forgive me, father

forgive me, father

for i have sinned;

 

it’s been fifteen days

since my last poem.

 

these first baby steps

are weird and wonder-

 

ful; i wonder where

they are taking me.

 

maybe to you—to the

brightest thing in my life.

 

let me know where

your heart is;

 

let me know your

words so i can

 

steal them away:

the purest relation-

 

ship, you say, preserved

in this crystalline distance.

 

can you see them? the pink

clouds rowing through the sky,

 

humming right along-

side? we’re almost there.

 

i want to read you

i want to read you;

i want to feel your words

slip over me, pull me into

their tide, strip me down with

their waves without trying.

 

i want to listen to the music

of your thought, follow it

into the forest, happen upon

a leprechaun and wood spryte

making gold, making love.

 

i want the letting of all this

matter into energy; these

disguises to fall away, the

memories of mountain-tops

to sway in their return.

 

i want to deep-dive into a

painting of a thousand sun-

sets, moments spent think-

ing of you; of our writing, of

our meeting: one and the same.

to enjoy what was

take me to your timberline,

show me where your true self ends

 

and your truer self begins.

i want to see in:

 

i want the spiral of a dream to take me

out of time,

 

put me in the womb,

put me on the edge of battle,

 

put me in the pack

chasing survival;

 

to forget the forgetting,

to feel the source,

 

to see the spine of life continuing

as it passes through doors.

 

to enjoy what was

is to carve joy

 

into what is,

into what will be again:

 

it is all the same clay, the same

tools, the same deep grooves.

 

you call me to the fire, and

i answer with water;

 

and we sit at the edge of the mountain

and conspire to love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

this book

ice columns


ice columns build in
secret, under cover of
night—-where hard and
soft merge, thousands of
miles from where families of
mesas converge; between time-
smoothed tables, dragon-flies sew
their sighs. i stand apart as a singular
out-line, bending to the will of the wind,
watching my obsessions maturing. this book
cannot be its own source; every thing must come
from some thing: on this auto-mated path to death,
i am honored by the fiber-glass food-chain of my life.


face formation

in a heart beat

i want to show you the abstract paintings

behind my eyes, in my head, in clear disguise :



threads singing, spun together,

strung out on string theory.



i tried to tell you that

water was living;



no one wanted to listen,

no one wanted to see :



the non-cellular

entities moving,



dancing toward

each other;



sliding their non-cellular

bodies over non-cellular



rocks : slippery wet dream

layers, stacked stories getting



laid down before lost—long and living

and hard; but not beyond being dug back up.



pre-cellular rough

drafts, perhaps.



they expand out and focus in; a pre-

served deep dive tunnel through time.



i tried to tell you the

earth was round.



i tried to tell you to come

and fucking get me.



some-thing drew us in

with a big black sharpie;



some-thing is still drawing us

in like magnets :



across these raging fields of

poles on shoulders, grit-gripping



at the hours under the

hungry tick of the clock :



dark points stripping,

ripping in(side) a heart beat,



inside the applause

you rode in on.


132105430027213116987_Butterfly_Nebula_by_Galaico

Photograph: Butterfly Nebulae, Hubble Telescope

mother-green

20150109_162747

i’m watering my

neighbor’s plants

while she’s away;

 

she has plants of every

variety in every room –

even the bath-room,

 

and it’s like a game of

hide-and-seek

to find them all.

 

interspersed throughout

are a few artificial plants that

look persuasively real,

 

and i find myself

watering these too,

for good measure.

 

it’s a quiet process that takes

time, slowly pouring into each

pot from the crystal pitcher;

 

waiting for the water

to pool at the base,

saying: enough.

 

every plant differs in

size, texture, phase;

it requires paying attention

 

to not over- or under-water.

i don’t know their names,

but it turns out i am able

 

to give them what they need.

it turns out they give back ten-fold.

i move a few that aren’t

 

faring as well closer to the

light: but mostly they

just miss their mother.

 

i look around at all of the trinkets,

treasures, and talismans and think:

this woman has a full life.

 

the apartment is small but filled

to the brim with art, books, music, colors,

photographs, flowers, travels.

 

if i live in a place like this

when i am 70, surrounded

by vast memories, and things

 

that i love, and wistful plants

that miss me when i’m gone,

i will be a happy woman.

20150107_135902-1-2

call me a tree, not a vegetable

i.

within, atop, inside

this green-blue glass globe:

 

i am living; full

of living and nonliving things.

 

i always wondered as a child how water — so

elemental, so necessary — could be non living;

 

how so many living things could depend upon it.

 

like how all paintings are abstract.

after all, what is color?

 

ii.

sometimes it seems as if i am in a war with myself,

and every one else is just a spectator.

 

other times i am a character in a play. years later,

i still talk to some of the actors.

 

i am sure one or two of them think

me callous; that i never really loved them.

 

but, i really loved that play.

 

iii.

while she was waiting she began wasting away,

against all admonition and in keeping with the odds:

 

her body and spirit growing soft — soft enough to meld

into the curves of life’s couches;

 

hard enough not to care.

 

two cardinals flit-flirt in the dirty, leftover snow.

bread is being baked across countries, continents.

 

caracas, venezuela … caracas, venezuela  

sing the children learning the capitals.

 

out of the thicket comes the ram —

beautiful, sacrificial.

 

desire s t r e t c h e d

into delay:

 

within, atop, inside

this blue-green glass globe.