interview with a worker bee

my love is on loan,

sent out on an aimless wind.

 

what happens here is between my

meticulous wings, always

 

buzzing, always hovering

above unnamed flowers.

 

the taste of completion

is like no other;

 

you keep moving toward it,

keep caressing the target:

 

knowing that on the other side

of the other side is a

 

convivial feast just waiting

for these mandibles.

un-finish-ed

we watch our mothers, and

our mothers’ mothers; we

see the face cream, the grays

edging in, the soft clasp of

 

gravity. but we don’t think we

will become them; we don’t think

we believe in form, in discipline,

in the sparrows hiding in the

 

fury. but gradually, gradually, the

edges begin to blur, the beaks start

to speak, and the frame fills:     this

is the only way to be with both the

 

sorrow and the bliss, with the passing of so

many chapters, and the grisly opening of a

deeper chasm of books never fully read, never

fully grasped, up to the very end: un-finish-ed.

 

 

 

 

 

when i was little

i remember sitting on the hard wood floor and

feeling like i was in a forest. i never thought

i would be living bill to bill, rent to rent, worried

about how to keep the hard wood over our heads.

i think i just thought it was all there–everything

we needed–for the taking, the sharing, the giving, the

living. it’s hard to live–really live–while worried about

your next deadline, next payment, next claim on your time.

i sit here writing about it instead of just living it. when i was

little i would go into my canopy worlds and escape time, escape

physicality, escape that palpable feeling of not belonging–

and would somehow find a soft space, between the knowing

waves and wise particles floating in the air and landing on the warm

wood, where everything felt right, connected, slowed way down

to perfection. i think this is where we are meant to be, back in the

forest of our child-mind, loving everything, living out the colors

and shapes and rhythms of play. no one had to tell us where to go,

or how to find it: our beautiful bliss was ever at our fingertips.

 

i think i like a poem (that’s not for reading on a cell phone)

i think i like a poem

because it makes me slow

way down and be in the moment

and really take in the words, thoughts,

sounds. i think i like a poem that makes me

smile, cry, shake, blush, swing from the rafters.

i think i like a poem that’s the first poem in a new

house, fresh word paint spilling out onto the walls, floors,

ceilings. i think i like a poem that opens me up like a dream-

catcher wheel, spinning around and around until my deepest guts

are revealed and my heart is at the mercy of the meaning police vehicle

rolling through at over 44 mph, i think; i love; a poem; that makes no sense

to anyone but me--and maybe to those three who know who they are and who

keep me on my toes through the lovely pain-staking pains of staking these claims.

 

being

dreams are like tethers in reverse.

 

instead of keeping us tied to earth,

they keep our strings connected

back to where we came from—like

the soft lines of an old, old, tree

 

flowing up to the tallest peak.

 

once you climb it,

the only place up

is the moon;

and memory.

 

there are more characters in my dreams

than people in my real life, more land-

scape, more running, more hunting, more

flying: like the husbandry i was made for.

 

the only thinking is the construct i’m in,

and that’s already accounted for. there’s

no room for narrow cerebral being when

the primordial is tugging at your insides.

art

when you arrive at the perfect piece,

it sits in your mouth like a kiss,

 

a deliciousness you wish you could

hold onto forever. sometimes i

 

wait at the bus stop, and the big

whoosh lumbers up, and i wave

 

it away. i’m waiting, i say, but not

for the bus. for what, i cannot

 

articulate; but when it comes, it’s

like going back through the tunnel

 

and finding the seed from which

you sprang, and everything else

 

just falls away, and the song you sang

as a child rings like a bell in its wake.

 

multi

every time you visit me

i’m a different person:

 

the levels shift, and i am

three floors up, or two down.

 

sometimes there’s a hidden trap-

door, a cave-like passage-way.

 

you are confused, because it is

the same square footage, but

 

such a foreign place. i am confused

because you keep visiting me.