Thursday, July 31, 2014

illusory but near, begging one more layer of transparency

Tenderly I remember primary school transparencies. How lovingly the gonads and ovaries,  kidneys, spleen, appendix, were held by the capable carpels to the sternum.

Remember Mickey's Christmas Carol, how he thinly sliced the pea on his plate? But then it denoted poverty. It is in the inverse that I yearn for my children's bodies to return to me layer upon layer like those transparencies, attenuated into and onto one another richly, eternally fetal but together a more complete illustration of a body.

And so it is now with softness that I see you holding Ford Rangers and Disney trips to your chest. Once your mother spit and pushed to hold your cowlick to your forehead but your smile dislodged it; once upon a time a name was pressed onto your lapels, love cross-stitched into the hem of your dress. You with your hands full of wads of nothings, stuff in periwinkle blue, pristine in cellophane, you're just trying to hold in your handless hands god's shiftless shifting shift.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

notes from a couch late at night, july 30th

to give oneself fully to one's life. it is a funny thing. it is a target that can not quite be hit. but for certain, it does not involve all of the going's on that the world believes in. it is closer to childhood or madness. it barely allows for paying attention to sustenance, but all the while nursing the deeper sustenance.


i can think of nothing better than to wake and to put on the running shoes and to go out and run until the body is spent. not until it stops but until it is spent entirely, nothing remaining. however there is a built-in stopping mechanism in terms of the body. (does it exist also with the mind?) at some point the body becomes a dumb fish and falls to the floor. there it regenerates and asks to be spent again. (well, perhaps i can think of one thing a little better than running.)


i breathe slowly. there are things i know but can not say. they are so quiet it is almost as though i can not quite tell them to myself, or not quite hear whomever it is that is doing the telling.


here i sit on the couch smelling my hair and yet when i think of myself i do not look for me in here any more. i look out there. it seems i see my shadow leaving just as the ferns quiver or light moves over leaves or aspens quake. was i there just a moment ago? where the water meets the rocks i smell that i have just passed. i have left small sour apples in apple trees near a lake in a distant town. startlingly i see myself behind my lover's eyes, my son's, my daughter's. and uncannily i know that i don't even exist. and yet we are one, with another name.


it's difficult to speak a language most of the world considers madness. they want to drive you cleanly into sanity. they want you neatly in their boxes, lined up and considerate between the stanchion ropes, well in queue.


if i saw this spark in a stranger's eye it would be impossible not to embrace. it would be impossible not to weep, hold hands, walk off together.


what this world asks of us is a different kind of madness. we are mad to keep to state mandated anythings.


the real world turns our eyes up like cow eyes but they are not dumb. they are struck through with intensity.


to have access to the real world it is handy to have a co-conspirator, someone you can say, "in case of emergency break glass" to, knowing that the two (or more) of you in your relentless search for ecstasy are extremely dangerous to fragile structures.


t-shirts can and should be made. once worn you will be invisible to the rest of the world (ie, seen as social degenerates or misfits) and allowed to partake in your ecstasy making full-time.


you have reached the voice-mail of ... she is out looking for good white cotton t-shirts to emblazon. please leave a message after the bee...

for one day there was everything good and ripe

four short weeks ago
the mangled fox and the blind mole
dragged themselves to the lakeside, 
mind-bedraggled, parched, rusking to cling to life

and yet today the sweet scent of sweetgrass
swells through the pregnant air into strawberries,
blueberries burgeon full and round like the bulbs of mercury
(pretty, perfect, like when we didn't know it was poison)
and raspberries fall like wet winter mittens to the dry summer earth.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

small but important gestures at the trading post, tiny steps together

the widish woman, 
perhaps 60,
with drab brownish hair
barely holding its colour any more,
holds the elderly ladies' elbow
while she shuffles
in tiny eternity sweeps
of great effort

all the way 
past all the busy 
and animated shoppers
to the hallway
at the center of the store
and back, to the bathroom,
and then, quietly, 
they come forward again 
and only for the moment
dislodging dust,
past the key chains,
and avoiding 
the busy moccasins area,
and then by 
all the dead animals,
now fur hats,
to the ice-cream line
for a baby cone,
the smallest we offer,
and then together 
with more small steps
and effort
and silence
they exit the store.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

manumit: to free, to send forth from the hand

What are ya doing to it?

my blonde head as high 
as the hot points
around his waist,

downward strokes
sharpening to thrust,

Using my hands
to free its taste.

In strived the knife,
bloodletting free
future dinners.

Heat and blood
upon my young pale face.


my father was a trapper, my step-father a butcher.

everything is charged with sexual energy. everything.


language and understanding are born at a place of rupture. something must be broken into in order to release that which is inside the form.

if each egg is cracked, each egg releases an egg white and a yolk, each one resembling the other, egg to egg.

but what if one egg which is cracked releases a skeleton key, a key obvious and recognizable?

but what if the key is present every time, concealed within the ruse of egg white and yolk?

our bodies are keys. so too the bodies of each animal. so too is language, our embodiment of our concepts of the world.

there is some otherworldly connection between body and word. where might that have come from? weren't we the ones who created language? what did we create language from? what is it that we don't know but lean so hotly close to? what might the key open?


two related poems bound with the enigma of language, rescued from a dead blog:


if i pile
a cairn of stones
it would not be about the cairn of stones
nor the stones themselves
nor the act of piling them

if i become swollen
and gave birth to children
it would not be about the children
nor myself
nor the act of making them

if i love you
and i envelope you in my arms
you are irrelevant
so am i 
i am armless

this body is an accident
each labelled thing a deception
the world a mask

there is only light trembling colt-like
behind darkness, its mistress, calling 



i promise you something:

a bear is not what you think
nor is a fox
are you holding a glass?
throw it down
it is not what you think
you think you know yourself?
that too is made of glass
shatter it
the world, time, history, tomorrow

on the way to the cave
i come upon a bear
and i come upon a fox
they are not what i think
i study them
make new thoughts
take photographs, illustrations
write into the metal of my mind
yet the bear and the fox are still not what i think

over and over i shatter little ideas like stalactites in the cave
but they press forward, recreating themselves in new forms
obscuring my view

the world is a cave
our thoughts are not real
break them, throw them to the ground
find the light

Saturday, July 26, 2014

the ice-cream axiom

there always was an Us and Them,
although i didn't know that then,
being only one member of the Us
and not being intimate then with the Them,

like the way you would give a lazy flick 
   of the newspaper,
your cigarette keeping time 
   in the ashtray
burning further on its own 
   into nothing, 
releasing ash,
   careless cat flicking its -
oh? you're connected to me? - tail
   without any titillation at all,
just that dull - we happen to be here 
   - boredom,

when the ice-cream truck 
whined and chimed its way
plagued with dreams for Them
through our neighbourhood.

i looked up to you in those times
   from the carpet
and took my cue
   as to what to do,
when, and when not, to be

no change ever rattled at that noise,
in that house -
   not once.

Friday, July 25, 2014

smell this poem closely

"Stubborn from the start," that's what they said,
from the beginning - Never relenting.

Even within the soft plummed walls of the mother's furnace.
Even with the small hole shining for her that almond glint of light.
Obtuse, contrary, later defined as defiant.
Where hands failed, steel arms were inserted to pluck her out.

Oh, she squalled, red faced and belligerent.
Not that she minded being here, but if she was going to be present,
from her start she warned the world, 
"Then you had better all damned well listen."

"This glyph is my body - damn it," she further demanded,
as she wielded that one tight tiny fist like a kernel
that not one human being would then dare turn on.
Wasn't she, after all, a miracle?

Crying, but with no clear source of the punishment,
she begged each of you step closer.
Smell this natural stink, you dullards,
you bastards, you who forget this body is pure and painful!

Soon after that, of course, they cleaned her up and sent her home,
but the smell of an animal remains the smell of an animal.

Thursday, July 24, 2014


this year's tiger lilies
which i've written no poem for

Wednesday, July 23, 2014


Huh, I had no idea!  she marveled at his making,
watching him pull the nails from between his pinched lips
and with such precision pound them splendidly into the wood.
They entered the pine like slivers entering skin.

She drifted back to the roses she had tended at the farmhouse,
their sweetness dizzying, exciting. Three days her hand had ached
until the splinter worked its way out like a flower's head to oxygen.
She mourned the loss of it, the place of pain she had carried,

pain born from the lust of the earth pressing upward
toward our lust for the earth pressing down.
Privately she had pressed upon her hand around the soreness,
willing release, but delighting in this kind of OK self-stroking.

It's done, he said, stepping back. 
He had completed the making of The Store.

She pulled the cord with her perfect hand 
and turned the sign to Open.

For a moment the air was clear, not good-clear, but clear-empty
like at the moment of death when everything is the Real Serious.
Uncannily The Store stood statically in the paved lot like a coffin,
a pristine but infinite distance from everything.

(*heh, in canada a sliver is a splinter. i like to speak canadian, eh:)

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

each and every once, yes, 
but mostly this,

Monday, July 21, 2014



He, newly home,
slides the candy tin
from his trousers' pocket.
'22 -
two dough eyed children salivating,
dull blaze behind their eyes.
He   clicks open.
They   move fingers forward,
begging of the world
something substantial.

The sweet mint
they didn't ask to long for
but couldn't help
grows thinner and thinner
as they suck.


In '27
he withdraws
from his inside
silk lined
jacket pocket
his silver vesta
match holder.


1931, Aberdine,
3rd of September,
sun at strong angles,
fine dust
feeding through air
like coaxed fire,

Esther's skirts thresh by.


His journal
left open
on the nightstand -
time passed,
will come,

but one small word,
now ash,
forever burning,

Sunday, July 20, 2014


in some ways the world is broken:

the work of the poem
to use the mind's hands
/to smash/
disparate shards of the world
and to pat them together(((
desperately sharp in colour
but yielding to *perception
thereby turning senses on their asses
(the poet's ultimate favour)
to create))):
  the vase, the mind's arrow
the vase that informs us
through form (within/without)
through its holdings*
that the flowers we love
(beautiful nursing neonates)
  are dying
and that their petals are
  our skin, our minds
or have nothing to do with us
   but for everything

except ears (eyes, hands, et cetera, ho-hum) are fashionable
  and lazy
and the world forgets... listen to (to see, to touch...) the vase

and so the flowers
sit over there
primped prettily
while we shop colours
like white rose
to slather the walls
of our sepulchers 
to smother the slabs
of our tombs

Friday, July 18, 2014

notes lakeside while sitting on a dock reading Jaccottet's "Apparition of Flowers"

small bundles of stout clouds with the depth of skies, stars and rock clusters move across the sun, and the wind, which seems to have a strict affiliation with the sunlight, picks up the hair from my shoulders. this causes my gaze to leave jaccottet alone in my lap for a moment to meet the world again (we have done this a few times already), the real world, rather than the reflected world through word, as enigmatic as his words are. the waves become further created, the wind sculpting into the surface of the lake, each one with a sharp fin of steal casting back the light to the sky. the wind quickens and the waves are pushed further toward me, serious but low. then aspens pick up their quickening jangle on the shore. but already my hair is lowering onto my shoulders, the clouds sliding again over the sun, and each wave is being dropped, first the sharp light surrendered, and then each wave flattened out, the lake becoming again what it was when we began (when did we begin?), only water.

i breathe inside this for a moment, this minuscule cycle, this wheel of being that feels intensely like music.

and one word floods my mind and washes into every corner of my conscious being pristinely - remarkable.

i touch my face, utterly amazed.

jaccottet tells me of a moment with flowers, a time when he was curiously taken (and cleansed?) by the sublime when he had been previously engulfed in the heat of grief at his friend's decline to death, and how standing before a mysterious key rendered in such common bodies as: "groundsel, hogweed, chicory", (groundsel - yellow, hogweed or umbelliferae - white, and wild chicory - blue) he was so deeply, and beyond logical explanation, moved. and while he protests the success of his poem (which is so much more complicated hinged on word selection so precariously in translation, so much more complete to the discussion of existence than i originally comprehended), while he remains in an active state of pain for his poem must lack the right translation of the world - i feel him! it! his grief in the moment before he entered the meadow and then the grace he encountered there! i feel it! me! (why me? how?) i perceive this and feel it profoundly through the simple and elemental movements of this moment which i happen to be inside.

the wind comes again and moves us all in succession, but first for a quick burst of moment - in tandem, but then each of us breaking off into our separate locations, our separate modes of being, our own places in time, cloud, wave, woman, aspen. and i can perceive this too! i am sitting on a dock on a lake and i, some misfit of biological aspect and consequential conscious energy perceives the connectedness of everything, the illogical redemption which threads as grace the vaster face of unrequited clouds and waves, the mechanistic being of the world.  that beneath the gunk of my skin is my skull and inside my skull is more gunk, and yet i think, perceive, believe and know, but perhaps most formidably - intuit! that i am even me for the briefest moment to witness such an event, such events, the events i am proximate to and jaccottet's (which i am proximate to in the clothes of being human)!

how long has passed since i've sat here on this dock? perhaps an hour reading, looking up, paying attention and being brought into the chain of simple events over and over again, played lovely for no reason other than proximity and happenstance, and attention.

and then suddenly and loudly, with no previous evidence, a bullfrog! at first only one, and then others clearly manifest in the rushes but yet beyond view. there were none. and then one. and then profoundly some, retching from their dark bodies, proclaiming their time, until they mysteriously drop silent again, drop down and out like the waves, like the wind.

one hour in a small bay on a lake in a vast forest ... and it feels as though i have been stitched newly, not as a -, but into a hymen.

jaccottet writes, "It would be better if 'like' and 'as' stopped being screens, or cast light." but this is exactly what happens in these/those moments! only the gunk of our minds don't know how to translate the truth that we intuit; we're only humans after all, not even the gods that we imagine, never mind the one(s) which exist beyond our comprehension.


first translation of Jaccottet's poem:

Too many stars this summer, Sir,
too many friends struck down,
too many riddles.

I feel I'm growing more ignorant
all the time
and soon I'll end up a half-wit in the brambles.

So explain yourself, elusive Master!

By way of reply, from the roadside:

groundsel, hogweed, chicory.

(from Into the Deep Street, Philippe Jaccottet)


second translation, and while i prefer the first, this one is, i feel after reading "Apparition of Flowers", a more literal and rightful translation:

Too many stars this summer, Sir,
too  many friends in dismay,
too many rebuses.

I sense I know
less and less as time goes by,
and soon will end up an idiot in the brambles.

Explain yourself at last, evasive Master!

As an answer, along the path:

groundsel, hogweed, chicory.

(from And, Nonetheless: Selected Prose and Poetry 1990-2009 Philippe Jaccottet, translated by John Taylor)


Jaccottet's Apparition of Flowers

... i will bring this back soon as i will have to type it out. it is a longer piece i do not see anywhere on the internet...

Thursday, July 17, 2014


february 4th you set out from the shore - which has been erased and replaced - by nothing. the snow covered lake says, "my face is the world and the world is my face. it comes upon you even in the forest, sometimes placates, sometimes teases, sometimes stings like bees to your eyes, threatens obliteration." and each time it's right. but the snow today is crisp, held firm beneath your feet, obliteration only with snow blindness. but your weight cuts into it and you can hear your black boots like fabric scissors, your zigzag the jagged mouth that walks you to your place. which place? any place you choose to lay down your temporary load and bore a hole through. and then you sit the great patience over the black eye of the white whale, your body honed clean to sense any tug which might come from below. july does not exist. or does, like a field mouse's heartbeat somewhere far off, unimaginable, beneath the vastness of distance and snow.

but march 16th, when you find yourself up to your private Y each time you cantilever your weight, july is exactly fourteen thousand steps away. your jig down up ahead, the short rod triggered, god's stumped finger proselytizing how you will always be too late. beneath the ice an idea has swallowed something vague like a rubber boot and moves off like dim lit sarcomeres stitched onto night. your will is useless. each step thrust forward takes two years, the fish steadily moving off beneath you, escape as imminent as the impossible spring. god's finger lowers and lowers, points straight down, and july becomes an ember inside your mind as you fail to mount the black hole pointed to.

by april 9th you anxiously walk the lake stumbling through littered bundles of slushed ice. the lake shudders a cold sigh, even this small gesture fracturing the lake's tired back, not cataclysmically, but more like a grandmother's white sweater rumpling after a long nap. for you this is the horrible itchy time of distance, not enough ice to carry you across, the water too terribly turgid to allow for safe passage. you wait on the shore breathing steadily but your patience is a rouse, a feigned action. even july, perhaps now the destination, is too meek an idea, but you want her even so, just because, perhaps she isn't.

and then may and june you mostly spend away from the harried shore, banking enough hours at work to see you through to the period of time, prolonged, in the future, summer's sweet interface. and the few sparse hours you find yourself hacking through the shore's spring green vellus already sprigged to twine, seriously terminal, are met with the crushing omnipresence of water-born land-fed mosquitoes, en masse, plus ten more.

but then july, it comes, and you finally arrive too, the temperature of the world the same temperature of and in your blood, when you feel you've returned to the center of your memories, to your mother, to your birth, or to the first vague vestigal face of yourself, and you slit the surface of the water from anus to head for two sweet weeks and find your boat into the body's belly of the world, and when you sit sit sit and sink your line even further toward the lake's bottom which reflects sky, your hook so far from you it is deep in stars, still the feeling goes down in you like a weight, that excruciating longing from the body of the world toward the body of the world, and still the fish, even when it strikes, eludes you. july, even when it is july, no longer exists when you touch it. perhaps never did. and you thank god beyond logic with chills shaken from the back of summer's heat, the sounds of loons echoing back to you from the shores in retreat (from where? from all places and emptiness!), for winter who will once again in her barren robes step forward to take you in.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014


my daughter held the body of the fish, a muscle, its mouth open well beyond its point of desperation, more like simple punctuation - . , or the tail end of the word please, the silence after the sound s. it was dying. and then it was dead. and still she held it. it was both betrayal, the world's of her and hers of the world, and defiance. it was existentialism in a stronghold. it was a small hand daring to hold the dense body of ecstasy.

we begin to put our clothes on, me and my lover. he has cum in me, the creamy mess of fish, and i am yet shuddering with desire when i notice that my mouth is the same as that of the fish, my mouth which can be seen and the one which can't. i am desperate. i am please. and i am the silence after the s too. i am dying and will be dead. and i too, each time i make that shape with my mouth, am engaged in the act of betrayal. i am strong-holding life. wringing from it. while simultaneously being wrung.

it is not gratuitously i see the correlation between muscle, desire and death. it is precisely what we are made of.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

as david suzuki remarks with surprise
at the salmon returning in number
resalting the local river with hope

here, out back
where the weeds grow wild
beyond my hands and well beyond my intentions

a pink flower
an unplanned dash of the earth's surrender to life 
fights and finds its way to light

slow man, ssshhh, slow down
let the rivers flow
let the weeds grow
let the world reclaim herself

Saturday, July 12, 2014

no, i was wrong
the axe will not get it out
nor the stones nor the quakes nor the blows

only the crows cutting in through the dawn
only the milk crying out through the blood

the scarlet tanager flies from a) origin to b) odeum

sometimes all of these foolish gestures: hands, scarlet tanagers, vines and limbs
sometimes i want to throw it all like iron magnesium to wind
damn it all, how it began and how it all will end
only this, but now and deeper!
only this, but now and more and more thoroughly!
only this, but now magnified, amplified, unified, struck through, undone!
each gesture admitted, professed, forgiven, forgotten
no longer hands, scarlet tanagers, vines and limbs
instead, the brilliance burning hot and real, desire given its blazing face in iron
eternity recognized through eternity
not only from the standpoint of this paltry, frustrating, burning in beauty moment
but then and tomorrow relinquished entirely to its sister fate of always
you and i the fire without, inseparable from the fire within

small but important gestures from the elderly gentleman at the trading post

Leaning into the office he asked
if we had a trashcan (no can outside), 
pulling from his shirt pocket
his small wadded ice-cream tissue.  
"My grandmother used to rap us about the ears," he said,
"so that we would never forget to be responsible."
"And every time we played along the beach,"
he continued, "even while we played
we learned to collect driftwood,
knock free from each piece the sand
(as he spoke his hands made the dainty tinking gesture)
and lay them to dry for a fire later.
even while we played!..."

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

nine to nine at the trading post, then after

tired after twelve hours of explicating the nature of Sweetgrass
to wandered too far from home First Nations
and revising transactions 
for politically justified blue eyed tax exempts,
i wander out past the Trans-Canada highway,
blue eyed, red haired and fair skinned myself,
spread open the tarp which cloaks 
the clam-like opening to muskeg
and step, each step resurrection, 
into the silence as thick as bloom,
the flaps burgundy, muculent, 
glistening as home.


it is a dangerous thing to offer any kind of criticism of culture and i dare not if you read deeply or know me. i have been blessed to spend time in First Nations communities, which has enriched my life and connection to nature. however, the truth is we live in a world which encourages all of us to disconnect both from our local cultures and from the natural world (the true culture which lies beneath each of our local identities). this small poem is only simple observation which has taken place during transactions which happen in a trading post day after day, a place of illusion, a house of strictly commerce. i would hope the irony in the poem (which is the irony in life) would lead to a deeper investigation of what it is to hold any cultural identity in its regional appearance and what lies at the base of our deepest cultural inheritance, our time here on earth in these earthly bodies, absolutely reliant upon nature but ignorant of it. i realize i too remain of the ignorant ones, the smallest point leaning toward redemption being that in my love of this home i try to truly see it and touch it. i know i fail and it pains and shames me, but all i know to do is keep turning toward the doorway of the true world.

Monday, July 7, 2014

all along my head my scalp remembers

once a girl or a woman (i can not remember or imagine who)
came toward me with her knowledge and her hands 
and tied french braids into my musky stubborn hair

to be entered like that...
to be altered from the outside in...
to be made pretty...

Sunday, July 6, 2014

once angels were invisible, then stone, now resin

Let rebirth come through water, through desire,
Through crawling backwards across clinic floors...
                                               Seamus Heaney

and so we slip into lock together, hinge, became apparent to one another
because there is something she wants that i can not give her, a box,
the display case clearly stating *each angel to come in a gift box,
gilded with a sweet and hopeful inscription,
but i don't know where the boxes are and so the tiny thin resin angel,
holding a silver globe up in offering sits fragile, naked between us, 
a temporary latch, a hinge, a question of how to keep it safe 
in the transition between the counter and its expiation.
her friend is dying.  meh, of cancer, her shoulders proffer.
she is grey haired and ashen skinned.
meh, she repeats, her lips pouting, explaining her husband
has died the year before, cancer again.
i count wildly through my mind the litany of factors
marching like miniature toy soldiers between us, artificial ticks boring in our skin,
hot dogs, BPA in plastic, radioactive soil, nuclear reactors,
that time the Chinese slipped melamine into chocolate.
but we're all Chinese, Japanese Fukushima-ing, Canadian tar sanding,
eating from slime-lined cans, getting fat on heterocyclic amines, 
or growing thin on rank tuna, 
filling up our endless tanks as though nothing really matters. 
cancer hides and we've done the hiding.
but this is not the point, not where our hook grapnels me.
i pivot past the point of our doing, toward the place we're going,
the same place as her friend. why do we die in hospitals, i ask,
why end there so far away from where we begin?
but then i remember my first dark one passing through me
and how i didn't know to ask for anything other, 
how i took solace in the white halls and sterile light, 
how i was willing to have my pain managed. willing, but more - entitled.  
we all know it, don't we, the ticking of steal pads which can be disinfected, 
the shining ledger between death and life brocaded in sterility 
and the harsh grueling light that swears nothing sinister gets in.

out back behind the store, while we talk, further off, behind the garbage bin
the newly planted slender poplar sway in the shadows where once a bear tore his way in, 
walls meaning nothing then, the shed gutted, the gore our trash, not much natural about it.
Faulkner's Old Ben, still the heaviest phantom silently pacing our boundaries with patience,
out there beyond the reach of even our heavy cast parking lights straining puny against real darkness.
within threat of Old Ben, where the taste of fear runs brass on the tongue, not fear as we know it 
but the real measurement of our impotence against the timeless dark, there, i imagine, there with my heart in my throat, the real heart, bloody, no metaphor in plastic, is where i'll shat my next child, begin,
knowing i myself am next to be shat, no bright lights, metal or speculum,
no employed tired woman holding my limp wrist, counting,
but only my once strong black pulse growing thin.

i wrap the angel in bubble wrap, noting its wide-set dainty elbows 
proffering up the puny globe (the earth, or our own abject projections?). 
i squeeze it all to a trinket bag and push it across the counter. 

it passes dully between us.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

the weeds grow
because my husband's shoulders are so gawdawful beautiful.

Friday, July 4, 2014

the young's modulus

thank you thick thunderous stretch-marked thighs
carrying teenage daughters, goddesses, through personal revolutions.

nature will breed her where she can, imperfection, 
to temper the perfect to imperfect,
thereby reaching the higher rarer perfection, 
tensile modulus, isotropic elasticity, 
sometimes stronger, through elasticity, like steel.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

*unfinished poem, june 2nd

realizing that all that has fallen before has gone uncaught
i prepare to train tomorrow's eye like a dog, 
to pay attention,
to definitively, this time (tomorrow),
sitting before the owner who shuffles 
something blindly behind his back,
ultimately, finally, always - find the bone.
each time a leaf will sway over a road
i will spend my lifetime
naming the fissures,
naming capillary action, ...
naming how the *fine light comes toward my feet, 
first heavy like a globed fruit,
and finally spans out like a spider 
who once cast a  mighty shadow against a distant wall.
yes, i tell myself, planning,
tomorrow i will name each aspect, 
thereby gaining entrance into
the simple moment,
through language casting
the nonnegotiable key.
tomorrow, tomorrow! i will learn,
by rite becoming fastened,
the name of this tree!

but for today, i grieve, 
    the moment is already over.

a question from the last sunday in june

are we wrong to think
that touching the slim white bone waist of the pitcher,
the sable cheek of the lover,
or the delicate dip beneath the cupcake chins of our children 
is any different than or less than uttering a word,
plucking a note,
or vibrating like light over water?

Tuesday, July 1, 2014


it's like the ratio of dark matter to matter.
if i must prepare the bed of myself 95% of the time 
to receive one poem by a lifeblood author (say, like rilke)
in the bed of my life, 5% of something,
then what preparation must i do in me
to receive the ultimate poem of wholeness
which creates, consumes, defies! numbers?
95% of the time i must make body noise
and mind noise, abrading my self 
against the almighty "absence"
(diluted presence),
turning in circles like a dog
upon the 5% bed of silence
upon which will unfold
the one word poem -
   which i can't write here...