the cottonwood rustles
with the wind
as a whisper dances
within a candle’s flame
no prayer stronger
here tonight
I am no different
within this season
(October 17, 2015)
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procreant urge
“howthe world opens for us, right through the midstof ourselves.”—Paul Celanwe are flowersopening nowas we speakunfolding intoa morning suneach momentan openingan unfoldingagain and thenagain foreverlike handsheld outofferinglove(October 14, 2015) -
Interlaced
I have nothing to offer tonight,my bones hang slack like puppetsdropped on the theater floor.Such tithes fall with soft alterations,minute differences to tangle vaguelylike the cracks along a tortoise shell;more broken auguries scatteredacross a mendicant’s bed to waitupon a new kind of prayer.Whispered ululations ribbon sorrowthrough the day’s transitional phrasesuntil we drown in its white noise.A silence drapes, like wet ash,upon every potential charma priest could mask us with.I find comfort in these shadows,the side chapels tucked alongthe familiar stations of the cross.The empty sanctuary swallowsall sounds. Even footsteps riselike bits of dust, then die.And what is death but a sigh?A return to the transient air,like leaves into the earth.I still hear the shape of hervoice, like distant outlinesof smoke between battered trees.So many traces still remain:genetic markers, slight scents,our last conversations.Fragmented nights and daysof innuendo and misinterpretationslip away in bashful innocence.My memory’s a mosaicI piece together, reshapingregret and hope, yet again.I worry over echoes whose originsno longer can be traced backto her voice laughing nearby.(October 10, 2015) -
palimpsest
we both opened to this pageas wind wanders through woodswe listen past the calligraphicswirls for meaning’s whispersto momentarily manifesta palimpsest to discernalternatives do not existlike choices and the illusionof chance not to claim fateby any means one can createas one can until possibilityexhausts itself into beingwhat decision was made beforeis as irrelevant now as thenfor argument belies an abilityreasonable and well-informedto exist beyond the rationalline which connects me to you(October 7, 2015) -
grounded
by
I eat dirt in handfuls overflowinglike water. The grit grinds betweenmy back molars. The black taste cloysthickly along my gums like claypulled from the Trinity’s wet banks.What heaven there is is here with mewithin the rich earth’s layered grain:the heave, and buck, and jostlealong the muscular fault linesflowing for miles beneath the skinof the world. Here is no needfor humility. We are enough;it is enough that we are herebeneath the unattainable stars.(October 6, 2015)
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inner voice
as if withan articulateguest he argueswith aireach moment insharp contentionlike a steelsliding alonga knife’s edgeuntil he eviscerateshimself againand then againwith unforgivingsighsevery faux pasevery fault pulsateslike sneers ripplingalong a smileeach word mouthedrepetitivelyto painful precisionsslicing what’s saidinto thinner andthinner stripsuntil his wordsfall meaninglessbelow tattered whiteflags flutteringflecked with bloodamong the dyingand the deadin yet anotherdistant battlefield(October 1, 2015) -
Talk to Me
“Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The folded meaning of your words’ deceit.”— William Shakespeare, Comedy of Errors“… the ideology they are forced (in order to make symbols, hence in order to live) to borrow from the class that dominates them.”— Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the TextI want to speak with you againto shape my words to your tongueto be enveloped in the kissof your mind then forgetall which has come betweenuntil no space exists to separatewhere we are and what we desirebut there are no words so clearso free so resonate to tracetrembling fingers along our skinor erase the edges of distancehesitant and mispronouncedthat we can speak into our silenceuntil we once again fall in love(September 26, 2015) -
advice to myself
“The best work we can do is to withdraw the projection of our shadow onto others.”–Carl Jungembrace your personal clichéssmother them with awarenessit’s hard enough to be honestwith yourself so forgive othersand do not fix your anxietiesonto friends with hope of creatingyour salvation in their skin -
the poet is not the poem
O reader,you are notthe youI speakwhen I callyour name,norare you invitedto understandanythingabout mebeyond yourself.Do not thinkyou know mebecause you readmy poems:I cannot saywho I am,or where I am,and Ispent daysand yearswriting themlost withinthe lines.These wordsare pulledfrom a fardeeper wellthan can befathomedwith biography.Where they startand where they gobefuddle me intoan illuminatedpresent.Each momentstarts anew,I know lessthan I used to.(September 24, 2015) -
Dream Journal #25: Baggage
Everyone I encounteredin the building where I workedwere friendly and helpfulwith only a tingeof cheerful concernto mar their facade,as I scurried,like squirrels in heat,up and down the stairs.Each floor resembled the nextwith only slight primary colorhue variations to breakthe monotony of it all.I could unlock all the roomswithout a key, yet noneof the rooms were mine,and all stood vacant.I had too much to doand knew I was late.I could see my anxietiesextend through my handslike colored ribbonswhipping in the wind.No one else was in a hurry.They all sat about the hallslike grandmothers gossipingover tea in an orderlyBerlin neighborhood.Then I was overwhelmed in epiphany:I was in the wrong place – –possibly the wrong time,there were no clocks.Then just as quickly I forgot – –even though it was importantto remember any of the reasons;so I continued searching,opening doors, negotiating stairs,falling, and falling, and falling:a constant disappointmentto everyone I ever knew,or any one I ever was.(September 23, 2015) -
Cross Pollination
by
“Collaborate with the moment.”–Lyn HejinianSummer’s heat’s outsideI wait lost inside my bookstime patterns the wallsturn along a labyrintheverything seems so simplea leaf turns yellowthen falls obliquely to earthinconsequentialas I age I disappeara slow fade into grey duston her car he drewdusty hearts she wouldn’t seethen drove home alonemuch goes unseen and unheardoblique gestures in the darkhe held his hand outunbidden and undesiredif noticed at allalong a vague edge it lurksshadows enwrap the shadowsa heart darkly marredprovides a darker tattooa hard-blued rhythmveins like sun-baked cracks in mudtrace patterns within my fleshdried rivers and roadsno longer pull us alongwe’re alone and lostas if another state couldexist where I had a clueto think divergentinstead of a precise lineis praised yet despisedall the boxes in a rowwe only reap what we sowthe dust rose higherobliterating the earthsmothering the skyour history laughs quietlythe obvious slaps us downthe ubiquitoussurrounds us like the night airbreathe and disappeartoday I wish to vanishtake the interstate and drivegot to pay the billsI’m too much like my fatherself-abnegationeven now his anger burnsa cauterized part of methick scars from old woundssplit and crack like winter’s iceblood flows into earthas summer’s heat endsthe trees finally relentleaves drop to the groundI’m even too tired to weepmy age wears me downnot so much stamina’s lackas that of resilienceto maintain my shaperequires me to be alonedarkness blurs edgesan amoeba flows slowlysilently devouringsilence speaks as wellall he said was unfinishedshe only misunderstoodwithin conversation’s flowthere’s not room for impatiencesee where I stand nowopens up a newer worldboth for me and youa mirror or a close friendreflects and distorts us allI once was certainin all my fixed opinionsI am still the samemy clichés clot every wordI speak my aneurismI move into falla cold dotage I now rueso many lost pathsimplication of a choiceall delusions are heartfelthe wanders aloneeach step divides anotheras if he were onethe leaves have floated awaysquirrels scurry about in fear(September 17, 2015) -
dream journal # 24: echoes
by
then againshe leans infrom the darkof dreamswith the promiseof skin on skinthe calming curveof body into bodywherein dream’sdisturbance coalescesinto lovesuch slight whispersafter months and monthsof silenceto conjure herfrom the nightlike a strand of hairfrom a bookshe once borrowedmarking a poemshe might have readwhile thinking of you(September 15, 2015) -
Abstract #5: enclosures
by
as he moves withineach grey roomhis past collectshis darker partslike secret sinsless transgressedthan imaginedhe invokes ghostsfriends he dare not seeto haunt his daylike laughter lurkson the edge of tearsslyly mocking himon his silent waylike sacrificial childrenwho slowly crawla convoluted mazehe wanders lostwithin the seamsof all the wordsdefining him(September 10, 2015) -
The Violence of Contextualization
She writes of absenceand almost seeing:his face across a crowd,a figure on a bus,other people’s husbands,other people’s lives.What’s missing manifestsalong her vague edgeslike old gilt framesaround strangers’ faces,unfamiliar people fixedin familiar situations.She inscribes another holewith nothing much at all,set shadows contentwithin shifting contexts,until she finds yet anotherface behind which to hide.(September 7, 2015)
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