October 2, 1995
I watch the ground as I walk;
head bowed as if in prayer.
I have little to offer except
myself – – which is nothing.
I’m proud of what I do
not of what I am.
(from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995)
-
storm warnings
within the parameters of this houseI negotiate the layered currents’free flow of emotion like weathermenon local television plot storm frontsmoving rapidly across the great plainsthe confluent strands of simple stressexacerbated exponentiallyby our jobs’ high pressure influxes wreckhavoc through the fragile day’s emergentdesire for a sheltered happinesswhere we can run as another storm rainshail down upon the world still around usuntil we discover our lives have grownonce again from the rubble left behind(October 1, 2013) -
(tribal chant)
some kind of tribal chanta ritual(obviously religious)worship of the sunprimitive“I amthe light”a sourceof power – –the earthimpregnatedlight as semen(such sad patriarchalnarcissism)the metaphor becomes reality(anthropomorphic metamorphosis?)HuntergatherDia(na?)lect (ure)to readlanguage places the speakerlocatelocution“lesttheybelike the gods”dia (na?)(spor) ia:iconoclastic(hart)O, Diana pursue me no more(from primogenitive folly, August 2001-April 2003) -
pillar of salt
by
“be still, and know that I am God”—psalms 46:10don’t lookat the spacesaround youyou are hereholyalwayswhollyheredon’t lookbackdon’t lookawayboth deceivelead astrayfrom whofrom wherefrom whatfrom howfrom whenyou are(September 30, 2013) -
Early Morning
a heron slips throughthe back spruce and cottonwoodday breaks upon me(September 28, 2013) -
etude on the day
by
across a wider range of occurrencepatterns invested within the dayemerge like eddy’s leaf swirlaround trees’ roots trailingdarkly into a silent creekeach moment’s inconsequentiala random turn of light withinyet another moment glimmersagain to become lost in the dazzleof the sun settling across a lakethose transcendent seconds drift likebutterflies above yarrow’s umbrellaslost in the slow autumnal collapseinto barren winter’s softer desires(September 28, 2013) -
41. Pure Luck
by
September 27, 1995I court hubris’ disdain,but I am a lucky man!I work, persevering in naivefaith. All the cracks in the shellpoint to the source of power:I give, I receive, I love.(from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995) -
phases of the moon
by
he blunders along his waysteps on his own feetthen falls in love againhe shambles between accidentswords juxtaposed into lifelike sparks leaping from flinthe scrabbles for leniencyfrom hope to unqualified despairfinally settling on distastehe laughs religiously if notself-righteously at the vehemenceencountered while alonehe exists within these transitionsthe moon’s shadow waxes and wanes(September 27, 2013) -
31. To a Reader
by
July 25, 1995I make a place for youhere – – This is not as muchabout me as about youand me. A toe leads the foot.I am a toe – – I am a stone.We’re on a mountain; you are a lake.(from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995) -
friends and lovers
by
“companionsof the flame”–H.D.we know each otherhow else can it bethe obsessive lierepeated againto feed the hungerto feed my hungersomeone has to liesay they rememberwhen none of us canadmit to knowingfear is always shyan eye’s brief flickera small candle flamea light to our dark(September 25, 2013) -
62. Holding to the Mean
by
July 23,1995I fly in fear of the average,while living a white-suburbannorm, a mortar and pestle.A bird glides beneath the wind;small parabolas connect a circle.Finches fly as easily as eagles.(from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995) -
27. Like Father
by
July 24, 1995Mouth slack in awe, or juststupidity? When tired or tenseI read – – escape into words – –Ezra and Quinn cuddle next to meas we read “Ferdinand the Bull.”They, too, had a hard day.(from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995) -
Possibility
it’s always and never just about dyingto write out the life I find myself inas if by happenstance I arrived hererather than a chain of simple choicesand long obsessions which dragged me alongunwittingly devoid of any willbeyond the briefest yes and no responseto uninspired trivial decisionscome work at Wendy’s the bakery this schoolI did and there I was and here I amadrift like a leaf upon a slow creekhung up momentarily on a rootor twirled backwards into my own eddieslost in my handwriting upon this page(September 23, 2013) -
too late to change
down the long hallwaysteps clack on wooden floorsknobs rattle franticallyall the doors are lockeda screen door beckonstoward a clear spring dayonly to recede with each stepporcelain bowls on side tablessmash to the floor as I passmy past looms behind melike the sea’s constant threatpulsing through the night(September 22, 2013) -
On the Essay: After a Conversational Meeting on the Essay.
I write essays about what I am thinking about. Topics tend to unfold around my obsessions. Several years ago I wrote about the anger, which exploded in me as I encountered the cognitive dissonance of being a working teacher and being a doc student in curriculum and instruction. Everything, which could be wrong was being done in the schools, anything, which could be a glimmer of hope was being snuffed out faster than cockroaches in a Raid commercial. A friend of mine, a fine essayist, said she wrote from anger. She would, she said, drill down through the layers of her emotion to find a deep anger in her topics and that anger would be the driving force behind her essays. I find anger to be too volatile, although I often become angry about my topics. I think anything you think about in an authentic manner becomes emotional. After all we are emotional animals who invest part of ourselves into what we are thinking about, but that does not necessarily mean that the writing becomes emotional rants.The essay is a way: a way of thinking, a way of discovering what it is you are thinking, a way of testing ideas, rather than a test of what you know about ideas. Montaigne called the essay a wandering along the way. Virginia Woolf said it was the mind tracking itself. I like the essay because of its freedom, the flow of thoughts running along the page. I like the discovery, the unfolding of the topic as I write. The way the structure eventually reveals itself as the thoughts progress. In a class on the Essay I took when I was in grad school at Bread Loaf with Shirley Brice Heath, we defined the essay as conversation with oneself. It is a multi-vocalic conversation, almost a call-and-response as you move through the ideas you are exploring. The writer questions, doubts and explains to herself the subject in the process of writing about the subject. It is a process of writing where the process of thinking is reflected in the written product, where the enjoyment of reading the essay replicates the enjoyment of writing the essay.It is similar in many ways to sitting on the back porch with erudite friends who are having a serious or jovial conversation over a glass of wine. The essay is convivial and democratic, rather than autocratic. Just as in the free flow of conversation, the participants in the conversation rarely have a pre-planned agenda of where the conversation is going to end, or even a pre-planned topic, the essay starts where it starts and eventually comes to an end. In hindsight the end makes sense when one looks back over the course of the conversation. Almost as if one had planned it all out on the page. Almost.(September 21, 2013)
subtext 