green returning

First and foremost, there is the multitude of light, the branches of sky ceiling that stretch around like crashing bones; secondly, there is the rhythym of words that tuck behind your ear; thirdly there is courage, the firmament of flurried breaths which carry you from one day to the next ; fourthly there is the beckoning forth of the seeds to the light, to the might of leaves to the air, to the resonance of grass to the grace of green returning ; the grace of green returning

Ninthly there is twilight, like a milky sea of froth wishes tumbled out of cosmic memory

I see spring arranged about me like a pearl of courage cracking itself open ; i see a thousand beams of hungry light being themselves wishlesslessly

Yeah me? I’m still convinced I don’t deserve love

Advertisements

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

purple light washes

“in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)’

 

the perhaps hand of spring is peeling back the river from the banks, gushing the pearldropped tones of winter back to whence they came, pulling the supple colors of spring, slowly, slowly, from the banks / from the mud-luscious reptilian curtain of my brain

my brain, my brain is a hot-wire fire burner / a little teaspoon of volcano, a little trapdoor self-punisher, a little flowgarden out of flow or overflowing

the clouds are a river, the weather is a wild beast, my best attempts at wholeness are the smallest attempts at rain, the hope of the world is a funnel, i am a process


i am grateful again. for purple light washes, for red flares of guitars and foot-stomps, for friendship and laughter and laughter and laughter, for young people with the best intentions, wide open hearts and big talent to share; i am grateful for the sharing, for the stage, for the shift of blue lights blazing around my eyes. i am grateful for these people, for their honesty of love and vulnerability, for the ease of trust, for the song of purple summer

an absence in several places

i couldn’t stop staring at the tiles on the ground. the mosaic-ed black and white checks. my mom on speakerphone with my brother next to the bathrooms at the concert venue. thrum humbling and bum mumbling. i couldn’t pick my eyes up. she told me clearly and quickly that grandpa had died. 5 days before i was going out to see him. now the visit would be a memorial. my brother was right there with me. mama told us to sing and dance loudly at the concert. and then glen hansard walked onto the stage, nearly immediately. bryan said at least we’re at the right kind of concert for this. and i cried my way through his incredible music. the rafters hung on to smokey light, the ceiling fans danced rhythm above us. my navigator grandfather was navigating uncharted waters.

and i think about his life, the kind of life he lived. how unimaginably full his life was. navigating. flying planes. being in wars. working for the CIA. losing his wife at 28. writing a broadway musical and opening it on broadway. working on the apollo mission, drawing the maps to the moon. writing a book. living through the depression. buying a farm at 70 and becoming a cow farmer at that age. herding the cows around his missouri land all through his elder years. out in the cold, fixing the fence, eating his wheatgerm and almonds. unafraid and unstoppable. telling stories, sharp as a tack, witty as ever.


a few muted candles, a towering blue one, a bundle of rocks reminiscent of real ones – a thousand smatterings of light reminiscent of the real one – a trillion spinning ancestors reaching back and forth

we gathered in ohio. i felt the hunger of all the hearts around me, glistening like watered diamonds / we talked about anything other than what we were really there for / somehow the ones closest to him managed the most numerous smiles / cousin held my hand while we both cried, two sad little birds in a shallow pool of water, distracting and distracted / i felt grandma’s heaviness and her desire to not reveal it / i saw my mother fluttering with tiny silk wings / everyone was fragile; we somehow the most

my brothers and i (just two of my brothers, i mean) alone in the car, letting the song finish, refusing to open the door, no one drawing their gun first, no one willing to walk in yet, begging for someone to let us have some catharsis, to have some moment to process (they’re not talking about it, you see, they’re hurrying us along, you see, they’re saying we have to be upbeat, you see, we’re trying not to bring them down, you see) / so we all sit in silence, we all look straight ahead, we all cry silent tears, we all shake our heads when they ask if we’re ready to get out of the car, we all let the song finish // then we wipe our faces and go in smiling, like they want us to, we talk about other things, like they want us to, we don’t presume this weight is ours to carry, we let it slip amongst the clouds ; we do not know how to process, only how to light a candle, and how to blow it out

i feel the absence in several places in my body. oh, a new hole in my chest, goody. i feel the absence in the room, too, though no one would dare bring it up. my oldest brother, missing in action once again, this time, somehow truly incomprehensibly. my father, i didn’t expect to feel his absence here. but i feel strange that he doesn’t get to grieve. and lastly, of course, the resounding absence of grandfather himself. somehow wizened-eyed and smiling behind every hidden word. everything moves very fast, and somehow impossibly slow. i do not feel i have enough time to process, and yet i don’t know what else there is to say or do. i rage against my brother. i rage too, at the insensitive incomprehensible defense of his behavior. i rage at the misunderstanding (and that’s a kind interpretation). i have no more tolerance for this bullshit. none at all. i have forgiveness in my stores, but no more benefit of the doubt. we curse him behind closed doors, 3 siblings that once were 4. we hold close to each other, 3 siblings that once were 4. i revel in the intimacy of touch cousin gives me, the openness of tears. i am grateful for these. and for the humanness we shared with one another.

i think of his life, too and i can hardly find a reason for sorrow. full and deep and smart and vast. sharp, without fail. kind, without fail. always more than you could hope for. i light a candle, i blow it out. i rid myself of fear. i charge myself to live up to his grace. to fly as he once did, navigating in the dark, with a riddled paper map inside his hands. flying, soaring, navigating, charting, finding his way in the dark; fearless and full of light.


 


i collapse on the ground; i splint and saunter, i gather my bones onto crutches, i remember god staring at me with one eye in the waiting room, i remember god in the pain. i remember how god is always laughing. how we believe in mistakes. how small and foolish we all are. my eyes fill with tears when they describe to me how in what particular ways i will be immobile. how i will need help bathing, how i will go up the stairs on my butt. i am frustrated because i love inhabiting my body. using it and rolling about the world. because it is spring now, finally. because the golden curls of the little hairs of the sun stay dripping until nearly 8pm now and she will not wait for me to come play with her. because i cannot miss my appointment with the re-greening of the grass. because the daffodils long for my eyes to see them, because the crocuses are trying to kiss me, and i long to see the seedlings root as much as they long for me to press my skin to the sides of their homes. i am frustrated because i feel bad asking people to take care of me, because i will lose money taking off work, because i worked for months on this show and now i will not be able to do it. because my son deserves to be played with.


one of my most serious ex-boyfriends came out as a woman, and i don’t know how to process this. i don’t know what is not selfish. i feel like i’m not entitled to need to process it. but i do. i’m not sure what reality is, what a person is, what gender is, what memories are and at what point they become something different, or do they? because i had a relationship with a man who was obsessed with working out and having a masculine physique that wanted to marry me in a very conventional way. but she was a woman all along. are there terms for what it is i am feeling? i am sending her love and support, always. but privately, in my own little mind alone, i am trying to understand my own memories like a ghost in a song playing backwards. i know gender means nothing. and at the same time, clearly it does.


ash-white and linen bold, today the calhoun st bridge was covered in a thick 8am fog, like a wind-chime singing in all directions; like a spring breath puffing thickness like a virtue; like the green chipped paint on the old rusting metal was the only bridge between reality and the netherworld. we zoomed, slowly, through the curtain of obscurity, making a prayer to the springtime. bring all your wishes, moonclouds, bring all your dewdrops, i will take them, i will sit in your obscurity, in your april rain, in your dappled showers, i will take it all. i will cover myself in seedling mud and cotton stones of forgotten gardens. if this is what it takes to grow. if this is what it takes to grow.


 

Into a dancer you have grown
From a seed somebody else has thrown
Go on ahead and throw some seeds of your own
And somewhere between the time you arrive
And the time you go
May lie the reason you were alive
But you’ll never know

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

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

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