Archive | May, 2015

monosyllablic

31 May

My raft gives me a wet ground view

while the high speed yachts look down.

All the same at dusk

how I spend an hour,

drift or push;

we all must pass the hour.

Choice: drink on the deck to rap

or get wet with oar drip,

to the sounds of bob mar

lee’s voice as he wafts my way.

An hour in pain

an hour well,

the same hour.

Our lips, the same salt.

The pel i can

in his pre time body

is mere quarks from wet,

as he dips his wing.

He bombs for fish

he can see from high –

as we watch:

how do I spend my hour?

How do you spend yours?

Tip

ping in the wakes?

Each thing that shows up:

blue crab, rain, gull, trash,

not high low,

not good bad,

but small words –

when no thing can be com

pared to an oth

er,

when all things

have shown up

now

just

a

pea

ring.

Tags:

all the good stuff feels so scary

15 May

right before the birthing starts for real,

the body shakes and trembles

independent from all thought

flesh holds the fearing and the quaking on its own

at the precipice of seeming choice

the movement forward into irreversible transitions

stepping into new lands

the stomach empties

the muscles tremble

the bones rattle

what is this occurring?

what is happening?

what does my body know that my mind won’t let be said?

birth death long distance travel

we have traversed the universe, flying into bodies

as souls

at break neck speeds,

but here now imbibed in flesh, a short leap

to the other side of the world feels treacherous

a releasing of a child’s hand into heavy traffic

a speeding car and screeching tires

for effect

for a vision in the mind’s cinema

of a child run over in the street –

the movie is the body’s mechanism

for caution

do I watch the screen or

do I

leap into the lava in this life

feel the burn of every radical departure

fear bathed, I spend – I send – I quake – I release

I answer the invitation that arrives on my doorstep

I say yes yes yes, despite the recklessness my body tells me is occurring

one night in bangkok will be my daughter’s song

away from me, flesh away from me,

I overrule the tremble

I step on newly hatched legs

every day a glimpse of death’s transition

hinting at farther realms

the body can never grasp

 

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doors and windows

10 May

I come here

as the officiating observer of this life form,

me, the eyes in the cave behind the waterfall of activity,

who watches impassively –

it is a fact that there are eyes behind

even these so deep into the cave,

i only perceive them in my dreams

nevertheless, this is not the point of typing words today

the point is closer along the lines of trust

of openings and closing

of movie reels of life happening

of living through a body so entirely

that the wheel of time allows forgetting

and just being

of reaching out to feel if I have hair

form

am I still here, as she?

waking in rooms, piecing it all back together

an identity necessary to walk around

to get to work

yet expendable enough to be left on the closet

floor every night, and even more often of late

and still this is not the point either

gather yourself darling

your point,

it seems the point that motivated you

to type at all

was this idea of doors and windows

the clichés of our day that get us through

the idea of rejection –

when we’ve already agreed, nothing real can ever be threatened,

in lesson one –

this idea of rejection is not real…

still the slamming door in the face can cause an imaginary sting

enough to make

the body ask, Why me?  or maybe more like, Why not me? 

And tears can be a natural release.

But man have the windows been flying open around here

windows we didn’t even know we had – whole floors

above this single story house are being built –

hear the carpenter hammering away as we talk?

The sky is the window these days.

One momentous slamming door for dear Eden in April

felt, traveled through,

a tumble down stairs

into a bell jar basement cavern,

followed by an attic visit and skylight opening

onto the showers of blessings of possibilities —-

will i ever doubt again?

the blessings in waiting,

dolled out of god’s pocket

candy in the sky

bitter greens in every field

breezes on every back

dorothy’s red shoes

showing that every place

is a home –

and we can fly out from every nest

we’ve ever made,

every moment an open window.

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