Sunday, June 30, 2013

today
remarkably
small.wild.strawberries.

Saturday, June 29, 2013

note from my morning run past the plants for which i have no names:

the world of man seduces our ego (can we not know this and then from knowing this garner humility?)

the natural world seduces us in the place where we meet/where we are/the spinning place

any pain that i might have comes from my ego
i must recognize and remember this

Saturday, June 22, 2013

fire so very

i am breathing a small fire, so small it is a secret, so fire it is the crystal stick in the center of my hands.  i whisper into my hands small things like quickening, yes, thank you and bird(?).

i have nothing to show you.  i have nothing to share.

i want you to want to look so badly.  i want you to want to look at your own dumb hands.

jesusgodandmary, the sun is rising.  holy allah, holy yahweh, holy bahá, brahman, rama, krishna, shiva, holy stone and holy grain.

my hands are empty.

the earth, full, quakes, burgeoning.

Friday, June 21, 2013

june 21st, 2013

during every run for the past few weeks i have asked the question, when will i enter the river?

today i entered the answer first by entering the words, i enter the river today, and then the image and then i entered the river itself.

is this how it is, do we ask until we enter the answer?

in my panties only, the foot bridge some meters away, the current so strong i could not fight it and the water so cold it was debilitating, i...

pexa et hirsuta, the body is time (part II)











Thursday, June 20, 2013

pexa et hirsuta (part I)


Dante calls hirsute those pebbles among words that stop
the flow of verse along its course.


   Like "multiple consonants, silence, exclamations"

   Combed, he says, is the opposite

   Your pubic hair which didn't interrupt your belly,
                                   "combed"

  Hirsute the fragmentation of your names

  I always said together, one clashing with the other: Alix
Cleo.

  Where the missing vowel sign was: 'naked.'

  What was hirsute in your nakedness was not the pitch-
black hair around the moisture where my tongue would
drain you

  Not your nakedness, your name. Saying it, on coming with
you.

jacques roubaud


i almost didn't see the poppy.  in fact, at first i didn't see the poppy at all. i saw only what i knew in that moment, orange, and i married it with what i knew from my history, tiger lily. i saw it in reflection in my neighbour's window from my son's upstairs bedroom window and so i ran downstairs and outside after it. but even with its petals (so like the thinnest of papers) trembling as i carried it inside by the root, i did not think poppy. i could not. i did not know a poppy in my hand. i knew it in other's but could not fathom one in my own.

i brought the poppy inside, hoping that bringing it in by its root would mean that it would survive longer.  it did not.  in fact i probably accelerated its death by hitching it to the weight of its other life, not allowing it the natural life of a cut flower during which the larger cut surface would enable it to draw water in quickly.  (what is life, growing from the earth only or also the last dogged hydrated rigor of the body?  and when does death begin?) 

an hour and a half and the poppy was drooping.

three hours later the poppy was dead.



this sentence came into me yesterday (june 5th) after making love, the body is time.


Tuesday, June 18, 2013

articulation

to be driven into the human heart
galloping full speed, made flesh to bone

and yet despite the body made stone,
such distance. 

how is one to bear it?

always on the outside, there, reflected over the horizon...
in how many mirrors?

when right inside the cerebral cortex it throbs unspoken,
the union.

Monday, June 17, 2013

at all costs
tell me something that is real
tell me something that matters

size matters, inverse, plus 2

while i sit on my stool at the island in the kitchen
a large black spider scampers across the bare white wall

i get up to kill the spider

if it were smaller
things would have been different

Reisterdam, 6 am

today must be the day of the holy transformation.

Reisterdam.  6 am.  outside my fourth story window fog swallows the courtyard in a fist.  it is a sign?  damn signs.  i can wait for no one, nothing.  i cross the floor barefooted, past noticing the dirt grinding into my feet.  (but i tell you, so i have not quite succeeded.)  it has been weeks since i've lifted a broom.  days since i've eaten.  more since i've washed.  all a practice.  i pull the cord on the light bulb hanging above the bathroom sink.  ooph, my face is haggard.  deep pockets of purple and black line my eyes.  my pores spill outward, caverns of what?  my jawline is set like the curb of a street broken by stubble, garbage, shards of glass.  a sense of history?  damn history.  that is what today will be, a damning of history.  oh, how badly i smell.  good.   let it be so.  thank god my body is listening.  i lift my shirt, touch the ribs that protrude as though i touch another.  this is my body?  how can that be so?  i am inside it?  what can that mean?  i hear a car move, what seems to be furtively, down the road in front of the apartment.  i have learned that to wind myself tightly like wire on a spool is the same as laying myself out like pounded thin sheet metal, so thin as to be undetectable.  in two hours Reisterdam, on an ordinary day, would be bustling.  but today is the day of the holy transformation.  i begin by cutting my hair, grabbing handfuls of mange and letting it fall to the sink.  once Reisterdam was good to me but that was before knowledge.  and now what do i know?  i know there is nothing to know.    Reisterdam!  you think there is no pain in my soul?  it is all and only pain.  Reisterdam!  you could not save me.  i drink one cup of bad coffee, drinking through to the grounds and leave my cup on the table dirty, as it should be, nothing else.  for how many years did i say, please, Reisterdam?  how many years with no answer? 

leaving the stoop i am unseen entering the fog. 

i understand now how it adds up to this.  i understand now how it can add up to nothing else.

over the fog something black glides not quite like a bird.

i can not (quite) locate ...

Sunday, June 16, 2013

a no good reason to complain:

a woman running in the woods
is eaten by a bear.
 
another no good reason to complain:
 
it rains today.

are you listening?  there are children dying, their bellies scraped bearer than bowls being hollowed out in their formation.  such cruelty, the unmade bowls that will never be filled. women being raped, their legs tied upon their heads like ribbons.  somewhere a man holds up a gun and blows off the face of another man thinking the black badge of being alive is some kind of salvation.  i have a broken tooth that fills with rot in between two healthy ones! 

the Mennonite wagon trotting down the street is splitting caterpillars easier than my fingers can separate hair.

my cat is squalling deaf and lost in the middle of the lighted room two feet from where i sit.

today is here.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

inhabiting the world



the world hulks over there upon the terrible plain, done, defined.
to approach its face directly is to traverse the scorching light
and deafening blows of regularity.
all dies there trapped in the life of limbo language in ordinary body.
nothing can survive the slots but words.

instead, close your eyes and feel your way blindly toward it,
only and always toward it, never arriving.
allow in your life's time to be lost failing miserably
but in exultant sentient salutation.
be the miraculous translation.

video

Saturday, June 8, 2013

you said sycamore

you said sycamore once and so now own it.
there on my hip it was laid (your kiss) and so i roll my space
and walk without certain bones.
i'm thinking about changing my name,
nowhere left to pin it.
me, beloved))) 
you?
one sits in love with one
owning   (the space once occupied by the other)
by great acts of self abandonment and undoing.
one sits in love with one
and so one sits
undone. 
fullness. fruition. all.
the empty pod of full balance.
who left to kiss whose lips?

Sunday, June 2, 2013

the sunday morning almost full house

downstairs stuart mclean's stories transition seamlessly into fluid jazz.  outside the cars drive through thick puddles creating endless zippers on the road.  i remember in the sound all of my history.  i sit thinking upstairs near a window by the bed.  i like how the too large sheets wrap the bed not fitting but not pulling from it either.  i like how the sheets are stained with us.  i like how the cat fur marks the bedspread and how the cat's head pushes determined at the hand holding this pencil as i write.  downstairs the children murmur, discussing things important in relative proportions.  tomorrow my husband comes.