jolting thrust from the earth to speak silences and greet loudlessnesses. Everywhere about was everyone and everything and inside the hidden aura of air that seemed to be breathing into her, there was a faint giggle of a mouth that wanted to want. Before the air and particles of love swarming around her swollen flesh could make it to the center of her center, a great thrilling humming began to sound itself around the tip of her tongue and all at once she knew she was feeling feeling and that in quite a many million breaths from now, she might understand the great meaning of her own comprehension.

Then the world collided with her breath.

And all once, and all at last…there was the Everything tunnel funneling her out of her freshly laundered awakening, back to the great warm swell of the Dreaming. She could feel her body within its own chamber of air, but she wasn’t standing, sitting or laying, she was gliding- purposeful and less and more with great wisps of tender hair streaking out in brilliant hues behind her like a veil. There were familiar faces there, or what could have been, at one point in time, something resembling a resemblance. And upon reveling in the aperture of her eyes, she released into the watching of the wild unfolding of the folded up Earth. First it lay motionless before her, in the blackened solitude of all things winged and waiting…then it effortlessly began to flap, or something to began to flap it…but either way the undulation was enough to kick her feet into flying. The Wind raised its treble cleff mouth and heaved a delicate sigh of relief at the recognition that someone other than itself was flying as well…and this, she was sure, was the first word reeling its hands and eyes out of the spectacle of assorted Earth shapes she felt herself gazing at. She could see the word before she could hear it, and before she could remember it, she could feel it. The Great And sputtered out of the bumbling blue heart of the mass, and with an instantaneous swirl of glides, shudders and eyes she felt the Merge…the swiveling sweet embrace of melt of matter and the cooking heat of the sweat of submersion. There were eyes in all directions and tumbling tunes of unformed musical hymns…a swaddling sense of sensational seeing…and then silence. And then all there was was eyes and the light being captivated through their discussion of sight.

The gazing great orb of flattened Earth dough began to tremble from some hidden center (or perhaps it came from all sides all at once, that was quite indiscernible)…mirrored panels lifted off in quick succession and formed a sideways ring of serene sight. Dappled edges of slicing white light bounced and murmured to one another

The Great Measuring rulers tossed themselves suddenly off the edges of the plateau and began to stretch their weary, flexing bones as far as the edge of the edge, then began to double, triple, weave and connect at the seams and the sides, tossing about in a reverie of relation.


I left my heart on the side of the road

picking up lint and pinching up pieces of pieces of

pounds of sounds left by car radios

and soundfields of desolate memory hums

every christmas I go and leave it a bowl of milk and cookies

hoping it will find its findings and leave its leavings

but it’s moved in now. Little cardboard box

decorated with letters in fine print and magazine clippings of burnt smiles.

At least there’s no rent to pay.

At least there’s lots of edges to fray.

At least there’s three more at home to play with, give birth, give rest, give weary eyes

and new goodbyes and old furniture buys and

wear in the old sweaters and dress them up in blues and pinks and hues

of what someone might want to want to love

There’s this big box of you in the closet, and it makes a rattling noise when I rub my fingers on it…three times a week I pretend it’s a genie lamp…but that’s only because my eyes deceive me in the moonlight and I can begin to convince myself I see a speckle of sparkling gold trickling out of where I stuffed you in…all limb-y and unfolded- full of shards of bits of rotten blue and spoiled summer air smells. It makes this jolting humming sound late at night, when I’m all tumbled into my cotton dream apparatus. Sometimes I try to speak loud enough that I think

story of someone trying to get their self back from the other person

do you know what they’re talking about at first?

Me: My clothes don’t fit anymore. The fabric tries desperately to cling to my skin but often my sweaters drag to the floor and I’m beginning to think it isn’t my clothes getting bigger, it’s me who is shrinking. So I quickly recounted I didn’t think much would come of it, of course. But there was always some sense in trying.

I said you first. I said you first.

You said i’m already last.

The saying has been said and all i’ve got to say

is not enough to form a sentence yet

just a small mumble of half formed gutteral impulses to

force air across my swollen tongue.

I said ok. I’ll start first then.

I said, I’ve been meaning to make it better

to make up for it

to have never done it at all

i’ve been meaning to start over and to have stopped myself before I did it.

I’ve been meaning to make you forget it ever happened, wipe your brain and let you love me.

I meant to want to not do it

I meant to meander through the tunneled halls of all we wanted to want.

I meant to send that letter to God thanking him for the time I got to sleep in late

and all the time I’ve timed myself having since the time I started keeping track.

My eyes absorb the sound of daylight

and my tongue opens to taste the delicate lettering of old words

my nose moves to pronounce the word of my nameliness

my breasts pounce to preserve the manner of my un-manliness

my hair dances to announce the arrival of the sparkle of sun shavings

and my gutteral sweet twists of soul slam silences to bits and bits

of the bitterness of undulating divinity.

I’ve been up for hours and days

and awake for months and hazes of phrases of half remembered lullabies

I’m promising myself to sing to my children

when the time comes for

my belly to roll itself in jelly and balloon up with a bundle of lovedoves

pecking at my skin, begging for a fresh oxygen bottle.

I’ll be there and I’ll be here and I’ll be halfway through the next century before

the blue catches up to me and turns my green eyes red. (the green important only so that I can see the trees with their proper shade of summer skin, not reflected in the autumn buzz of transformation)

let me see the sky falling back towards the silver root of sea, that’s all I ask for.

Yesterday I traded in this old lumpy box of stolen giggles for a fresh pair of goggleyes- squint-y and squeaky and clean. Just bold enough to allow me to see. Just clear enough to allow me to make a mess of the clarity of sky. Just polluted enough to dress my children in someday. These huge horn-rimmed, silver laced, impeccably soft goggles that fit snugly across the diamonds of my natural eyes…they slop themselves on, without any directions or manuals…and then slowly and sweetly the world begins to glow in turpentine blues and hues of radiant flashes. Everything drains…the pollution bags dissolve into the misty trumpet of air callously licking the newly painted houses- rosy and gold cheeked, rainbow mutterings and a splash of colored coherence dabbling up and down the aisles of suburbia. The harsh slashes of telephone lines curve themselves into streams of twinkling lights, flows of lanterns and yet there’s no need for any artificial light…there is simply and surely a definitive, murmuring glow emanating from every lost pore of every visible manifestation…a natural emission of permeating light that does not compete with the night, only breathes soft illumination to the trills and swashes of midnight hues of purple and blue that seem to bathe together in the swirling mystery of projected skyfoam above. The trees turn opalescent for a moment, then blindingly bright all at once, and with a swift popping sound, finally plunge themselves into absolute color. The fullness of season relinquishes its hold and a perpetual state of transformation creeps up and down the wooden spines of the now painted leaves- patches of lilac, turquoise and cerulean dancing up and down the street to a windless chime of eloquent motion. Porch lights fade and great candles come pummeling up from the curtain of green perusing the horizontal slope of grass. Every night the night jiggles its loose change and drops a few rebel stars onto the vast horizon of twilight that reminisces itself into being…and recently, they’ve gotten stuck there- lost fragments of star

Manifestation station

I miss the man behind man

the thrill behind the falling fumble of a tumble dry rainstorm.

I miss the saturn air of saturday sleepings

sleeping through wedding bells

I miss little lines of poetry scribbled on the tips of my eyelashes

handmade mascara and a bottle of vitamin ABC

and when I lay my bodyhead

down to the river to sleep my final dream,

will there ever have been any fault in praising

every dollop of daylight that has squished its way

onto my skin?

Will I have lost any spirit by sending half of it away

in jars, packed tightly with preservatives

swimming away like messages in bottles

selling it for free to any likely tree

with hands enough to drink

succulent youth from a glass?

Will the weight of my sighs and the stomach of my goodbyes

laced around every morsel of my amenities, of my projections and my possessions

linger heavily upon the trace of me? Swallow me whole and keep me holed up

in the desolate strangeness of a body?

Will not the lightning bugs speak for me, perchance? Whisper their judgments

to the judgment leaves and arrange, on behalf of all my childhood innocence,

at least a fair trial, at least a great parade of farewell, at least a place on the marching band

of rocks and pebbles newborn to the rebirth train of trading in old worn out muscles

for new pockets of spirit

to wriggle out once more of a sliding birthing worm

or out of the great balls of eye

being formed on every flapping fish

after all the rain my pores have swallowed, I think perhaps

the Earth shall keep me after all.

At the very least to wring me out to feed the lake.


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