Hum

5-9-08

This is the way
inside
this beating and this hum
these 6-sided chambers
these hands on wood
these hands on ache
this knife to cut
this scraper to clean
this city inside
here, an infancy
an infant inside
this brood comb
this pouring
this bare hand, unglove
these netted eyes
this hovering
that lifts us over
this is the way
these bodies and these wings
this wet edge of knife
this dripping
this coming home yellow
this poppy dust
this dipping
these tongues
this being birthed
this linger between sweet
this sting risk
this squeezing
this smoke
here, hold here
these gifts and recompenses
this heart swarm
this hum and this beating
this hovering
is the way
in

A tisket, a tasket

3-24-08

She was going along, minding her own business. For the most part. There are always the prickles and the pixels that block the view or scratch the skin, the split-second worries--"Children get under your desks. This is a test. If this were an actual nuclear attack... ." But mostly, the little worry pools evaporate. With the right light, she can watch the particles float up and become part of the sky.

But then this thing went down, not up. It didn't evaporate. It materialized. And then dropped. Like a set of keys. A big bulky custodial set, only silent. On the ground. Crouching down to look from another angle, she can slide along that metaphor. Keys, even spilled, can still open doors. Okay, fine.

But the thing is, she's been going along for quite some time looking for the door. If she has the keys, then where is the door? She imagines it will be giant, with chipping paint, heavy and near impossible to push open just with a hand. A whole body kind of push will be required. Of course it's possible that it's just a series of miniature doors, one after the other, with life-sized locks for the fallen keys. Either way, the doors are hard to find. Unless she's been going through them ever since and only half realizing it.

Like keys. But not. Like a tissue. Like a friend. Like an envelope. It didn't make much of a sound. It was soft. It crumpled. It slid. Pigmied. She was carrying it and she dropped it. A tisket, a tasket kind of thing. The green and yellow basket. Wrote a letter to my love and on the way...

The letter. The dropped letter. It was shaped like a G.

Waiting

02-20-08


Waiting for something
waiting for some things
I hate waiting
desire paths would
wear down the wood

A little woop woop monkey
sticks his hand inside a box
a nut, mealy on the tongue
imagined umami bits
pull it through no
fist, nut-filled, can't fit
back through the hole
fading fist over fate
silly monkey, let go

Meanwhile, a chain
makes a necklace
sometimes a blow torch
or a miniature saw
trumps a walnut
sometimes waiting
turns into circumstance
think of everything
to do in a span of it
think of Oulipo
French tricks to release,
limits for generations
tie down my leg
watch me slither
into what was
unacknowledged
previously ignored

Clutch me, monkey
I want my arms around you
little prehensile fingers
squeezing mine.

Sea stars/See stars

10-13-07
Things creep along this way. Sometimes he just wants to bury himself completely. Scrape of shovel against skin, burns. Just wait, people say. They point to the layers over the layers, the places where you can draw lines together to make more stars. Superimposition. Doubly exposed. Where there’s one, there are probably many. Like mice in the kitchen. He looks down at his thighs; unflexed, they go jelly. The light will fade. The stars of course are dead. Millions of years ago, in fact. But now is now. It would be nice, he thinks, to be able to pull off a part and have it grow back. Or not.

Joy

10-13-07
This, after she was told to rub Joy over her heart.