The particular shade

I cannot wear my sunglasses when i gaze into the sun’s rays on the water / or into the chlorophyll dappled light through the trees – because the barrier between my eyes and the world is a film of unsubstantiated sense that I am not willing to part with / the sense of all my senses sensing the world at once is a gift too precious to unload / – a hat will not do my little hair strands must feel the sky / i need the fullness of my skin stretched like an organ of perception around me to feel the firm jolly soul of this rock I am sitting on ; and the air which is filled of so many lustful flies and crushed bone particles of days gone by / wishing themselves through the air / and the light only hits right when I can see it with my own little orbs of eyes : my little daffodils of seeing : and the particular shade of green on this new day of May is a brightness of verdant too vibrant to chastise behind plastic dark filter ; the hue and unmistakable shade of the presence around me I cannot name, or speak to, but can feel through my skin ; through precious sacred cones and rods in my eyes ; that filter my brain through the highest Bliss this little body has ever known / the presence always around me –

the month wraps around me – a cloud of haphazard seeming nothing-ness, a curtain of time zipped through the sweater — i wish i could be of more help, of more use, i wish i did not feel guilt for not being able to physically help ; i try to rest inside of my little body, be at peace with myself, be at fundamental solace – i am grateful for my hands, and what they make; i am grateful for my son, and how he smiles up at me through his eyes and claps wildly at the silliest of incantations; i am grateful for the sun, the rain, the bursts of spring that sing at my sides; i am grateful for the sound of the wind blowing through the branches, for food and clean water, for joy and safety ; i am hoping for everyone, for all things, for all beginnings to begin again;; i am hoping

the endless hyperbole

rattle sun-star – fragments of eternal light pouring down on us now, piles of endless photons smothering the grass in chlorophyll and love ; rain down, the fullness of molecules carried from some other ocean ;; radiate, some resonance of the new season peeking out of a daffodil’s eye ;; saturate me, the rest of the world turning in time, the turn of the wheel wondering back at me, the wonder of the earth twirling it’s dance — bird song and cloud thunder, the rapture of energy trilling up the trunks of trees, the curtain of dandelions pulling themselves over the green stage

your little voice i hear over the hill and through the bushes, putting sentences together and discovering spelling between your teeth, reading the world around you and slowly, seemless-ly, coming in to consciousness and the wild world that sings to him – in every splintered cell, every swollen blossom — a heiroglyph, a letter to us all ; the endless hyperbole of being alive

i wish we deserved bernie ; i wish we all treated each other better, more fairly , i wish we thought of ourselves as a we, viewed politics as a means to take care of one another, rather than a tribal and petty battle royale

this time

every day a slow tendril, curling and unfurling – every acid washed blossom fever a call towards the wild – every wildness we all inhabit, a dream towards the unending future – this spring, the strangest springboad, the utter and endless transformation of the world into a new place altogether – all together // all tenderly cupping our hands towards each other, all reaching, all sitting quietly and asking for nothing more ;; the strangest thoughts have been coming to me, because my brain has to flip this or else I will be swallowed by it — I’ve been allowing myself to think — what a gift this time is, what a true gift (for those of us not suffering and ill) — to settle down, to need nothing, to race towards nothing, to be forced simply to live, with no goals or accomplishments or the ticking of tocks towards us — simply the ending time of spring unfurling like a slow bud — her glory all around us, unabashedly hitting us over the head with nature’s magnificence – everyone forced to stop their rattle train of thoughts, their mill wheel of endless hurrying — to be with ourselves – to sort through our thoughts – to sit with the uncomfortable feeling and to be forced to sit through it – to push past it – to be able to take the time for ourselves, to gaze inwards at ourselves and outwards at the brilliant limbs of trees outside ourselves – to look towards the sky and watch the blossoms bud — what a gift this time is

what riveting birth

To release the wheels ; to let myself release ; to wade into the muck of an uncertainty – to feel the spring bud all around you towards the starlight – i can do most anything inside of the spring ; I can withstand most anything inside of the marsh of the madness of March – the drooping tendrils of April and the fiery blossom sun of May –– I can do most anything / I can let my tapping fingers set themselves down / I can see new pathways, break all habits, forge new patterns, look at my time not like a metronome but like a ball of wild weeds cunningly spitting up from the Earth ; I can be the crazed bud season – I can pull myself towards the rooted structures that feed the banks of the canal ; the wild lettuce growing in patches out of the mud ; the air so filled with the smells of birth – no death rattling through the air anymore – the endless, endless chime of more than enough time to possibly know what to do with ;; what riveting birth

A wave of creative hum ; the slight smile at the end of the big Dipper dipping into the old world ; the ocean of timelessness – adolescent wish me knots and time worth tasting on the tip of your tongue – days worth wasting stacked on top of one another , making a selection of fossils waiting to one day be admired , millennia in the future

If this is all I had of my life , this would have been enough – these 20 some odd years ; the piles of sweet summer days hunkered beneath my left knee ; the traces of spring afternoons laced into my tibia ; my DNA will sing of blissful captures ; moments ratcheted into my brain cells ; hunks of breath laced into my lungs ; the best tasting laughter ; the medicine of always more – the growing towards creating – the moving towards the NeverEnding coming / if this is it, this was enough / I am grateful for this / I will always be grateful for these years I have lived so blissfully / and if we walk towards despair , towards economic depression , I am not afraid of what loss I will live through – this has been enough already , and the gratitude of my limbs reaching towards the yellow road lines paved down the street – the aching twist of freedom , that I got to run at all , that I got to stand inside of crowds of people and feel the energy of oneness at all , that I got to be doused in the rain in a concert sprinting through the all of us , that I got to race down the highway laughing with friends , fumbling into party , stumbling into bar , curled up in a sleepover , warped through a meadow, a bunch of people lying in the grass strumming some guitar , wading through some soft river , adventuring with strangers – that I got to do any of these things at all – that my body got to be blessed with all of these adventures ; all of these theatre’s , all of these casts , all of these strange creations with people I didn’t know who then became family , that I got to camp , that I got to trust any stranger next to me – who could ask for any more than this ;; I hope against hope for Jamie, that he will get to experience , that he will get to grow and unfurl ; and whatever children I have yet to be a part of ;; no answers anymore , just more questions stacked on top of one another ; but I will be there and I will be fearless , and I will try and try again to remember my fearlessness no matter how many times I forget, or misplace it, or place it on top of another person, I am always this fearless, this strong, this hopeful

a shelter, a house, a river

i tried to peel a poem out of my skin this morning – a little effort, a little rusty on the wheels, but still rolling, somehow; slowly;; i purpose myself towards the day — the days seem to be rushing too quickly for any ray of sun to come perch itself on my shoulder – but still i fly towards the new day; towards the end of the month – towards the rage of summer about to crash into me // i still love my gentle feet for walking me forward, i still love my feeble eyes for working in the morning ; i still adore the patter of tiny feet on my ribcage as he curls his body into mine (a shelter, a house, a river)

who owns the smell of the air on the last day of May

where do you go when the trees speak back and the sap seeps forward and the bridges and built and the bridges are built and the burned char of last year’s ashes have grown new poppies? and where is the light lingering and who owns the smell of the air on the last day of May and whose heart is ever ready for June or the bluster of a summer stinking towards you on the scent of the water — who forgives you and forgives you and who never can? how do you piece it together, and what is the peace for? i think about the end of the world all the time, nearly obsessively, nearly desperate for it / let us stop being afraid // let us keep creating, stop listening to the small voices, to the rage of rhythm not based in reality or reason /

i have difficulty telling children to do things i don’t believe they should have to do / i have difficulty procuring fake anger at a child because i’m supposed to as a teacher if i really think it’s just fine ; i think weening the wilderness out of humanity is one of the biggest things crippling us as a species ; i can’t do the things that we only do to keep humans in line, i can’t stay in the line, i hate the line, i have difficulty telling children to stay in the line — i can give them love, comfort, teaching, humor, explanation, patience, and discipline when i believe it, but there are so many things that i myself say fuck that too and i can’t understand why we tell our children to squeeze themselves through a series of jail bars and that they will find themselves on the other side “more whole” / i have so many questions, so many fine lines, so lack of respect for lines – but i trust my instincts, i really do, i have fine tuned my eyes and my senses and i have remained conscious in what i believe children need and don’t need – and i may be young but i really believe in my judgment — i need to flesh it out, flesh it all out, find the edges and grooves, learn how to talk about it coherently and specifically, and we need to stop desiring to turn wild beasts into mere line walkers – we need something in the middle

that’s my fucking motto isn’t it – something in the middle

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.

and here the heron

Gulp in the spring shine in like medicine it’s the only good pill there is ; drive with the windows down ; bike across the dirt path ; Hunger yourself towards the hollow of the sky ; the convex convolution of our reality ; the convention of complexly confusing the horizon for the edge , Let the world spin madly on

And here – this rust mud puddle of a river floating me down / And here, the swelling fingers and toes of the new green leaves still may-colored and honeysuckled / and here my eyes a new ocean / and here the hum of the river, the trill of a bird, the soft hummingbird song of a neighbor’s dog, and here the brash bravery of the flowers perching themselves along the bank, and here the heron, wide and ageless, powering his angling flaps low above the water

I’ll write myself into a disguise / you’ll know where i am / you can find me with your eyes closed

I spotted a Cardinal in the branches ; fire-organ, special, burrowed ; I could not catch him fast enough ;; of course, you already knew that, of course

The curvature of roots ; the ecstasy of blossoming ; the mindless dandelion of wish ; the violence of wind through the atmosphere; The deafening mix of warmth and breeze ; the rapture of daylight spreading ; the hurricane of waking up

the delirium of Sun

But have you seen 6 o’clock may light / do you know what my heart feels like when it thumps against the wind / Am I anything other than the Spring ; does anyone know anything real other than this jubilation ; than the delirium of Sun warmth and soil smell and what the world really is ; of what life really is :: and all the shadows surrendering from all the other surreptitious seasons ; all the false days fading in the may light / All the mayflies casting ringlets in the river / nothing else mattering but this, but matter moving and dancing :: dancing, you imbecile, the point of life to dance ; loving, you idiot, the point of life to love ; To live, goddammit, all the geese yelling at me to live // And the blossoms – each one more ingenious than the next // and sight: a fever to behold