hello, heart

hello, big bowl

of purple plums,

 

rising up and

bursting forth

 

in cool sweetness

and simplicity;

 

hello, exigent

machine: pulsing,

 

pulsing to its

emery end;

 

hello, beautiful

redundancy:

 

our intrinsic need

to hear it again

 

and again; that which

keeps us human.

 

hello, heart.

 

 

you are the poem

sit silently with your self;

listen to your breath, to last

night’s dreams, to the hammer

heart-beats which carried you

 

through. listen again. do you

hear your treble, the shaking

space between your stanzas,

the tremble of your verse?

 

you are the poem.

 

stop letting in all the noise. make

your own noise—just for you. if you

don’t want to rhyme, don’t. let your

capitals go. be un-titled. let the

 

line

breaks

surprise

even

 

you. swim in the imagery, steep in

the buzz of beginning over that of

belonging. watch a being give

birth. you are the poem. it will

 

all be over soon. taste each syl-

la-ble in your mouth, feel the tug

of adrenaline in the pit of your

stomach: the closest to the center

 

of child hood you will ever get

again. take cream in your coffee.

romance your selves and those

clinging to them with satin

 

static. if you take a title, own

it; sing it out with each pulse.

hug the children, love the world,

speak the beauty, love the poem.

 

you are the poem.

 

 

 

 

permanent record

when she was a child, she

realized she could move

things with her eyes. she

remembers them levitating,

flying about, crash-landing.

 

she’s in the middle of her

life now; she feels what

people call a crisis. she

talks to herself, and is the

nicest person to talk back.

 

she reads novels that are

going no-where; she keeps

seeing under-utilized words that

aren’t there. she thinks one thing

and writes another. she knows

 

you can say things in a poem

you can’t say any-where else.

people are weapons; even the

kids playing on the lawn in the

warm snow are getting away with it.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

it’s about damn time

it starts to rain and i think:
it’s about damn time.

i don’t know where i’ll go from here, but
this wet space is a good place to start.

i can’t write a goddamn poem—and
i keep thinking about bukowksi and

how he said don’t try—but if some
thing doesn’t come out soon i may im-

plode. i keep walking around the house
saying: i don’t know what to do.

i keep walking room to room know-
ing what to do and not doing it.

procrastination is an act of
rebellion: against the

system, against
expectation, against self.

there’s a world inside my head—
and even i can’t access it.

every thing is happening in another
language—a non-language:

visions spinning in spirals, surrounding me, closing
in, cushioning at times, but mostly suffocating.

i don’t expect you to under-stand. i don’t
expect to be able to see into yours, to climb up

and into for comfort. what are we together?
what do we do in these moments?

push? pull? hold?
hibernate? run?

getting in the car and driving through the hills
while blasting tom petty seems enough for now.

i drive by every place i have lived—except that one:
tucked up too far into the mountains, into the memory.

some days we cannot love our neighbor
because we do not love our selves. we shut up

into our houses. we lock our doors and windows and hide.
we are trying to love our selves; but we are lost. we are

trying to love our gods; but we are tossed aside
again and again by our own minds.

how do we get so far out of alignment? why does it
feel so good to snap back in—like one of those car seat

buckles with four sides that you have to line up just right
to feel the click while the kid kicks and screams and fights?

sitting with my adult-in-training after an argument—in which
nothing is solved except for the yelling and the receiving—

and watching law & order and laughing occasionally and
continuing to exist side by side seems enough for now.

do we let ourselves drift further away
so we can feel the relief of return?

do we have any control over any of it?
should we? or are we just rolling

along on the wave, letting it carry us to
the next destination? who are we to try to

control the sea? perhaps the moon goddess within.
perhaps you are my muse. perhaps a muse is just a

long lost love—or one never fully realized—who
triggers us and prompts us and provokes us and

pushes us—painfully far and prosaically wide at times.
perhaps you are part of my cluster, following me through

these sacred lives as we teach and learn and grow from
each other. when i think about my love for you, i want

to bring you flowers; i want to plant my forever in you:
inside your head, inside your hands, inside your heart.

singing down the sun

it is hardest to write

a poem for your

 

self; instead of sending it

out, off into the universe,

 

this one drills down,

directly in:

 

straight through

the sin and lore

 

and shimmer

of deflection

 

to the very

core.

 

how can we be capable of

such great heights and

 

such despicable

depths?

 

we keep making plans,

making plans,

 

pretending we will never

fall across the threshold.

 

if you wait long enough

in a still, small room;

 

if you can out-pace

the race of your fear;

 

you can hear

its call:

 

spirit narrating

from beyond,

 

embodying

all —

 

telling you to look

to the sparrow, to the

 

love-numbered hairs

on its regal head,

 

ward of boundless wonder

flying without worry

 

just above our

milling austerity;

 

singing down

the sun.

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