where longing and yearning meet the prayer of repetition
as we do not have food to harvest, may we harvest stones
fill our pockets with the grief and joys of history
i will make a bulletin board about my idols and ancestors
on it i will pin "pussy riot" and "arwings khodek" and "maxine"
and the names of my friends
it is august, the skies are smoky,
we prayed for days up at twin lakes and then a fire started,
helicopter swooped down over the blue blue clear lake to scoop up water
to douse the forests.
in august in hugo we have red fuchsia sunsets, bloody moons,
low ceilings,
stinging eyes.
standing in paradocks
living in love
remembering the well
without drowning my fury
electrified by old traumas reenlivened
here we are, this is it.
what is it, to live in a sleepy place?
what is it, this desire for spectacle,
to chain myself to the doors of walmart,
the desire to buy a gun,
it is august and fires are burning,
hey, welcome to the world, have your experience!
[when was the last time you stood up for something you believe in?]
i want to read all the memoirs of men whose lovers died of aids
i want to cut my hair
i want to scream
i want to run to the ocean
i want to be everywhere at once
i want to eat blueberries all year round
i want to die
i want to live
i want to wear floor-length satin and velvet robes and tux jackets with fishnets
i want to live with all my friends
i want to know my ancestors and my grandfathers and my dead friends better
i want to cry
i want to let myself be loved, or believe it's possible
i want to parade with giant puppets
i want the wars to end, the cops to betray their uniforms, naked dance parties in the streets of saint louis, bodies brown red pink blue salmon
i want to crawl into a hole in the ground and be held by my mother
i want to lay bare the human heart
i want to lay bare the human heart
Showing posts with label summer still life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label summer still life. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
midnight mooning, here's the list
1. woah, it's going to be okay!
2. "you should know that even though all things are liberated and not tied to anything, they abie in their own phenomenal expression." (Dōgen--this is actually very comforting to me)
and
3. "as for cities--they are (to those who can see) old tree trunks, riverbed gravels, oil seeps, landslide scrapes, blowdowns and burns, the leavings after floods, coal colonies, paper-wasp nests, beehives, rotting logs, watercourses, rock-cleavage lines, ledge trata layers, guano heaps, feeding fenzies, courting and strutting bowers, lookout rocks, ad ground-squirrel apartments. and for a few people they are also palaces." (gary snyder in the practice of the wild which i am reading and really enjoying right now)
4. idleness and mystery and stillness and the full moon and curiosity are so important. i am stepping off my ambiguity pedestal and toward desire and fire and water and the steam and smoke where they meet and walking mountains and being on the internet at midnight seeing my memories and loves and desires reflected back in a thousand tabs--oh silly but sometimes true-feeling this tool of the modern world, of our increasingly visible subconsciousnesses--i believe in german transqueer radical radio and rilke and bread and work and magic and new tattoos across knowing flesh and pain and slowness and quickness.
5. things have been rough lately and often hard. in a knowingly privileged and marginally unstable kind of way.
6. of place: wood floors. the altar moved to the next room over. it is night and the neighbors are doing some kind of loud popping project in the garage and talking about race on their porch. the walls are red and i ate a tiny plum that dropped from the tree in our front yard. there is an herb spiral and kale plants and lots of tomato blossoms. the cherries are dropping in neighboring blocks and yarrow in flower. raspberries are out, gold and red! and salmonberries! and strawberries too! and oregon grapes not too far (not that those are nearly as tasty but still). it has been sunny off and on, rainy occasionally, gray here and there often, warm but never quite hot per se, the doors are open here in the day and closed at night--it is chilly but i will sleep outside tonight.
7. STRANGERCAT i will write a poem about you soon.
2. "you should know that even though all things are liberated and not tied to anything, they abie in their own phenomenal expression." (Dōgen--this is actually very comforting to me)
and
3. "as for cities--they are (to those who can see) old tree trunks, riverbed gravels, oil seeps, landslide scrapes, blowdowns and burns, the leavings after floods, coal colonies, paper-wasp nests, beehives, rotting logs, watercourses, rock-cleavage lines, ledge trata layers, guano heaps, feeding fenzies, courting and strutting bowers, lookout rocks, ad ground-squirrel apartments. and for a few people they are also palaces." (gary snyder in the practice of the wild which i am reading and really enjoying right now)
4. idleness and mystery and stillness and the full moon and curiosity are so important. i am stepping off my ambiguity pedestal and toward desire and fire and water and the steam and smoke where they meet and walking mountains and being on the internet at midnight seeing my memories and loves and desires reflected back in a thousand tabs--oh silly but sometimes true-feeling this tool of the modern world, of our increasingly visible subconsciousnesses--i believe in german transqueer radical radio and rilke and bread and work and magic and new tattoos across knowing flesh and pain and slowness and quickness.
5. things have been rough lately and often hard. in a knowingly privileged and marginally unstable kind of way.
6. of place: wood floors. the altar moved to the next room over. it is night and the neighbors are doing some kind of loud popping project in the garage and talking about race on their porch. the walls are red and i ate a tiny plum that dropped from the tree in our front yard. there is an herb spiral and kale plants and lots of tomato blossoms. the cherries are dropping in neighboring blocks and yarrow in flower. raspberries are out, gold and red! and salmonberries! and strawberries too! and oregon grapes not too far (not that those are nearly as tasty but still). it has been sunny off and on, rainy occasionally, gray here and there often, warm but never quite hot per se, the doors are open here in the day and closed at night--it is chilly but i will sleep outside tonight.
7. STRANGERCAT i will write a poem about you soon.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
is this a poem or the release of a full bladder
after several long bouts of intoxication?
the pressure builds
the feeling is urgent, i catch myself running
to sit, split my mouth and let the confetti fly out
confetti this time, really?
one comes to expect the soft toulle of a garment
or waves like an ocean
perhaps music
i always hope for a little music
it funnies me too
the shades that emerge
in the splinters of glitter
blue then green then something i've never seen before
something that either scares me or draws me in closerrrr
it's always a fine line
a thin gloss
a look then a turn
a wink then a high tail
it's not that i don't trust you, dear friend
you and i know better than that
we've shared the same skin
the same heart
the same passion and pulse
it's been exciting, blessed be it is true
it's just the surprises that exist behind every corner
the surprises that kick scream jump
behind
every
corner
like this one
this small moment of reflection, of expansive sight
is a surprise
i sit now in my helicopter hovering
my bubble for one floating high in the sky
catching light on my glassy globe
marveling at its fancy
making love to the blue
cooing like a kitten
looking & seeing so far
in so many directions
and maybe it's not a surprise
these soft times, they come at the same time every year
every season, every hour
like the autumnal part of the day when the wind quiets
and the leaves drop
and you walk with no rush admiring each fallen gem
remembering its life
before trying to figure out what cool craft you'll make with it during the winter
mossy nests of nostalgia they are
nostalgia of paris, nostalgia of norway
nostalgia of farms and giggling creeks
and the lacy shadows of trees on a cool, wet path
nostalgia of walking into the golden embrace of a rustic kitchen
like the natural museum of a garden
with your lover there to meet you
to laugh with you
to spill flour and rub noses
a home that never quite felt like home
nostalgia, nostalgia, you prankster nostalgia
on second thought:
i adore you nostalgia
you hold on only to what is true
that home was really a home at times
if only for those split seconds that resonate through time
to now
they serve as arrows and road markers to the truth we are building
the trick is in trusting
the trick is in biting the bait
see,
i nibble fantasies with my morning fruit
i sip fairy tales for lunch
i know now what really feeds me
i have tasted the stuff of dreams and i know it is real
i look for it everywhere
look for the child with paint on its face
mud in its toes
the world in its hair
eyes,, the mirror reflection of a mirror
and skin the gift of 24 long summers
after several long bouts of intoxication?
the pressure builds
the feeling is urgent, i catch myself running
to sit, split my mouth and let the confetti fly out
confetti this time, really?
one comes to expect the soft toulle of a garment
or waves like an ocean
perhaps music
i always hope for a little music
it funnies me too
the shades that emerge
in the splinters of glitter
blue then green then something i've never seen before
something that either scares me or draws me in closerrrr
it's always a fine line
a thin gloss
a look then a turn
a wink then a high tail
it's not that i don't trust you, dear friend
you and i know better than that
we've shared the same skin
the same heart
the same passion and pulse
it's been exciting, blessed be it is true
it's just the surprises that exist behind every corner
the surprises that kick scream jump
behind
every
corner
like this one
this small moment of reflection, of expansive sight
is a surprise
i sit now in my helicopter hovering
my bubble for one floating high in the sky
catching light on my glassy globe
marveling at its fancy
making love to the blue
cooing like a kitten
looking & seeing so far
in so many directions
and maybe it's not a surprise
these soft times, they come at the same time every year
every season, every hour
like the autumnal part of the day when the wind quiets
and the leaves drop
and you walk with no rush admiring each fallen gem
remembering its life
before trying to figure out what cool craft you'll make with it during the winter
mossy nests of nostalgia they are
nostalgia of paris, nostalgia of norway
nostalgia of farms and giggling creeks
and the lacy shadows of trees on a cool, wet path
nostalgia of walking into the golden embrace of a rustic kitchen
like the natural museum of a garden
with your lover there to meet you
to laugh with you
to spill flour and rub noses
a home that never quite felt like home
nostalgia, nostalgia, you prankster nostalgia
on second thought:
i adore you nostalgia
you hold on only to what is true
that home was really a home at times
if only for those split seconds that resonate through time
to now
they serve as arrows and road markers to the truth we are building
the trick is in trusting
the trick is in biting the bait
see,
i nibble fantasies with my morning fruit
i sip fairy tales for lunch
i know now what really feeds me
i have tasted the stuff of dreams and i know it is real
i look for it everywhere
look for the child with paint on its face
mud in its toes
the world in its hair
eyes,, the mirror reflection of a mirror
and skin the gift of 24 long summers
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