the greens deepen

mayfaire comes at the waldorf school and the blossom beads of twirling reeds come spinning through the children’s hair ; the light streams like a never ending resource ; the laughter grows in petals and in purpose – we all gasp at the beauty – the ribbons, the flowers, the aching imagery from some place where the world was whole ; we adults say out loud to each other – it’s like another time ;; I think perhaps maybe we can’t handle the exquisite horror of the modern world, the unendingly banal and mundane ; the vain and heartless bullshit of it all, we ache for something real, for something beautiful, so perhaps we escape reality (perhaps reality has escaped realness) has pushed off from shore ; I feel a kinship with these strange people ; with this band of people that cannot stand the way the world is ; that cannot cope ; sure, i cannot cope, i escape the world, i hide in worlds that make me forget, that make me imagine the world is something different than it is – But I have to – there’s no life out there for me in the real world ; I have to keep my mind full of real reality or it will slip so quickly into the unending tragedy of the world

No, I do not tire of the multitudinous of nature

I will always belong to the wide open blue


so many moments pass me by when i do not write about them ; they slip like ash and blossom, bloom and bud, and suddenly here the roses are blossoming like the world wants to be june already – may plundered the rain from the sky and baked the new green leaves, hurled the roots and curls of vines of tangled green limbs towards one another in rapture ; i sat watching the world wake up, i sat watching the greens deepen, i held baby’s hand as he learned and sang and laughed and slept, i followed a new moon towards a new play, i worked in the hard emotions, the difficult patience of listening and emoting

i follow the sun, i oxygen, follow every bud like a whisper, i tunnel myself through the mud, i find myself over and over again — old friends sitting around me like an undying circle , watching the places where people crease, where they bend, where they curl, how friendship moves through you like a rooted forest, like the cut branch, ash fire of a wilderness that knows how to grow back, it always knows how to grow back, how to sustain // some things get cut away; some things grow higher, get rooted more deeply, don’t need as much tending anymore, but grow on their own


rapture body, i agree to too many projects, i fill in my every minute with too many doings, i make my hands make too many things, i fill, i fill, i am rich of experience and makings and givings, but i rarely can feel the afternoon wrap around me, like a glove, i rarely can herald myself towards coherency, i rush muddle myself, i thorough time taker have not the time for finishing every open door, but i prioritize the mud, the hush of sunlight through the grass, through the wildflowers on the bank, i make time for the goslings to cross the path, for the iris to turn its face towards the horizon, i have to make time for the things that matter, otherwise my matter will forget that nothing really matters – i musn’t take anything too seriously, i must rise like a blade, swallow myself whole like a drop of morning dew into the canal, i must keep watering my garden, i must sit and listen, i must sit and listen, everything is speaking, tiny tongues, shrill voices, hungry songs of hungry leaves, drinking in chlorophyll and sunlight and the shadow of words no longer important to the things that remember how to live all the time, to the beings in silence that laugh at our everythinggrumble; our stubbornness to surrender  ; our inability to remember what matters and forget our own names ; the place where freedom is; the place where light echoes and music sees

oh, oh, i remember now, the place where taste touches and mind mirrors memory without strings, the place where fear dissolves, the place i am always ever going-am.

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something that can still bloom

how do i write about my cat dying in my arms? about listening to his rattling breath all night, myself aching that he was in so much pain, looking into his scared eyes in the middle of the night, waking up with a dead cat in my arms. dan coming home to say goodbye and having missed it. digging a hole in the backyard. trying to tell jamie something that isn’t horribly confusing. trying to choke down the feeling that the winter was just too long, the spring was just too slow, his poor feet wanted to pounce in the grass and lay in the sun and he waited and waited and waited and the sky stayed gray for too long. where do the words go and where do they return back to? all the confusion, all the heartache. the frustration in my work, the discipline of the sky to return to blueness, the swallowing armament of a healing broken bone. how do i write about the shadow of the season, the warmth of the rain, the circles we walk in over and over again. about your eyes, or mine; or about your heart, or mine

how do i write about the moments in between, the waitings, the wearing outs. how do i write about the exhaustion, or the rhythm, or the sadness in the branches still bursting / how do i eat the sun / memorize the buds on the trees / mold myself into something that can still bloom again?

 

the fear of breathing

Life is the courage to breathe which breeds the courage to feel which curls the fear of breathing to the burned ashes to the edges of visible sight ; of visible light

Loving hard as fuck you tell me ;

the edges of the big bang still visible on the horizon, like a capsized circimsition of the derision of the decision to exist here, now, in this crumbled architecture of a why

the underside of the backside of the backbone of visible light still virtual on the tip of my tongue, on the lip of my lungs

the hungry reminsence of my soul on my body

more southerly

it hurts like hell

My chest explodes a thousand times, and ten more; the answers lay like mines in the air, the world sits in warfare; i sip helpings of hallowed love from a shallowed shell – your ribcage laid bare, myself, perched inside it like a taxidermied bird

Just physical, you say, well i say physically there is no way for my body to feel closer to any light more southerly than the north star

I’ll pretend I don’t love it, the fire, the rain, the hurricane

You’ll pretend you can stand the pain, the novocaine, the loss and the gain

I’ll lay my bones out in a circle, a marrow display, the deepests, the furrows, the melted bits

i hold a ball of burning beeswax in my hands; i press honey-ed flame to my lips; i smell, i reek it in, i rake it in – the flame, the flood, the spark, the match, and the flint the match is struck against

and the flint the match is struck against

a melting process

canyon of march, puddle beneath my feet, hamstring stretch of weather stretching over this chunk of land (it’s nameless; you named it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is nameless). hungry for spring; i am ravenous. hungry for a beating heart in my hand; i am cavernous. parched and patched like quilt-work sewn with sinew. word-work, i am always working – i am never getting very far. i am never getting far enough. love-work, i am always bleeding for it. i am always pleading for it.

wide-eyed vision scape, i am always seeping through the floorboards; gazing past the horizon line; sandwiching myself between sense and sand – glass, and the melting process to make it;; i am always a making process, a melting process, a process of processes processing themselves


 

the feeling that you’ll only love me if i stay far enough away ;;

i cannot reach for you, so i reach towards the silken emptiness of air; i write towards the absence; i lean into the absess; i let the abyss wrap itself around me

i gape at the stuttered splinter lights of trenton; i let winter gallop towards me, apace, a patter; all space a trance about me; always potential in practice, always waiting; always a character in a play in someones else’s timeline; always checking the glass door; always checking the time; always keeping memories like locked sapphires; like a fortune in an outdated currency; like a dowry /  i no longer care about leaving tracks

 

i can see your heartache right on your brow, i can see it

/ a thousand more poems about this; sure /

i cannot stand the glow of your eyes pouring through my brain, but i cannot keep them at bay, so i swim with them, i let them swim me, carry me, no shoreline in sight, but enough light to burn through the night

I cannot stand to sit through the fire, so i glare at the honesty between us ; you stare back, the warmth of the eyes behind your eyes is so alarming i try to keep myself from setting ablaze ;; i brush off the heat, i pour it through myself – it keeps getting caught in my eyes ; it keeps getting caught in my eyes ; i think for a moment that i’ve never looked into your eyes this way before ; i think i’ve never looked in to anyone’s eyes before – if this is what it’s like, perhaps I’ve never done it at all; perhaps i’ll never do it again

i catch your hand, the graze of your fingertips, i cannot stand the warmth ; so i douse myself in mystery, the pursed lips of one who cannot stand to say the truth; who cannot stand the flame ; for fear of getting burned; for fear of getting burned

and when i dream, the dream is of these little ponds of earthen eyes, these animal eyes, hunting me – graceful, somehow graceful (i never knew them to be graceful before); i never saw them so full before; so rich with silent answers

the song is about me, i know it’s true ; the song is about you, i know that too

a sudden canyon

but i never do
have to lose you,
isn’t that right?

as every rock lingers in your name, every strange stone face heralds your voice, every fragment of fragments fingers along your forestry – you, angel pulpit; you, profit of my lifetime; you, mountain of chunked ash and debris still carrying me; you, current of river-wide ocean smiles; you, hurricane of frenzy, of yellow-brick-road hair, of condemnation of the nation you narrated me through; you, of bending arrows pointing towards a future splintered across the time-beaten mountains (now hills, now prairies, now basins dried of water long rained and gashed upon the silt); you, silk of my sanity, surrender of my serendipity, curtain of love laced around the ancient sunrise still rising; still rising, i still rise for you; still waiting, i still wait for you; some lover smashed in time, particle-d in relativity, part-of-me in relative motion around your orbit, part of the sea still chasing our muddy heels – trying to wash clean the reverie. part of my sleep still a waking dream; part of my day still a walking sleep; part of the dreamtime wrapped around my torso like a corset, tying me together with the strings and quarks of quaking time; circus rhymes and mangoes and limes; all the times we timed ourselves tracing the universe from my path to your path, and back again. and the moment the paths parted – like a rift on the landscape, a sudden canyon – an archeological arched back – a rotating cuff of surface gruff – a tilled tile of tectonic plate grooved out of place – a pothole in the desert – a leap too steep to meet // and time – tearing towards like a catapult, forgetting your name, forgetting our path, peeling roads away like dunes, like anthills craned away from their foundation. how does the feeling of our never touched future still feel like a path under my feet that i cannot walk? is it buried deep, my songline smothered? or is it vanished, like a penciled blueprint laughing?

a path nevertheless – deep in the canyon banks, eroded and corroded and –

oh, there you are again – the rocks, the trees, the everythingbreeze, the sound of the sound of the echo of the songline still singing // the path towards the path disappearing and reappearing like a dream, like a joke, like a penciled blueprint laughing

oh, there you are – right in front of me – the curled sunlight streaming – the never-ending race between my dream, yours, and the one we’re all waking from

moments unlived

Moth to a flame, I am; and you, you want me to write you into existence

I want that too – the chiseled song; the alchemy of story; the elegant bow on the tide of years; something hidden in a page; eternal/ like a written word made manifold; made more permanent than momentary touch

for a moment,I cannot look; I have to turn my face; pretend the ground is more interesting than any other gaze

I love the list of moments unlived between you and i //

I love tenderly the caress of imagined words on the back of my skull

cotton hands, warm light, keep the light warm, keep the warmth glowing, it’s just a few words, it’s just a few more words

enough electrity

radical wind whims – blow me down the curled river of streamed atoms that hunt for me past phrase and phase, the turning pages of my life laying down next to one another saying say, say, say more, sing more, send your sentience through the sense pool.


I held on too close – I want to feel your body close like marbles; like magnets; like traces of footsteps from past lives croaking up the angling staircase towards me – I held on because I want to feel the nape of your neck; curvature of your back; the weight of you; the structure / taste / picking up space in the ribcage / I let it linger because I could not stand the moment of disengage / the breakaway / the fateful walk to the car

I let it happen a little too long, a little too tight, a little too meaningful and let all my meanings fill all the empty spaces between my body and yours /
I tried to feel for your heart between our bones; for the answer quickly without being noticed; to scan the body for remnants of a reason; I tried to peek inside your ribcage /
I held you, strange love of mine and it was enough electricity to light me up all the way home

perpetually sudden

i think about how I’ve never really known what’s in your head; the grey matter; the fizzing goop that drips through your cerebellum, you strange beast…but that I have seen it ticking from the outside for half my life;; dizzying clockwork and happenstance ticks i know so well ; i see the everything gushing from within some socket – i wish i could plug the dam for you, let you rest in sinewed arms, take away the racket and the rage, let it wash out in the rain, i wish i could soften the gears, release the valve, unfurl the sails, let fly the fluttering eye

// just the right amount of pain, right to the bloodbones, to the corner of your brain still flooded with syrup and cotton

/ my little broken treasure

/ a little puncture in the side of your brain // what is this thing we call a heart; a ball of layer upon hayer of some howling wishes cast together; hot like iron – like glass – like metal – like a forge of something past and present and never fully had

the ever present present unfolding ;; like a little handful of Jack’s ; spiky and round at the same time

/ and you, barreling towards everything as if my heart was just a placeholder / wiping my i-love-you’s off your mouth as if they dirtied your imagination / and me, a sudden gust of wind perpetually blowing; perpetually sudden