Monthly Archives: July 2009

“Within the sound of dancing in the lights. I have a picture for you. Let me upload it.”

J: Dear S, This is a conversation that demands attention. My brain can’t face inward within the sound of the dancing of the lights. -J

And you wrote this against the movement in the wood grooves of your father’s desk, I imagine. Imagine the specks remain of the bits of cotton bulbs you picked as a kid on the side of the road, having spent all day thinking of different ways to build a paper airplane.

So, to respond, I bring my own lights into your hands. Orb-babies that speak to me through hours of crying. A surprise, shocked back out of the body by nature.

Between rocking on my knees and Bach, the brain can’t face inward. Not even the body has weight anymore.

I imagine different ways to build a paper airplane, as though I was 7 years old in a field, as though the body seems weightless within the glistening of crops and cantering wind. The carbonation of the brain, facing nature’s glow, swings me back and forth between reality and time, bent back on itself, layered as a cake in the mind.

Yes, yes, no sleep but stars stuck on sleep’s ceiling, and so you wrote me, and so I respond.

And the brain takes me to fields and nature. Though I stand far from some county road, nature lifts me there, through her ghost-body.

This conversation, like our brains, can be anywhere, at anytime. Forget the weight of the body.IMG_1843

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hush-orange and others

Among other things, I’m beginning to see dust in a whole new way. As though the molecular form has suddenly changed and what was once based on some form of geological pillar, is now made of what Milton referred to as “angel fluff” — heavenly bodies neither male nor female who frequently make each other gigggle mid-air, mid-sentence, kissing between the currents. And why should I complain? Instead of solitude interrupted sporadically by the blackberry or a sip of tea, my bedtime now salted with wonder-inducing illusions of dust. No, the knots are not appearing as often as they used to, wiggling beside my lamp, but enter, dust.

Maybe I should be worried. Worried I’m losing my mind. Or perhaps I should listen to the dust giggle here and there, and not worry if I may, or may not, be seeing things.

So, I haven’t slept in a while. But maybe this is exactly the time to see such things come into themselves, circling the room in free-verse.

But what do I say or do with something so elusive? Bring me visions and I’ll lay down, too anxious to sleep. Bring me a reason to write again, and I will compose letters to you but won’t send them, just tuck them behind my ear, on tiny scrolls or scraps of paper that could be hidden anywhere…even in my shoes or pocket.

Webs of words, catch-nothings peeling their ribs off one by one.

She’s trying to see the cycles, how,

though the dark belly of some field deer can be gutted,

though the ligaments tear when kneeling

and friends pass the hallways, silent,

the once childish light remains, even among

violence and red–indeed, that’s the moment

of hush-orange, solitude’s sting.

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Status Updates

While on the go, I sometimes jot these small visions down. Some of them are actual, which might mean I’m going slightly mad. Oh well.

12:12 pm

It hobbles in, little sunflower,

amidst peeling paint.

Where have my hands gone, it asks,

my voice? But I can hear

words– fibers circle my ears,

petal-hands push me out of bed.

5:20 pm

when she said joy, she meant

thistles and grit; hopeless

against pain, still, the clearing

wades through; joy remains

though we bicker our dividends, hurt.

6:14 pm

She goes to her room, sunk

in shutters and ache, to lay

beside the lamps of Your words, to hum

sadness in strings, restore

Your eyes, let dark beauty be.

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10:10 on 6/24

“Love your life in this moment, which is swirling with new creative passions, having dipped itself in your past’s residual dust, leaned itself into your desirings and filled its breathing with your love-yet-unknown, this moment is itself your greatest shadow, both seen and unseen by you”

And so spoke the knots as I leaned back against the bedpost.

Nothing said before was exactly said this way, as the moment is bringing with it an altogether new set of variables. There is no control.

I am not the thing that set foot in your garden yesterday or, if I am well enough to do so, tomorrow.

Underneath my carpet, a curious creature. Don’t ask me to look, I won’t.

Suspended in the air, a lost hurt which could be buried with the last thing You said.

Against the struggle, another leaning post. A sign to let the breath be the measurement.

So I set about to clean my room, unbothered by the creature under the carpet. The vacuuming understood something about silence, so I kept going until beads collected at the base of my neck, taking a trek to the curves.

Under the light of a single bulb someone said looked like a whirling globe, I told You how my grip was losing it’s stitches.

Underneath the sounds of horror are baby-geraniums. Underneath the scandal of self, is truer identity.

And knots know. Nothing can follow You, weighted as the world is.

The creature listens.

Need, drawn in a current of silence, breaks.

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Just Here

I tried to escape You
in folds of him, crawled
into myself; there You
asked where I was going
but inward; remind me
of the surprise, being
just here.

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Silly Video & Drawings & Walt Whitman & Sucky Editing

I am trying to learn how to do video things. And I passed out Walt Whitman’s poem, To a Stranger on people’s cars in NYC…and I took photos and then I found this song and then I drew things. So there. I couldn’t fill the whole song. I stink. But it was fun, regardless. The song is, Come Find Me by Bethany Dillon from her album, Waking Up

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Better the rock sing

Better the rock sing
than I harp on need,
taste glass in-between;
better the knots kneed
the unknown’s blessing,
down the sacred tree–
better the rock sing.

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