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

Advertisements

stretched across a laundry line

Music washes over me; hands, like rivers; rivers, like dreams / I think about ancestors; about mythology and folklore; about stories that transpose themselves through the ages like bits of dusty gold

I think about the adult world : raucous, loud, convoluted, holding magic for ransom; the skin and teeth of story nearly devoured, hour by hour, contorted into boxey-shapes of rectangles and rhombuses

Ego walks from hand to hand, hand to mouth, foot to foot, mad cow to mad cow; the sleeping mind stays sleeping, radical feet move radii within

I do not want to be talked to; I want to absorb the sound of the moment, privately, momentously, publicly, resonant with the clamour of souls bouncing around me, I want the sound to find its proper place; I want to write the world a love poem; I think not of its being read, I think only of the writing of it, of the prayer to the moment, to be held, to hold it, to give it holding, to let it feel the feeling of being held, I want to care the world back to its proper place

I know somewhere deeply that this is not the right world, it rubs up closely, wildly, but it is altogether a dream shadow of the reticent realness of the world / I carry a small smile on the bottom of my shoe, I let the whispers of the wind echo through me, try to bounce them back through my eye mirrors

And I still feel the shadow of your absence in every brick

Your laughter, the glow of tiny stones, the agony of the symphony


When hunger drips through the world towards me, when my hands are a pale excuse for paper, when my blood seeps ink, when my ink purples amd violets, violents the curtains and pulls down the rhymes, when my heart is an open arrangement here for your perusement, when my ring of memories are a string of pinked, hushed kisses out of order in a line, stretched across a laundry line, when my writing writes you back, when cobwebs splinter the brainfog, when curled bits of shells house small moving snails of memory; slowly, slowly, trailing everything slowly, minutely, solemnly

When lullaby is a crushed prayer to the present; when courage is a slow march towards absolutism, when fire is a burning mouth inside of yours, when memory is a fortune of emeralds in your eyes

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

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

i try not to let it crack

rattle-roll, i hear the toll of every ticking branch, seemingly seeming to see the end of the season swimming towards us – swallowtail, i swallow the sun in gulps and grants – i grant myself fervor and hot-footed breaths

candlemas, and the turning of the earth towards the light – light, and the turning of the ash to soil once more – and the planting, the thought of the thought of the thought before the seed

a thousand New Year’s days please – the courage of beginning again – the raw heart of a new beginning a thousand times over – in a row, lined like ducks perched everlasting, please – your heart, please, draped next to mine in the cold winter’s night, please – wrapped in a body, a little flesh fragment – a little capsule for a wilderness within 

and you too, your memories reek like rotted seasons cracked at the bark – your skin beginning to crack too, and me, and my memories beginning to crack too – your scratchy, distant face, the way my caterpillar of a heart cocoons itself when it flashes to memory – no longer mine, no longer yours, the frozen thumping of a blazing hot season of youth traipsed over my eyes – forever young, forever frozen in the heat, forever wild, a creature of agelessness / it isn’t that i feel old – it’s that the curvature of time takes you away from me, moves the strange temperature of your soul from a dark blue to a hue i cannot recognize, am not supposed to know how to recognize ; the distance both a time and space – a relativity of distance longer than a word can be described ; a perpetual dying, a perpetual freezing

I find myself literally dreaming about the spring during this season, the goosefeet of mid-march drumming through the rain, the cotton wind of the clouds currying over the hillside, the mist of a meadow that sits somewhere between reality and me – and myself, the virulence of my body allowed to breathe, no longer strapped into sinews of cotton and corduroy – i dream about my flesh touching the wind again, the sunlight touching my hair again, my feet able to run into morning dew, my eyes able to open to the splays of green and yellow – i dream, i dream, i sleep, i hibernate my heart, i try not to let it crack in the freeze, in the ice-sheets blanketing mud, i try to keep it balmed / i try not to let it crack

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

november wind

scoop me up, november wind. tussle me around like these burnt, brown leaves. leave me alone, big wind. leave me alone, biting chill, hungry coats, scratchy hats, bottomed out boots and swollen socks. leave me alone, coming cold and bottle necked branch billow breezes

saddle me with love – love the backsides of my knees, the places where my skin curls into freckle, the turn at the base of my skull where hair meets air. and i too, love the minutiae of waking up – of turning on the cellular limitations of liminal space, of devoting myself to loving every day, everyday. to at least attempt to find the glow of love at least momentarily – everyday.


I don’t mind the Instagram-ed glorification and beautification of life (if done right) because it is precisely feeding a hunger our society needs – the sacred versus profane – crossing the liminal space to the magic realism of everyday – providing perspective to the mundane moments of our life – honoring aesthetic everywhere – honoring the beauty of our lives everywhere – finding the sacred in the profane and lifting it up – elevating moments of life that otherwise slip by – consciously cultivating an awareness and reverence towards the formed beauty of our lives splayed out – dabbing art here and there – crossing the boundary lines between prose and poetry; between the pastoral and the profound daily. a meditation, a practice, a transformative tool for creating guerrilla art in everyone’s hands (just please don’t waste it only on selfies, dear friends and lovers)

october 17 –

Today was one of my all time favorite memories already now crystallizing in the twilight as my brain chews on it / opening the door to the golden house to see little jamie standing at school with his white backpack and his red shoes and white hair and his brilliant smile. Taking his little hand / little heart of mine in his and taking him into the school with me / gazing sidelong at every other little child, saying his full name with a grin and even occasional ‘nice to meet you’ / His little grizzly drizzle smile and his big mouthed baby words

And the chicory and the Queen Anne’s lace and the wild daisies and the orange leaves singed at the edges with red and patches of green not yet turned

Is there a right way to love the world?


october 20 –

walking into that theatre felt like a waft of warm air hitting me in the face. the memories were visceral – right in front of my eyes, twirling and revolving – the things most tactile were of the season – the heat, the junebugs, the sweat, the swarm of flowers and golden shafts of light…and i thought that was funny, considering everything took place inside. inside a dusty old theatre box glowing with life. rattling with laughter. swelling. swollen. it still wrapped itself around the rafters for me. it still clung in the floorboards. and what struck me too, was the fragile speed with which the seasons change. with which this is an entirely different place now. and the trees, barely hanging on to the little leaves that sheltered us. and the air, whipping in the night as we walk brick by brick. how quickly the seasons change, how wildly the people shutter out the doors / and linger in the pipes, and how words still listen in the wings, and how every word spoken still reverberates – sound isn’t lost, it just gets quieter and quieter – soft waves of meaningful noise dissipating forever. if you listen, with the right kind of ears – you can still hear it.


october 29

topsy-turvy world; topsy-turvy month – how have i never had a moment to write? about a new show starting, dance feet aching, old muscles twitching awake. about linger-lacing, finger-dancing dates; about october days twirling in the ache of color. about golden light and warmth of autumn trickling through the trees. about theatre seen and theatres listened to – about laughter captured and lungs filled. about music dribbling; nahko bear and rain-drenched adventures. about jamie learning – going to school – leaps, bounds and buckles. about projects and crafts and thread and wool and breath and school and teacher teaching, bonding burning, friendship rolling, love-lists lengthening, newnesses and newnesses and october settling in the air – cackling. thai food listening and crackle-box curries and molten hot chocolate and yellowed haybales and greened corn maze mystery. and flashlight secrecy – kisses caught on your coat. boots and bumbles and brambles and words. and words. and love. and love. and more love. and light, and life. and october death in the gorgeous grace of gravity.

a thrilling mound

we dug our hands into soft sand – fire-beach children. my son’s pudgy fingers pressing at the earth, my fingers dancing around shells/pockets full of waves and sunken bits of salt-treasure. we made a mound – a simple mound/a thrilling mound. decadent with shell bits, ornate with pearlescent rocks – simple colors/magnetic cream and golden hue – something found, something borrowed, something blue and black and hollow. a shell, a whisper/a flagpole at the top of a tower. a firmament – a creation – a castle – a mound – a pile of wet sand/a toddler. a dream afternoon – silence, the splash of the tide, the concoction of clouds in the sky – curdling into a late afternoon storm. gathering, gathering. the sky is gathering. our hands our gathering. sandrain, we dream a wish moment. we build the captain of this ship – a tiny sliver of shell. a broken home washed up on the shore. we gather, we gather. we dig our hands in. we wash with the waves. we wave with the current. we sit in the silence – in the crash – in the din – in the storm-gather. we are a pair of sand-children, we are a pair of silent eyes creating a thrilling mound. and watching it get washed back out to sunken bits of salt-treasure.