Monday, September 28, 2015

a crucible of colours, notes

what i ask of my days is a being here. by which i don't mean mindfulness, as terms such as mindfulness can build themselves into excuses, deceits or barriers. but what i ask of my days in being here is a deconstruction, a working against subterfuge, a decloaking before self and all else to find the place where self meets all else. this place, i believe, is the place of ultimate intimacy.

how to ascribe words to such a place?
how to open the mouth of the mind and speak it?

instead—a crucible of colours, a community of everything.

horses clattering down the road and the people in the wagon yielding to the sheltering of covers.

church bells echoing through my chest and pigeons rising, a cloud of vigor.

coffee making itself and time ticking.

my legs working my body miraculously through the woods and over roots. my body! housing and carrying my mind! how might i ever have deserved this? the moss on the tree. my cheek on the moss on the tree.

foxes pouncing in graveyards. fretting at dark cloth sewn under earth to protect what? from weeds. tearing at it. loosening it. and leaving it on the nearby park trail like the holy robes of saints revealed or the empty wrap of mummies.

irene moving every last piece of refuge outside with the sun. and inside again and again to the gathering of darkness. she with enough to live on.

a moment. sasha serving our table. strange sasha. as strange as we are. we at the table serving sasha, reading french books in english. eli and his wife at another table arguing about darkness.

larry on his bike with his odd jobs. all of the odd people outdoors. all of the oddest people outdoors. the native lady walking with her daughter. the native man with the cut-featured face who couldn't afford my old house which i couldn't afford to keep up. it was falling into the earth. the bearded man with his wood fire sitting on a log. we saying hello to one another. we loving without knowing. (could we love if we knew?)

the still rock. the tall swaying pines. the crows calling out each and every transgression.

music. music everywhere. dew and thousands and thousands of spiderwebs.

a black bear bursting from the treeline punctuating thought. a black bear bounding across the road multitudes of unseen times punctuating nothing. only continually being.

covering my mouth and quaking. having no words. but being at the mercy of the place where words seem necessary. but sensing the larger place where words are silence. or something more profound than silence.

the crows died months ago. their feathers remain. the whites of the feathers like hard stems. throwing my self off like stacked kindling. lying over there. from here trying to see. from here trying.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

the construct

under the cold blue skies of the universe
move small hot furry bodies

under the fur, deep inside the calm cold blue skin
dig furious little animals 

somewhere under the cold dark holes
wait wet red sparks beating hard, simultaneously glorious and inglorious

once breached

Saturday, September 26, 2015

the crows and my children, notes

it was the beginning of june when i came across them, two dead crows in the road. i had been running by and was incredulous. why two? i ran home and hurried back with my camera and a white sheet, picked one of them up by the wings and photographed it, posted photos of it with novalis' hymns to the night.

early june.

i don't think i knew at that time that my children would no longer live with me.

they were at home then and i came back excited with the story of the crows. of course they rolled their eyes and kept about their own very important teenaged business.

today i ran by, as i often do, the place of the crows' death. it mystifies me that the feathers from one of the crow's wings are as perfect as the day it died.

today i ventured through the ditch and up over a rock, a little into the woods where i rested the second one. i wanted its body to return more naturally to the soil. (the other crow had been smashed into the pavement.)

and it has. its bones now are revealed, a little repository on a bed of feathers of what once was. they're thin and brittle by sun, rain, heat and insects. they look akin to the leaves strewn about on the ground.

but the feathers, black, white stemmed, remain decisive, intact.

i talk with my children, write notes and have them return notes when i'm lucky.

whole small worlds change. the larger world remains the same.

the seamstress

The seamstress brashly pushes the breakables on the counter
to make room for her task. She's adept at cutting things,
sewing them up again into new positions, creator of forms.
Her arms are cranes, her shoulders scaffolding.
Her eyes are cold empty lights shining out as needed, 
beacons - as sure to the world as rough rocks over here!,
but busy about their tasks, lighting what she needs, a beam at the bolt of cloth, 
at thread, illuminating scissor blades, metal thimble, glinting needle.
Two grappling hooks sunk into two hunks of grey meat
swing from cross supports, one beneath her mess of hair,
the other beneath her beryl blue ironed shirt,
staining with pronouncement each time they smack
the interstice between she and the lace veil of world.
As she works she has no love for what she makes
or me, but has rash lavishings for the efficiency of her making.
When she lifts her face and smiles, raising the tape toward me,
I shiver with her proximity, her cold surface reflecting,
but she continues to move in closer and closer, to take my measure.

Friday, September 25, 2015

not wanting to love anyone else i love everyone (desiring the terribly desirable), notes

thinking about love.
thinking about desire.

i do not want one other woman or man in this living world to put her or his mouth on mine.
i do not want to put my mouth on one other woman or man in this living world.

i am tired with people.
but mostly i am tired with myself.


for instance.

she has come into the store before. shy. conspiratorial? with her lover. husband? quietly they have communicated between themselves, touching objects, conferring with the world through their hands. upon helping them i discovered her voice which came out of her unregulated, from a deep place of will. deaf. partially deaf? recently deaf? it was, at first, confusing as i didn't anticipate it, like bumping into shadows.

she was not traditionally beautiful. not at all. in fact, perhaps in this regard it was also like bumping into a shadow. strange nappy grey hair. tough arms. a masculine feminine. an air of decades ago. tough faced. rumpled nose. did she know the year? a disregard for all current culture. clearly self possessed. self determined.

a number more visits to the store. each time with greater freedom. going further and further away from the man. maybe, after all, only a friend? a brother?

the last time, alone. no hesitation in communicating. and me no bumping into shadows.

perhaps she had a haircut. she was brighter in the face than ever. perhaps it was approaching the world all alone? she bought a wolf print. she bought a wolf sweatshirt. she turned her arm and showed me her new dream catcher tattoo that flowed over her young mannish biceps. it's hot, she spoke deadpan and heavy past the quiet place of her ears. she motioned with her hands, hot! the work had just been completed. it hurrrtt; she dropped the words out long, with a smile buoyant over them.

it's beautiful, i told her.

although to me it wasn't.

nor the wolf print. nor the sweatshirt.

but she was. she was.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Autumn Leaves

Fall again
And I dream on a project from childhood
Leaves in wax paper
Fixed by the heat of an iron

I am adult now but I have no iron
I care not for the state of my clothes

But I dream on an iron
I dream on pressing leaves
I dream on simplicity
On melted wax holding it all together

Monday, September 21, 2015

at the bottom of the hill, the ambulance passing by

wondering, again, as men are apt to wonder,
on what is the significance of my life
or how on earth i might get it right,
all that really matters is this chance encounter with this fox and its eyes...

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Not Legato nor Staccato

What is this position called,
husband behind wife pushing,
wife pushing back and pushed again,
together, together, erupted separation—
not legato nor staccato...

Not one time has the cum called out without your presence,
you of no name, you of plenty,
phantom you who exists within the walls, the wife and husband, 
elusive you whose carnal mouth brims, 
the molten pot of silence threatening to infringe.

Saturday, September 19, 2015

From Here to There

I have a small life.

The sun rises in the small hallway window,
sets over my couch's back in the living room.

Herbs grow sneakily in my kitchen window.

Shoes sit near the doorway, some dirty, some clean.

My fridge rumbles along, all day, all night
and my oven waits patiently to ease one way or the other.

My husband grazes out back as he pleases.

Sometimes I thread my fingers through his mane, 
flex my legs.

And we set off, riding hard, over the hills.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

procedure, bare facts, notes

operating tables must have foot-drop capability and sockets for leg-holders, commonly called "candy-canes," boots and yellow fins, or Allen stirrups.

too few hours of sleep. pack yourself through dark into car. defog windows en route. drive the inconvenience of an hour and a half through the dark. navigate the hordes of drones arriving for their shift change at the hospital. become naked. become robed. wonder on if your slippers are inside right or not. sit among strangers. watch as each one is called and transformed. made naked. sit through the quiet or noise of each person, each couple. sit through three waiting rooms. jest in the last, "the sub waiting room," about the possibility of there being a sub-sub waiting room. lie on the cold table with legs open, waiting, while two nurses and two doctors ignore you. and then endure what is to be endured. small bites of flesh are torn from you. slowly. feel it. know your skin is burning, not in shame but pain and anticipation of the unknown - what might come next. then the exclamation of "what's That?" from down there, which is never answered. hope that as you waddle through sub waiting room again your robes are not soaked through. or don't care. apply diaper sized pad to panties. pack yourself through morning light into car. you're poor. ($6.00 parking lot!) seasons change. bring yourself to the thrift store. you'll need new clothes. keep a constant tally of what's in your cart. put back what seems too extravagant. drive the inconvenient hour and half back. stop to see your mother.

and this is true.

but not my truth.


what perversity. making coffee ready at 5:30 am. hearing it spit and fizzle against the dark. and loving it. what strangeness getting into my car in the dark. what lurks around? what doesn't? driving through the black morning. fog. the slow evolution of darkness(es). bbc radio. bbc radio! oh, bbc radio. how curious to my canadian ear. loving the journalist drinking wine somewhere in africa. the chinese investing in african infrastructure. what new perspective on the world! economics as an answer to the syrian crises?? (resent this. resist this. then recognize the possibility.) drinking coffee in the car. finding the opening. moving it to my lips. watch for animals in the dark. watch people passing you, hurtling themselves ridiculously forward. to the city. the city against the coming light rose morning. i don't love the city. but who could not love the rose? and all these people. all these people moving. and no two talking. no two saying good morning to one another. the security guard in his small sentry box. only his strong broad shoulders. sits and does nothing. is he a person? where is the person inside him? his sweater is thick wool. people moving monotonously into the hospital. women and more women. shift change. different hips. notice the musculature along the legs of one in particular. the beautiful brunette with the silly bow in her hair. her wide voluptuousness. be one of them. say nothing. move along. what theatre! find the stairs. find the doors. find the hall. find the first waiting room. feel naked and exposed. why naked and exposed? fully clothed. listen to the television with its early morning news. (you never listen to or watch the news on television. and the same personalities on tv from ten years ago!) listen to the receptionists check people in. listen to the evolution of the old man as he is told to go away. come back later. the receptionist and the man circling one another with attitude. until finally they both help. and she asks, ok? and he offers, thank you. read a short story by breece pancake. shape the words with your mouth. say them aloud quietly to fend off all the clatter. move to the second waiting room. be called. be naked. look at yourself in the mirror. put on the uniform of robes which reduce you to only body. the robes are so big. wrap them around your frame. notice how your frame must compare to others. the pockets are not on the sides. the pockets wind up around the front and the back. but usually you feel big. this morning you feel small. how soft the fabric. how loose your breasts. what a treat to be naked amongst others! the slippers present a quandary. why would they be presented inside-out? surely you must have it wrong. allow yourself to be wrong. turn them the other way. slip them onto your feet. feel funny. this is a joke! return to the second waiting room. watch. be watched. be curious about who is watching you and why. wonder on the possibility of not even these robes between you. check out the slippers on the man beside you. are they on the same or different than yours? you can't tell. but is there an energy passing between you? right there between your arms. your arm resting on his chair. allow it. the blonde keeps looking. the two women changing from english to french in conversation. her esthetician is so good. while she's off work she'll not have another. they talk of hair removal. which hair does she have addressed? will it be obvious to the specialist when she is called? then she's called. and she is a regular lump of a girl like any of us. why do we get preoccupied with things like estheticians? how do we believe they elevate us? oh, humans are so peculiar! the largest woman talking like sweet butter on her phone. to her children before school? then you're called. how curious the walk is so long to the door in front of all these people. they said, keep your valuables with you. most people have wallets or cell phones. i have a bag of books and my reading glasses. i'm serious about this. i'm not playing. to them am i an alien? move to the next registration room. move to the next sub-waiting room. remember being here years ago. remember how incredible it was to sit and wait. remember how altered your mind was. how altered the world. how special the seeing. remark to yourself that the wall you stare at has no art. imagine and know how art on the wall would change everything. but be grateful for the blank space which helps you to know this. then be called. walk into the operating theatre. but it is only minor today. a quick procedure. and then another. no one looks at you. they talk through their masks with their backs to you. they are in two groups of two. nurses. doctors. are you actually there? it is all so strange. the colour of their clothes is so pleasant. mint green. soft blue. the colours feel like a mother. you feel akin to a baby. but you've seen some with plastic butcher's bibs on walk briskly through the waiting room. not here. it's only a minor procedure today. and then another. you're motioned to the table in the center. you never know how to sit. should you sit sideways like a lady on a horse? should you be bold and put your feet directly into the stirrups? it's fascinating. how they are. how you are. this is all business. you've done this before but it's always new. new people. new room. new year. new you. the nurse assures you, yes, stirrups. the doctor's eyes are so green. green like giant fish turning slowly on the bottom of a brown ocean. you don't see them for long. he is about his business. below your sight line. the blanket slides down. no one corrects it. you tack it up with one hand. onto your left knee. you make a fist and bring your right hand to your lips. it's tension but it is nearly kissing yourself too. you give yourself this intimacy. you are cranked open. your eyes flood the ceiling. the nurses look at you but then look away. they're busy. the second doctor is a young woman. good, you think. he tells you things, the first doctor and you wonder if and when you'll feel the needle. you've been warned your heart will race. will he tell you when? is anyone driving you home? no. you want to touch everything. but there is no needle. a small instrument instead bites off small parts of you. you feel it. i don't think you are supposed to feel it. you feel your hand curled against your lips too. you feel your left hand hold the blanket to your knee. your left arm is so straight. you can't imagine how you look. you can't imagine you have ever looked exactly this before. ever in your life. you feel strangely beautiful. the rest of your body is gone. only the place inside that is being bitten is real. only your two hands. your lips. your knee. and it hurts. six o`clock. eight o`clock. and notes. the needle never comes. and when they crank you closed and slip it out you don't ask about the second procedure. you don't care any more. the first is enough. the first is required by common sense. the bare requirement. the second is elective. you don't elect. the nurses say, ok. you can get down now. the doctor tells you specifics to your case. his eyes turn up a little. don't look at your eyes. you wonder if he's looking at the light atop the brown water. he has said these words thousands, maybe millions of times. or variations. ok, you agree. this is science. business. this is not science or business. you're sitting in a stained chair now, your bottom tipped off the seat. you're bleeding. how much might you be bleeding? before when others rose in the waiting room earlier you watched them adjust their robes away from their bottoms. is your bottom covered in blood? no one shows you the way out. you have to ask. huh. this surprises you the most. so, i just go now? uh-huh, a nurse agrees. so you push open the door and turn back. you see her eyes. they're beautiful. green too. but caucasian green. so different from your doctor's. you wish her a good day. you mean it. the doctors are busy. someone`s next. a new patient. you see a smile spread into her eyes. you're so happy to see it. you walk back by those in the sub-sub room. all the chairs are full. will be full all day long. you don't look at them. you have the whole day before you! you'll go to the second hand store. you'll touch fabrics. you'll dream on fashions. borrowed. all the better. maybe you'll find a wool sweater. it will be cold soon. or something that floats down between your breasts like the fabric of these hospital robes. you'll find a book. a couple shirts for your husband. he'll take part in a lecture soon. he'll look so handsome. you'll get to do this! touch shoulders on secondhand shirts and imagine. then you'll stop at your mother's. talk. and listen. only mention the clothes you got for such a good bargain. keeping everything else private. a spoil of riches for yourself.

on the way to your car you pass by two men workers. orange X-s on their backs and chests. not one hospital worker has acknowledged them. as you pass you say good morning. they reply and you know they have lascivious grins. it's ok. everyone`s playing their part. it has nothing to do with you. you are all made of the same stuff. and not the same stuff at all. the box which held the security guard is empty. the day is bright.

Sunday, September 13, 2015


In the good old days mama wiped her hands on the lap of her apron 
on route to her pie safe - best delights out of sight but smelled.
In the good old days I'd press my face there against the punched tin 
waiting and wearing the prison on my skin -
she always knew what I was drooling up to.
In the good old days it was achingly good how we waited for things, 
like how mama waited all year for those ripening apples
and like how I waited all afternoon to indulge my sin.

Now we've sped it all up to get the pie on our plates lickety-split.
But with the soil and air stoked to express, we've invigorated disaster
as bees have done forgotten how to sniff.

And so the trees kinda stand there inert.
And mama kinda stands there without any apron on her skirt.
And the prison has evolved entirely into something else.


in the tradition of progress we're perfecting ourselves right out of tradition - high ozone concentrations have significant negative impacts on pollination by reducing the distance over which floral olfactory signals can be detected by pollinators.

near the other side (aux sables river, september 9, 2015)

late day sunshine, and music alongside the watershed
notes unheard, unhearable, but deeply felt

almost too late seed pods drifting through the atmosphere, parachuted in ideas
insects decisive, darting low and darning it all together

mind lulled so fast meeting of both ends, infinitely knotted
as you laze your place in the unsayable, dead center the universe

cedar tree, husband, madwoman you pledge feverishly your love to him
river stones, children, covenant of flesh, offspring of your genesis

blinding light split in two by tree-dense silhouettes
and forms binding stubbornly all that nothingness together

peat moss, moss bed, seed bed and loam
—let me come home, cradle of birth and death

what an insult to look down and find yourself still restrained inside this embodiment
when clearly the light is pulling you, lacework undone, unnetted mesh, out through your skin

when mind is shining on mind and finding only 
pure presence of water.

Saturday, September 12, 2015


throughout my life i was hostage as a low dark mass like distant hills; 
i appeared anchored.

light flossed through my foliage as thin gold thread forgives black cloth 
in voided work

but wrought of rock how slow my movements, what work each venture.
the sun squatted on me, each child, each parent, each sibling, the moon, the news.

work sowed tall slow hemlocks deep into my brow

and time slowed me like an overplayed album,
around and around i went, going nowhere.

my one self carried a whip called day and night
and demanded of me that i keep myself together.

deep in the crevices of my forehead i dreamed of freedom.
when i got it - all dreaming was done.

Friday, September 11, 2015

the old guy with the white beard looks like a fisherman, notes from the trading post a month ago

the old man with the white beard comes into the store again. he was here the day before and bought little to nothing. this time he comes in with three large dirty (implying well used) plastic containers collected after their primary use has run itself dry. he needs us to fill them with water. bad radiator, he surmises, knowing it is not a bad radiator at all but something else gone wrong that leads to the radiator over-heating. he explains this with a tired voice.

we're not especially helpful at the trading post, prime directive profit and all, and this being the busy season, but i want to be at least somewhat helpful so i motion him to the bathrooms. if they won't fill in the sinks, let us know, already knowing that he'll need more help after. there's no way those containers will fit into those small sinks.

i've got one more trip to make, he explains, out east. 

oh, an adventure, i wager, my fingers already busy on the product, my mind having temporarily set behind the volume of what is in the course of this busy work day.

well, i'll go there one last time and then i'll carry on to wherever, he explains.

i'm only half interested in his truth. perhaps not even this much. perhaps i'm even inconvenienced by his appearance.

he raises his pupils and he catches me as though a fish with the whites of his eyes. no adventure, miss. with as much unerring pain as i'm in this is my last chance to say good-bye. then there will be the waiting and the wandering until i die.

he moves in relatively small belaboured steps toward the bathroom, in order to two minutes later wander back, making his way silently by us to the kind young girl at the ice cream counter. he asks her to fill his containers. she does so without asking one question.

Wednesday, September 9, 2015


my daughter berates me on the telephone, insatiably incensed,
the same heated complaint she's been firing at me for years:

the street, mother, the main street -
you wouldn't let us cross the main street alone!

you didn't trust us!
you were scared for our lives!

a small town, mother! a small backwards podunk town!
you killed us with your love!

my daughter knows how horribly i've loved her,
this the primary density to her smoldering demise.

there is a small self-satisfactory smile beneath the cage of her yelling mouth.
this holds her fire like the bottom half of a thurible.

Monday, September 7, 2015

hurry up and sit, notes an another walk, september 3, 2015

at the inlet finally
after left - left - a series of dumb blind trusting lefts
and the frenetic forest empties itself (freed?) into a bowl

for moments i am struck without the sense to know if the inlet is full or empty


"Don't just do something, sit there."

body and soul II, charles wright


in only one moment a seagull crosses from bare rock to bare rock, point to point

in a matter of only a few more moments a raven crests overhead bridging the jagged evergreen forest behind me


last night i wanted to play with children at a beach
play! really play! from my heart outward

today my feet tread upon the rippled sandy bottoms

i feel what i touch - but not quite

i go under


sitting on the rocks
reading poems
(spanish translations by wright)
taking a series of photographs
and looking up again
the inlet, the bowl, what is and isn`t here
becomes so ordinary it is known
and as forgotten as my body

i could wear it like a shirt
fold it like laundry


some moments ago i tapped my book
to warn off
a thick and quick hairy spider
"you are ugly", i explained

then i forgot him
looking up into the beautiful water
shining even beneath the dull sun

i have no idea where the spider has gotten to

but i hear the water
i see it mark the rocks where it fruitlessly laps


a little discouraged...
brought the last tiny stolen apple
and one (of too many - domesticated) from the fridge

hankered after nuts
and so bought some

even shaking out only a smattering of them earlier to a smaller bag
to carry them through the woods to the water
i`ve too much with me to obliterate this hunger

i sit and wait
fashioning a greater hunger
which i will also obliterate


(writing these lines has made me hungry)


over the sound of the waves i feel an unfortunate headache, a presence
an electric sound or a deep rumbling gyration
a motor, a boat, or a truck...
perhaps the (too nearby) quarry

why when there are beautiful things such as this
do we mine them?

the riches we seek are somewhere else


ah! - down there nestled (for now) in a lip of stone - the hairy spider


earlier this morning:

octavio paz
(translated by eliot weinberger)

wind, water, stone

Water hollows stone,
wind scatters water,
stone stops the wind.
Water, wind, stone.

Wind carves stone,
stone's a cup of water,
water escapes and is wind.
Stone, wind, water.

Wind sings in its whirling,
water murmurs going by,
unmoving stone keeps still.
Wind, water, stone.

Each is another and no other:
crossing and vanishing
through their empty names:
water, stone, wind.


growing terribly hunger
i take up my camera
study a  bird that lands far out on the water
species unknown
for the light and distance has obliterated particularity
i watch it bob
be swallowed
second after second (time?)
the world, after a time, out of focus
and ceasing to exist beyond the camera

nothing appears in my left eye
my left eye is no more

there is only the right and the shifting waves
unceasing water

and despite the camera, this black tube i hold
the waters are connected to my eye

lift, i tell the bird, lift and release me


the bird's black form keeps disappearing
the bird's black form keeps reappearing


juan ramón jiménez

rose of the sea
(translated by james wright) 

The white moon takes the sea away from the sea
and gives it back to the sea. Beautiful,
conquering by means of the pure and tranquil,
the moon compels the truth to delude itself
that it is truth become whole, eternal, solitary,
though it is not so.
                               Divine plainness,
you pierce the familiar certainty, you place
a new soul into whatever is real.
Unpredictable rose! you took the rose away
from the rose, and you could give back
the rose to the rose. 

From Diario de Poeta y Mar

i stare like this for a long long time

i force myself to stare

my hands, which hold the camera are shaking 

i set the camera down to write these lines
and like a blur in my peripheral vision
the bird is suddenly
flying off


nothing will make these nuts, these apples, that i am about to eat
right enough

i have failed them
and will always fail them


but they are so good


as i scoop one handful after another to my mouth
i consider the rim of this bowl, this inlet

two years ago (time?)
i casually set out to swim from one point to the other
but part way i was filled with a sudden and total terror
physically filled with something not physical
but it had weight or anti-weight
white lightning filling my limbs

i realized the terror could take me under if i let it
so i breathed
setting aside the scaffolding of my thinking
resisting the physical manifestation of
truths like - i`m not a swimmer; it's unimaginably deep;
and my father drowned

why on earth would i think i could be casual about anything like this?

one never fully escapes oneself


handful after handful of salted nuts
i can`t help but think - they`re glorious!
i fill my body
knowing that in a few hours (time?)
i will be hungry again

am i full
am i empty
i wear this body like a shirt
it is familiar and i have forgotten it
i might fold it like laundry


when i stand to leave i shake my towel
the hairy spider tumbles out of it

it actually tumbles out!

this is the way the world writes itself


i leave the inlet
trying to carry its strange power with me

i will be unsuccessful
i will drop it
i will forget it

in my best moments
i'll remember
and be hungry for it again

To the bridge of love,
old stone between tall cliffs
  —eternal meeting place, red evening—,
I come with my heart.
  —My beloved is only water,
that always passes away, and does not deceive,
that always passes away, and does not change,
that always passes away, and does not end.

From Eternidades


for days
when i am lost
i will reach out my hand through my mind
to try to touch these things through paleness
as though i might touch Rose 
as though Divine Plainness were a thing

Thursday, September 3, 2015

“Wittgenstein`s Room“ (A Lady Speaks Aloud her Itinerary as she Walks with an Even Gait)

Today, I think, I should like to grow thinner.
I should like my ribs to become the shining granite shelf.
I should like my breasts to be the last banded blast of cactus milk.
And I should like to maintain a faint but even pulse 
even beneath the harrowed earth toothed in the last distress of sedge grass.

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

is the word a solid thing?

Scrambling up the side of the granite monolith, flashing up thin lines like lichens, mosses, like the thin purplish-green truncated stems (like rope) of the unidentified wild bamboo shoots near aux sables or the heat throwing pink twitching tail of the rat used also for balance, wiping the brow and working the body, fearing but projecting weight upward and forward toward the top, then sitting there squarely to assure the self by touching and being upon (squatting) the sure true righted undeniable density (is it?), more considerable than a ship, more convincing; taking in the larger view, the multiplicity of foliage, rugged jack pines, forlorn tamaracks, solemn stands of spruce accompanied by their fine and lovely ladies the slim white birches, boyish poplars in the vestibules, hucksters of slight of hand aspens, the last few regal hemlocks caged and caging the distant broad band of the forest; smelling the wind, tasting it like the deer tastes memory, alert to light and shadows, sudden changes;

or lakeside, or riverside, or creekside, or swampside, light dazzling off dark water,

or in the fields with the thigh high grasses and the flittering butterflies, the distant squawks of the broods of ravens,

or sitting in a chair in your kitchen, hands on knees and dust motes pivoting three-dimensionally (yes?) through light,

or looking suddenly sideways,

or almost remembering something—   .

Schubert's impromptu no. 4 in A flat major, the keys working feverishly sideways, the notes drawing you onward, recklessly, always further, until not, then back to the beginning and further onward again, fingers not fingers touching the codes wound into the convolutions of your body (ear folds, heart folds), releasing the mind (absolved flames, breaths emancipated from the lungs, the mouth) to pockets of almost knowing—

     Might the world have mercy? Might the world bring us the one note further than the song?

You long to be the fox winding itself through understory, your little black feet dappling forward through the black muck without sentiment. (Do you feel them, sucking, releasing, then rising enough to treat the mud you wade through as though you're padding along on water?) Your mind has deposed itself of emotion. You're onto something.