Sunday, March 26, 2017

First Fort

Behind the punch-clock, out back of the hotel, in the woods,
while adults are sewn to sheets, to registers, to highways.

We are a better version of adults.

Our eyes are hot and our bodies are connected.

If their eyes were concise enough to trespass our shirts,
to behold our soft new breasts surging, 
an egg would clog their throats,
a thrombus block their breathing. 

We're twelve and our minds, 
our minds are so green they oscillate.

We make a room in a clearing.

Or rather the space between six large trees presents itself 
and invites us into a secret chamber in ourselves.

We stand in the place and molt.

Clearly our minds are treetops.
How easy to make an oven.
Beds are no work at all. 
With a little pressure 
a precise cleanliness inspires our dirt floors.

Our superior cunning adapts garbage
to surfeit the parameters of necessity
a garland of dead leaves weaves a window
a branch ripens to a broom,
the wind and wavering shadows 
pleat the workings of a wide wending clock.

When we turn the knob (the knot on a tree), 
our whole minds work.

We unearth wine bottles with our fingertips 
and delicately touch their sacred collars -
then handle them roughly -
various green hues eye-dazzling with electrical sparks,
vacillating flutes accruing to paramouring densities 
at their bulbous bottoms. 

Our hearts rhapsodize and lift.
Our underarms sting with the gravity of mushroom scent.

To see, we force our blood flowers downward,
like red birds back into a black box,  
and harness their beating. 

Freckled, our faces fret our work, pure pleasure.

Form. From out of air we generate form.
Our fort exclusive, personal,  
the centre of a world we'll build upon 
until eventually we're bored
and it's buried.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Last Walk in Winter, March 23, notes

East of Webbwood I'm walking the winter path. I want to be walking the winter path east of Webbwood. I keep my eyes here. Which means I keep my mind quiet upon the dull light. Even the dull light, when investigated, invigorates the knobs and hills of snow. Even the dull light is fascinating. Radiance manages to break through in deceitfully small dribs and drabs, but crackling, spontaneously and momentarily electrified.

It is an ordinary path. With an ordinary mix of trees for this region. A stand of some shaggy evergreen planted after a pulp and paper cull, spindly armed, a scourge of mangy bark debris beneath. Aspen, maple, oak, birch and poplar. Cedar. Who knows what all else.

But one does have to put forth a certain effort to ignore the garbage. Garbage cast over the river's embankment by men on ATVs. Garbage periodically hanging from limbs or nailed to trees to mark the way for hunters. Garbage means us and us is exactly what I need to walk away from.

But I do give thanks for the path.

So that. That is what I aim for. The path that takes me away from. The path that is worked well enough but is (hopefully, hopefully, this is work) not defiled. The path which allows the radiance even when sifting volumes of dull light.

Out beyond the last point previously known (to me) on this trail, on the other side of a distant hill, on another branch of the trail after the last veering to a remote out of town house, well past any evidence I've seen of our presence except for the trail itself, I exit the woods and enter a sudden clearing.

There wind blows over a few acres of ice, unimpeded.

The ice is blue. I hazard onto it. Thrilled.

A whole swamp of cattails is battered and held at 130 degree angles.

A rock-cut of significant size hems me in to the north.

And snag dots the flat expanse up ahead.

A crow cuts the air, scrawing, over and over.

I pull my pants down and bend to piss a hot stream through the blue ice. Breathe. Feel slightly excited, a delicious blending of fear and arousal, imaging what I know must sometimes be here, moose, wolf, bear, fox, frog and mosquito. I feel clearly me. Distinctly at home. Can think, although if I'm thinking, I can't hear an argument of words. But feel their clarity.

Stay here, erin, wherever you go. Stay here.

Are You not Going to Tell me Things?

Tell me things.
Don't worry, I won't hold you to them.
After all, they won't stay with you anyway.

Won't you tell me, tell me, tell me anything?
It's not the things I'll listen for,
but the sound of your voice.

Post-it Note on the Villians

Worse still when you sense but can't see.

There's a predator in my head. It's trying to hurt me.

Friday, March 24, 2017

Back of Webbwood (a few winters ago)

We are speaking, quietly,
just the two of us,
passing words like straws
back and forth across 
the frozen winter trail,
when the real wolf
crosses in front of us,
mangy, almost muddied but for snow,
harrowed and hollowed by his need.

He is much less frightening
than the one that roams the winter mind.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Crashing Through the Dragon and Unzipping Man

"It is the vocation of the prophet to keep alive the ministry of the imagination, to keep on conjuring and proposing futures alternative to the single one the king wants to urge us as the only thinkable one." 
                                                                                                                                 Walter Brueggemann

My lover and I are staring into one another. 
We have spent the morning hacking into the 
bedrock of the construct of the modern world
trying to enter the innards, cleave through stone
into some bloody network. It's not the mind,
per se, we want to enter, but the shit sacs.
We want to enter the dragon, not where he
thinks himself powerful, but where we are common.
But we're past that now. Now we're sitting 
as though stoned, staring into one another. 
We always grow weary of the dragon. 
Excavation in a limited space is limited. 
In the end he's only ever a piƱata, a balloon filled
with sand and money, a little urinary purse
overfilled, staining his old eyes with shellac.
When's that guy gonna die?
He won't. He can't. He was never alive.

So here we are on the couch staring into one another,
with Brueggemann poking us hopefully to imagine. 


When I look into my lover, I don't. Instead I see.
I see night with its right star-tipped thumb and forefinger advancing.
The human form is standing much like an avocado
naked in the spin of an empty landscape, 
his arms raised, extending his pear shape up. 
When night pinches its digits together
the fruit will be striped. 
But there will be no core, no pit.
Only light will shine out
obliterating all thought, all language.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Some Things You've Never Told Anyone

The bear you saw, as you were running, for the instant.
Like a glare upon the wall. Or a sunspot floating over 
the eye's aqueous surface. His face looking curious
from behind a tree. Then from between two trees.
You looking curious from the road. Then that moment sewn.
You two gone completely from one another.

The rear haunches of the deer on the other side of the gully. 
Not the whole deer. Never anything whole, decisively nameable 
or static. Just the hill of the haunch. The whiff of the doeish colour. 
The formidable footfall that ran straight up to the femur.
The deposition of its buttocks. And then the gully 
stunned and ancient, emptied but for its ferns, again.

The fish that jumped. But not the fish 
but the split second thereafter. The tube of the empty air.
The evidence of sound. The dazzling rings of water.

Yesterday you detected movement up ahead, right to left,
a swirl of colour. Maybe fox fur had just crossed the road.
As you approached you stared hard into the ether. The wind 
picked up against you and cast a wizened oak leaf upon each of its points 
like a rusty star cartwheeling its credentials across the icy roadway. 
For a moment you became content to name that which had
a moment before eluded you, as a leaf too.
But when you caught up with the scenario
you passed a greasy man with a cigarette loose at his lips 
parked off to the left. You stared, not quite friendly, at one another,
as he lifted his pissing dog through the air, then higher, 
onto the nearby platform of snow.