Saturday, May 31, 2014

notes from a mother on her lunch break (may 24th)

There's a distant feeling in me like a screen door, bare feet, cool grass, movement toward something with no moth's wing of expectation: wellness.  I smell it beyond my horizon like freshly cut grass. Somehow I understand it made me, or was present in my making, or is a kind of slow time-released anesthetic, or pleasant amnesia that grew alongside me. Was it born in my past?  But my past was turbulent. Is this irrelevant to the child? Is childhood so pure, so precious, so immutably good? Or is it simply the state before manhood has soiled us, time laying her turtle claws into us, infecting us, unleashing the slow poison of not only our mortality, but of the lack of man's inherent goodness once tested through endurance? Who put this feeling here inside me? And how might I know if my children feel it, if their lives, their states of being, are surrounded, at least in their past, by such a meadow?

Thursday, May 29, 2014

a very bad day

and yet even the lowliest of trees
that were bent near the breaking point with the last snow
are blooming now

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

considering the torn porcupine, and more gibberish

practicing the rib cage
like wax paper over comb,
the music so common.
this is life, i try, 
like counting.
this is death, i add, 
to get to two
and then to three.
practicing each quill,
each fragment, disassembled.
practicing each gape, 
each position of what's remaining.

little, we throw stones
and hop between the spaces.

older, we hold our breath
trying to see the lines of where to land.

oh body, oh absence,
oh today and tomorrow,
i don't know how to aim,
i don't know where to hope,
i only know to love,
to lose 
and surrender.


the leading cause of premature mortality

there is the world
and there is the interpreted world
one example: the world is a big fat dumb drum
to interpret it is to play it

every man, woman and child 
who does not play the drum is killing you, me
i am tired of this missed target kind of dying
(are you tired of this missed target kind of dying?)

ex. ii: spring uses her refined x-acto knife 
and cuts tailored slits through the tapestry
she pours through each hole colours of poison
that shine before they act their willful destruction

dear fine living people, be cut by the knife
stand in awe before the tapestry slapping mosquitoes
open your mouth and swallow the poison with passion
while the world elevates in colour, vibration, and shines 

ex. iii: from out of the forest carry dead foxes
touch into the soft pads of dead possums
pluck quills from the dead porcupine's tail
make love, vocalize! be devoted to silence, make babies

kiss your arms like henry miller's friend
know the only embodiment to true sin is not living
love the dead and those who stand beside you dying
and for the love of all, beat that damned drum!

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

explaining to sarah that chuck has died (two poems)

have you ever worn your socks inside out?
that's how chuck wears his now.
all his life he wore them right side in
and for death all he had to do was alter them,
death having always been with him, 
his form fitting inside/out skin.


photographs. crayon art. tape stains from windows.
   first little t-shirts. first hair coils.  first names scribbled.
memento boxes. ephemera. skin flakes. evidence.
>>>just a little game we play
                              called eternity.

Monday, May 26, 2014

we die a 1000 times each lifetime

there are days when we are faced
with arriving at the end of the dock. jump.
or when the fire burns so hot it becomes
indiscriminately greedy. burn.
you will find within yourself the blessing of
the step beyond your dying, the pain
closed and done behind you.
you will walk again on this fine earth
in whatever form, perhaps this one,
always seeking that which you're made of,
water, fire.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

i reserve the right to be an asshole

i tell you that very assuredly my heart lives in a truth i know and understand to be true.  and that truth is love.

and yet the world lives all around me and even through me.

and although i would prefer not to admit it i can see that there is a hallway within me which leads to a room, a place i reserve to go to in the worst of times, an internal fortress that does not need the footing of a castle but only the small uneasy light of a broom closet; near darkness even.  from that place i can upset the whole world, which is mine, of course, but only by perception.

i believe that each human being unfortunately holds such a place, a place of retreat in case of cruelty which can not be endured. but of course all suffering can be endured.  it is only and always choice to endure it without resistance/well, or not. (or by extension endured fitfully or peacefully until it can't be any more. and then there is silence.  and final removal of self.)  it's the place Thucydides refers to when he tells us we might become our worst when forced into a corner.  it is the place Nietzsche knows to be the origin of our pump and pomp.  it's the place simone weil asks us to surrender.

i do not want this place.  all around it i am love and well.

inside of it i strike out like a snake.

i do not want this place.

or do i?

which voice says, i do not want this place?

and which voice acts like a hook and saves this place for herself like a small fire that both warms and burns?

do these voices act in conjunction?  certainly they are not mutually exclusive.

are they the same person?

and can one person purely and finally oust the other?

i tell you that these people are inside one another, one face with the other rooted, or conversely, the other face with the other rooted, although shapes and sizes of the faces vary.

it feels that were i to oust the face of love i would become a small nugget of rancour.  and if i were to oust the small room absolutely, remove all resistance, all points of violence along my skin and heart, i would no longer exist in this body.

i don't like this but why on earth would i think preference might have anything to do with reality?

and so for myself i try to make the room smaller. and when i strike out from it, i try to have me, at least, in my striking, strike myself hardest.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

heart soft, mind firm, logic complete

my wise son gets angry during movies
when players touch, by way of explanation, 
toward the soft heart, instead of toward,
as he thinks (by way of his modern world's anti-education
the rigoured mind.
as if love grows there! he huffs at the birdcage chest
(which is stronger than he thinks),
trusting instead in the grey leaking scrolls of the brain's cells,
papyrus pulp of wasp nest and logic,
as though the mudding of this body
weren't an ever humming mystery, 
weren't by way of all this! as evidence, divine.

Friday, May 23, 2014

from Teshigahara's desert the ocean flows to fill a bucket

water, it seems, longs to fill the container
the melon assuredly finds solace in the rind

the invisible energy of the tree
presses directly outward into its thousand wrinkled folds

and the wind rushes madly forward
rubbing its face into the sweet palms of the outstretched leaves

your body - I tremble at considering your body
for how long did your soul rush forward to meet it?

and now you, the water
how you rush forward into me

but no container lasts forever, as they say and as we try to listen
we weep in, we weep out, are and are not, the great dance of transmutation

I tremble considering your body
I tremble considering your soul

I coalesce within the rind of anguish

1b. woman-in-the-dunes

(*referencing Hiroshi Teshigahara's Woman in the Dunes)

Thursday, May 22, 2014

raining blossoms

i had something to tell you but then i forgot it. much like i forget all things. but this was, i think, a part of it. forgetting.  oh yes, i remember. it is best to forget. forget that there are boundaries.  forget that there is distance. forget that one thing is different from another. but i so love remembering. (forgetting too.) i am well in remembering. restored as a small girl. with scents triggering memories which inform me. colours. and textures. kaleidoscope images. beyond language. of the once whole world.

and so i am in a small dance. between remembering and forgetting. between allness and nothing.


sunday. we see the porcupine. alive. it is what? a mudflap of being. at first busy. and then frightened. at any point terrified? we foolish and cruel people. around it snapping photographs. stealing from it. what? its state of being porcupine? hacking away at our own minds. trying to understand ourselves. cute at first.  then backing up.  enlarging. one short pause in its movement away from us.  its eyes upon me. appraising. daring. threatening. then it is raising a fist. curling its claws toward me. as small as he is. he is all potential. i have no idea what kind of damage he might impart. or at what velocity. yes, his pausing is more terrifying to me than any action. and then he jumps. with futility. at a tree. and slides. just how fast is his heart racing? we urge him up. pressing upon him slowly. and then up he goes. his claws nearly ineffectually holding. a few dense claws against the fresh dense dark spring bark.

tuesday morning. we drive up the road spewing crows like gravel. but wait, it isn't us. well, it is our advancing. but the crows are not from us. but from it. dead and open in the road. it is a different porcupine, true. but what might that matter? a porcupine dead in the road. with spring just beginning. every piece of his sweetest meat already swallowed. sheltering down into the sweet meats through the crow's dark corridors. now flying off over swamps. and this, the scattering of his vicious quills. i pick them up with my fingers. note their lightness. their hollowness. wonder at their potential damage. can't imagine. each one different. they're so pretty. each perfect. so many they seem uncountable. around my feet such bounty. i can't believe they can't all be used. they should be. mustn't the porcupine make them all for some better reason than this? and his rib cage open and perfect too. i want to kiss each of his ribs. arced like love. arced like words. like poetry. like weapons. and his face frozen. in disbelief? in pain? in a face of no expression? rest? of porcupine? his teeth hooked and unattractive.  i see myself. all along the flat underside of his tail his only open body. i touch it. a fat man's upper thigh? the throat of a heron? the abdominal muscle (the external oblique)?  his blood is red like oxygen. like sugar. it pinches something in my head. i resist a sour face. so newly dead. yet i can smell him. he smells like a sweaty boy. masculine. or is this the smell of my hunger? i can't separate. do we actually leave him here? but where might i take him? i have carried dead foxes to nowhere. for no good reason. other than the carrying. i have carried birch girls out of forests having garnered for them no more value. it hurts to know i have no means of imparting more. it hurts to know i am as ineffectual as a table. but i'm a table which has loved dead foxes. dead birch girls. and a dead porcupine.

tuesday late morning we climb the rock. just past where the tree rained blossoms last june. just past where men have dumped the chaff from the skin of mankind. tvs and paint cans. all forms of self-jism jostling in torn up packages. up the clean rock palsied with a brown fungus that looks like dead leaves. we can see at great distance with clarity. stands of trees. rising in time released succession to spring's call. maple buds reddening. clusters of aspens trembling. not leaves. but the earliest green colour. the gorgeous stands of grey trees without names. cultures. lineages. many kinds of trees crossing categories. but joined in the greyness. which i love. the grey which pets me into submission. blackflies beginning. around our eyes. around our sweet spots. we call them to us without opening our mouths. just as the porcupine called us to it both times. just as it called to its escape up the treeside. and just as it called to its surprising death. and then later how it called silently to the crows. just as we call ourselves to the mirror. and just as we drive out of town to lose our own weary reflections. small breezes come from slightly different directions. behaving differently over the tops of the varied trees. you lean over me and kiss me. and as it goes, as it always goes between us. i forget. i forget that you are not the porcupine. i forget that i am not its ribcage. i forget that the grey trees do not grow directly out of our grey folds. out of our marrow. i forget my name. even yours.

when my voice rises later. and calls out over the treetops. it is not my voice that speaks. it is not your ears that listen. we are no different than the wind. the trees. the rock that cups them.

in my ribcage it is always june. and the tree is always raining blossoms. even over corpses and garbage.

(added to the bedside notebook this morning)

touching your skin, and even before this, knowing (remembering) and longing to touch your skin, i think, you are the organ.

and then touching your skin, knowing the perimeter of your body, i know beyond any measure of scientific discovery or intellectual discourse that god has taken a horizon and bent it back upon itself to contain you.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

(from a notebook on the bedside floor)

i am your instrument

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

more than ever i need the world between my legs

you think you see me riding a horse
but what is between my legs is not mine to ride
what is between my legs is riding me

who is leading who?

certainly these reins in my hands are only ornamental

while i slap the haunches 
it is me that feels the reverberations
i am splashing madly over the earth and through the air

Saturday, May 17, 2014

destination there

imagine if you will
a line drawn down the center of the empty page.

you are one side of the page.
what you want is on the other.

your life will be a series of events rattling the windows.
your life will be trying to find and then to storm that door.

but the line is not a wall, it is a line.
step over it.


take the line in your hands
and lay it down.
say to yourself, it is only a line.
ignore the fact that once on its side
it looks like a mountain.


but we want.  we want.  oh, how we tongue waggingly want.


our shoulders are only here because of our longing.
the keenness of our bodies comes to light 
only because of our leaning.
stronger, if only we were stronger,
we could easily tear through the line,
even through the mountain.

but if we could (and we can)
we would only turn back, tongues clicking, 
from the other side of the newly erected line, 
with eyes mad as moonlight and say, 
we want.  oh, how we want, we want, we want,
flowers blooming steadily forth like orgasmic fireworks
from the void on the opposite side of the empty page.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

from the leafless axis

the trillium's scape unfolds
crescents of fern crank like spaghetti
and pockets of pressed maple press forward

an owl hoots from beyond the brown blind

further off still a wheel is turning

Monday, May 12, 2014

we squander by ratio

wet with the sweetness of one another
lips shining with the honey hived between us
we sit on stools at the island
feeding one another the other honey
not of love (but of love too) 
of the bee's mouth-sexed labours

eight bees gave their lives making this one teaspoon-full
while we make goofy eyes, well-intentioned
lapping kingdoms

later we will dress
   wanting more

Sunday, May 11, 2014

the english word for hiraeth is toast

toast is fire
and fire memory
and memory the small prim-shouldered jacket
my daughter once wore, supple and soft as sumac
as she clung to me
and her jacket my own nostalgia for my once self
which is the world with its arms around itself
gently rocking itself through sleep 

Saturday, May 10, 2014

conflict has its place in peaceful hearts

there are popular things.  there are palatable things.  and then there is kenneth patchen.  and the unpalatable lot of others.  (is pacifism, and love, so unpalatable?)  i know very little about him, only having learned of him through an essay of henry miller's the other day, but i understand the need for his voice and for the voices of the many who are too often unheard. i understand that art, when art is truly art, is a revolution, or the call to revolution. and that the most needed call to revolution is the revolution that will fight to keep the human spirit alive. truly alive. and true. (i feel nietzche's last man present in the last sentiment of this passage, thinkers separated by continents, years and cultures, yet inspired and inspiring.)

this from henry miller's essay on patchen in '46 when they were contemporaries, alive, true, and challenging us:

 In our society the artist is not encouraged. not lauded, not rewarded, unless he makes use of a weapon more powerful than those employed by his adversaries. Such a weapon is not to be found in shops or arsenals: it has to be forged by the artist himself out of his own tissue. When he releases it he also destroys himself. It is the only method he has found to preserve his own kind. From the outset his life is mortgaged. He is a martyr whether he chooses to be or not. He no longer seeks to generate warmth, he seeks for a virus with which society must allow itself to be injected or perish. It does not matter whether he preaches love or hate, freedom or slavery; he must create room to be heard, ears that will hear. He must create, by the sacrifice of his own being, the awareness of a value and a dignity which the word human once connoted. This is not the time to analyze and criticize works of art. This is not the time to select the flowers of genius, differentiate between them, label and categorize. This is the time to accept what is offered and be thankful that something other than mass intolerance, mass suicide, can preoccupy the human intellect.

and this:

 The atmosphere of the whole modern world, from Communist Russia to capitalist America, is heavy with guilt. We are in the Time of the Assassins. The order of the day is: liquidate! The enemy, the arch-enemy, is the man who speaks the truth. Every realm of society is permeated with falsity and falsification. What survives, what is upheld, what is defended to the last ditch, is the lie.

but perhaps most importantly, this which miller embodies using p√©guy's words:

One must never surrender.

Friday, May 9, 2014

through orchids

the pink slip
of the orchid's lip
is god's silver dipper

the world the well

we must have water to our lips
we must have water to our lips


listen to Kenneth Patchen's love poem, "Creation"

Thursday, May 8, 2014

i am here to tell you no,
not because i`m right
but because jobs are assigned in the genes
and each job is required in its doing.

so, "no".

now, what are you going to do about it?

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

tonight and tomorrow (my daughter makes bracelets from perfectly good clothes)

today my daughter goes on a field trip. 
college readiness. she`s in grade eight. 
whaddya wanna be when yer all growed up?
on her bed a pile of cut up t-shirts.  
she makes bracelets. that will never be worn. 
with colourful slats of cloth.   
not looking. held between her toes.
i saw a cat cut open, dissected.
did i say dissected or digested
she trains her mouth and dips her hair, 
by accident, into her soup 
on her bedside table.  later washes it
with a water bottle, standing in her doorway.
consequences? nah.  the clothes she cuts 
could have been used by other people,
some with labels still affixed.  i`m sad.
she cups her hands, bends her fingers. 
pushes them knuckled against each other.
the human brain is about this big, she tells me,
training to be a nurse, tongue out, braiding.
shining, some irresistible celestial light.
got two things right.  she glows! 
how much the brain weighs.  it`s small!
and how much blood`s in the human body!
meanwhile, true story, her great grandmother`s dying 
tied to some cold bed in dayton, ohio,
down the hall from where my daughter was born.  
are you sad? i ask.  naw. didn`t know her.
(we don`t know the Nigerian girls either. 
or people afraid in the Ukraine. even Russia.
there was a mudslide in BC on the weekend.
we understand no one`s really connected.)
she completes a braided bracelet. pretty. 
adds it to the pile on the floor. starts another.
upstairs, bedside, i hold my head, 
idea tired, world weary, unable -
to bring simple change. to any small world.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014


    "I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I say unto you: you still have chaos in yourselves.

     Alas, the time is coming when man will no longer give birth to a star. Alas, the time of the most despicable man is coming, he that is no longer able to despise himself. Behold, I show you the last man.

     'What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?' thus asks the last man, and blinks.

     The earth has become small, and on it hops the last man, who makes everything small. His race is as ineradicable as the flea; the last man lives longest.

     'We have invented happiness,'say the last men, and they blink. They have left the regions where it was hard to live, for one needs warmth. One still loves one's neighbor and rubs against him, for one needs warmth...

     One still works, for work is a form of entertainment. But one is careful lest the entertainment be too harrowing. One no longer becomes poor or rich: both require too much exertion. Who still wants to rule? Who obey? Both require too much exertion.

     No shepherd and one herd! Everybody wants the same, everybody is the same: whoever feels different goes voluntarily into a madhouse.

     'Formerly, all the world was mad,' say the most refined, and they blink...

     One is clever and knows everything that has ever happened, so there is no end to derision. One still quarrels but one is soon reconciled else it spoil the digestion.  One has ones little pleasures for the day and one`s little pleasures for the night but one has a regard for health.

     'We have invented happiness,' say the last men, and they blink."

(from Nietzsche's Thus spoke Zarathustra, p.3,4,5, combination of translations by Walter Kaufmann and one read by Brian Leiter on CBC radio, unidentified translator)

Monday, May 5, 2014

one step beyond beauty

before us 
the world 
was not beautiful
it only was

like giant frogs sitting
soaking and seething, primeval 
mountains were
but yet before metaphor

then we
injected beauty 
with words
filtered through 
our precocious perceptions

we thought we were scientists
injecting world`s sac
with words 
which at first applied the veil
giving shape
to phantasms

but in time  
even words 
(what? smoke? reflections? shadows?)
became tumid 
then bludgeoning

and we beat the mountains 
into submission

now in the springtime 
mountains croak
lost in the dark time of swamp night
and we call them peepers

we have diminished everything

Sunday, May 4, 2014

why a woman should not wear jeans to bed

how disappointed people are when they can not know me by simple symbols.  it must be this way between too many people.

in a conversation with the lovely women at work who are, after many hard years of not understanding one another, my friends, i mention again (do they forget this stuff?) that when my husband is not here i go to sleep in my day clothes.  i do not want to offer my naked self to the empty world of night (i reserve my naked self for him) and so i go to bed, often putting on an extra sweater, pulling on many blankets, and rising the next morning to meet the day.  and if i meet the day on a day off work and i am not too dirty, i walk out into the day like this, brushing my teeth, brushing my hair, and unless you saw me the day before, undetectable as different in my day-old clothing.

many years ago i ran a daycare center.  i was obligated to make notes on children who were not put to bed in pajamas and if enough notes were accrued i was to report the suspicious behaviour to children's services.

it is understandable when good people behave in one way and bad people behave in another.  your behaviour in your clothing is a crucial key to your definition.  your definition is a crucial key to your judgement.


as happens in the world (such serendipity) one of my children`s friends who has moved away drops by as i am writing this.  i ask her lightly how things are going.  she tells me tragic stories of her family, stories that many would think should be private, many stories involving many broken societal rules, serious rules.  their family is easily labelled in communities as bad.  however, i have known the children for a great many years and even the troubled father to a certain extent. (aren`t we all troubled?) they are not bad people, only people who live differently in this the same world. the youngest boy, my son`s age, is having troubles at his new school.  when he lived in this small town my son befriended him to protect him from bullies at school.  this put a target on my son as well, a target my son refused to acknowledge, and because of his refusal to acknowledge it, the target simply, over time, evaporated.

while the young girl tells me her real life stories, her face is pretty, animated.  her hair, i do notice, is dirty.  so what, i ask myself.  i look at her body while she talks with me. she is only a year older than my daughter. yet i know this young girl with her small body has already had sex.  i know she has been drunk and probably more severely intoxicated.  i know she has cut herself regularly and has tried to kill herself on occasion.  i invite her to food.  i even offer her coffee. i smile when she declines and my daughter, who i do not usually offer coffee to, takes up the invitation.

we live in this one world.  together.


why a woman should not wear jeans to bed

we know 
only drunks or whores 
fall into bed 
in their rough day clothes.
it is vital information.
do you beat your kids?
at least neglect them?
do you smoke?
do you smell?
is your skin repugnant?
tell me you're a hoarder,
an addict, a derelict.
you're hurting us 
with your vague description.
look at us fresh,
similar to you except by what you admit,

if you sleep in your clothes and we like you
how will we know who to hate, who to reject?

Saturday, May 3, 2014

saturday morning notes on truth and love

i won't lie to you, as i won't lie to myself (or as i try not to).

as though my arrived at ideas are an island, something concrete or at least tangible, there is an inhospitable ocean which is comprised of all other ideas surrounding me, hounding at the shores of where i stand. i choose whether the shores of my island are rock or sand. i choose whether the waves are vigilant and cruel, or simply present, eternal. if i were to step beyond the island of my choosing into the ocean, suddenly a new island would rise beneath me and i would once again be surrounded by something contrary. this is the way. there is no one true island. there are many which are representations of man's interpretations of life, our imprint on being through consciousness, and there is flux between them.

so we must choose where we stand.

when i am my strongest and my cleanest, i choose to stand upon love. i choose to see wholeness. i choose joy (which does not exclude sadness).

at any time, i might, for reasons not understood, step off this island. this makes the island no less true, as always standing upon it makes it no more (except to myself). but i must understand and remember that when i am standing somewhere else, on an island of other beliefs, i am not lying.  i am simply standing somewhere else, in a place where i practice other truths, but ones which make me less well.  (who says living must be wellness? only us, i think, in our choosing, a natural inclination but not some denouement.)

understanding this i spread the remarkable grey matter folds of my mind as though they are hands and i try to touch this world. when the feeling comes to me, as it does, and i am moved to feel the words, yes, but more than the words: i love ... without restricting who or what it is i love, i am my smallest (my specificity nearly irrelevant, thereby some incredible alchemical moment taking place where i both evaporate and intensify in the place where i stand) and i become my best. or perhaps it isn't me who becomes best, but rather i allow myself to see the best in the world. in these times how incredible every thing in the world is, how blessed. in these times i feel affinity in my very cells with ... and it is difficult to explain it without sounding foolish ... with everything.  i would say i vibrate but i don't. everything vibrates. and i am only but a part of everything. and everything is. and oh, how i love. there is nothing that is not ecstatic.

so i drink my coffee this morning. i think i will bake something for my children, an emblem of my love, something to pass from my hands into their bodies, the strange alchemy of flour into a new form of being, something warm, and then i will go out to the world to run, to touch things, to be a part of wonder and awe.

Friday, May 2, 2014

near midnight i think of my lover (my husband) and the world (much like the red-wing blackbird) and the hour of noon


it is not that this story has happened before and will happen again
but that this cell, these cells, my cells and yours
and the cells of all things good and simple which vibrate upon the threshold of love
can do nothing other than vibrate upon the threshold of love

and so the world is darned through
into a vibrating presence 
by our eternal burgeoning union

(*considering personal evidence and thinking of Nietzsche's eternal recurrence (but not necessarily agreeing with him) and amor fati (agreeing more so), Nietzsche who was perhaps influenced by Heinrich Heine, "[T]ime is infinite, but the things in time, the concrete bodies, are finite. They may indeed disperse into the smallest particles; but these particles, the atoms, have their determinate numbers, and the numbers of the configurations which, all of themselves, are formed out of them is also determinate. Now, however long a time may pass, according to the eternal laws governing the combinations of this eternal play of repetition, all configurations which have previously existed on this earth must yet meet, attract, repulse, kiss, and corrupt each other again...", i feel convinced of distance in the form of time and body, acted upon by attraction/love (for what does not want to return to its rightful place/its home?), never coming to fruition but being the fundamental eternal act of life itself.

*and what might happen if fruition were possible?  absolute union? it would be inconceivable for all that we conceive is within the realm of distance and attraction through love, our pulsing state of vibration.  were the concussion to occur all would unite and necessarily disappear, each opposite or paradox which had previously allowed life, in fact had called it into being, would be erased in culmination.

*but because we are very elementally time/body and attraction, if we allow ourselves our true form we become lovers of the world, certainly, like my husband, lover of the red-wing blackbird.))))

late snow in springtime

the last snowfall of the year falls from the sky like a bag of boots
and as though the soldiers still wear them
the hundred year old lilac bushes have their cheeks 
pressed firmly to the earth,
the innocent lilacs criminals of spirit only, 
caught on the corner in the wrong clothes, 
but, i know, clothes, yet and always, an emblem of body,
not disguise, nor identity, but breath, here, now, like fragrance.
i worry about the bushes, fretting into my own boots
and i go out to them in the front yard to use my earthen core
to shake them free of their interminable weight.
i know, i know, Wu Hsin, in my heart i practice dying daily
and loving what comes in the wake of this backwards ratio
but what did the bushes ever do to deserve this? 
(yes, i know, merit is meaningless.)
or is it yet myself i secretly try to protect?

Thursday, May 1, 2014

the man walked all over the rock.
and so the rock was not alone.
and so neither was the man.