Monthly Archives: November 2009

On the Farm

Last night was my last night in Texas. I leave for New York this morning. So, I went out to my step-grandparent’s farm to shoot some photos and take in more of my roots.

This is Jerry’s cabbage patch. He was very excited about it. “I like to have something green growing in the winter-time,” he said. “You just put a little salt on ’em and boil ’em, and they’re good.” Sharon said “Shannon, don’t listen to him. They aren’t good!” But they sure are pretty in the sunset.

This is Jerry’s horse, Hot Rod. Him and King, the other horse, were out licking the salt-block when we drove up. I haven’t been around horses in years. Seeing as I used to spend my every waking-moment with horses, it’s a bit of a sore-spot for me, not being able to ride again. But I stood there and felt every ounce of my first child-hood love.

This tree seems mystical to me. It’s out in the middle of a bunch of cotton fields. Sharon said “That tree is where settlers used to conduct church services, right there underneath. When Jerry and I first got married, it used to be twice as big.” “Now it’s all rotted out,” said Jerry. “It used to have another tree beside it, but it fell years ago.”

Sunset through mesquite trees. Mesquite shows up in my writing a lot. Last night I realized just how much I love it.

Last remnants of the cotton-field after harvest.



Filed under Photography

Texas, Thanks

Home for Thanksgiving, went out to shoot color and things I can’t see out East. The sunshine has it in for me, like the sky, when I’m hanging out the car window, whistling to a blue tune.

Calm. I am calm here, unlike the bustle of New York. So I stole these images to take back with me.

There’s a ghost here, can you see him?

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She and the Other Address Her Sickness, Her Own and Otherwise

Her Address–

Not only was the not only present, I was not my only self, but the self that only had just begun to be herself–and that’s when the not only present had itself become itself.

They will say, I hate to admit it, but I liked her writing better before she got sick.

But the honesty!

No one wants that, and the potholes, the god-feared look of “having”

one wants to wish their lives lasted long enough to drink again

and again, you asked if I looked up, hooked my leg on a fence-post, saw skies

more alarmed at having been a sky

and not one of us, or my eyelash–no, I have looked

only for things in pockets, such as your watch, or a canary-feather

left over when on New Years so many things had children, minutes

apart—lovers lost their case-by-case arguments, dropped to see

whose kiss they were laughing into– what other ladybugs might be living

in so-and-so’s teeth. I told myself to call you

but friend, undo yourself and then get back to me.

Reflection of Other–

Understand, nothing she understood was mistaken for taking
the understanding from your hands, but understandably,
so-and-so was quite upset at what she understood, mistakenly.

Her Letter–

To answer your question, no I never learned about perrineals.

Though my bay window may, if I’m lucky, hold a thousand each spring in its eye-socket,

Lord, you should have seen the underthings they’ve got–perinnials–

root-toes two metres long, I swear it! Yours, S–

The Other Questions–

Did she write most days, or, when feeling ill, did she want other things, say

cantelope in the sunshine–did Otherthings take note of her

exact choice of words–mathematics?

I heard numbers–as lovers– occupied her bay window– ants on a biscuit, jammed

with honey and other hack-eyed-creature-curated

-sweetness.–Well, back when so-and-so took a hobby breaking into hives, I suppose that’s possible–


suppose mathematics and hive-construction go hand-in-hand, tortoise and mouse, that sorta thing.

On the Corner, Remembering Her Walk–

Perennials? No, not in this shop, love. Take yourself
down to the corner, I have a friend there named so-and-so.
Mad about things like that. Catch her
stone-like at the bay window most days,
equations teetering in her hands, like so–

Her Address, pt. II–

Before the sickness was sick of itself, her self was sick of the itself it became in herself–and it was itself only when most like a self that was herself, sick.

Reflection of Other II

Before she got sick, she stuck things in her blue jeans–

pockets filled with letters from them, or so-and-so,

a phone bill from the time minutes belonged to an ex,

before the plane-ness of mornings left its handle of jack

on the corner as a reminder that soon, Nothing had itself hooked

to the back of her head like lamp-things, but dark.

When she got sick, Nothing crept itself inside her to quit–

not a monastery–her body– but can it be? she asked,

can the wholeness of everything be under the weather and into my

pockets–underness and overness understood

by a solar system that’s ready for its nonchildren, red-dwarf by red-dwarf,

can hospitals be belligerent, drunk, piss themselves before they love themselves and give all to God?

Her Address, pt III–

2) in a list like this, I’d say the only thing, mind you, that minds itself into a whirl is a friend who took herself too seriously, called the opposite its counterpart
and I, well, she called me crazy and understandably, for I

snipped up her favorite clothes because I wanted to,

and the slumber party was boring,

and in moments such as those, hidden, taking a secret like that tastes like steel,

shot up like angel-joy, through the circular of girl-wholeness.

That dress, well, I wanted it. But instead, cut holes in it.

Laugh about that now, angel-gods, woman-god, watch

I’ll tear myself into that memory and be done with it. If I could warn every girlfriend now–

how land-hurt their body can be by me–myself a grounded plane–sick

understand this: under the lichen-hold–a man I owned once, but swallowed.

The Other Reflects Upon Reflection of Her–

You’ll be tempted, I’m sure, to categorize her symptoms, like boxes of glow-worms–
and shouldn’t we all stand here, tempted to catch her outing herself out–
land-hold-under-things—what Dr really knows the mind,
but to punch-hole charts, you’ll be tempted, boxed glow-worm, you are.

Further from Other–

Noted: alleluias in the morning–

Perennials in the bay window, scathing

at the site of the canary, held between

her mouth–understand–her mouth

carried sailors to God and back again

though her body wore itself into thin

paper–might as well called home,

as in a horse’s eye-bone, coal

twisted round an underness, pissed

it couldn’t glimpse into itself

before learning the mathematics of hungry.

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Filed under metaphysical, poetic-prose, poetry

it might have been fun to kill androids for a living.

Well, hallelujah, I wrote something new! But more importantly, I didn’t eat any dirt on the way to the library this afternoon. Imagine my dismay at the lack of this impulse. On the one hand, I’m glad that I didn’t eat dirt, but on the other, where is life heading when my impulse to eat dirt goes and spends its winters in Mexico.

I was reading over some old essays today, jealous of my past-self for being able to conjure up the images and words that now dance, locked in their Word Document cages, stripping for me like I was a paying customer. Eat dirt, I want to say. But at least they are alive and well, witnessing to pretend masses about the world’s potential for the strange and unlikely.

I was thinking about killing an android. Is there anything like killing an android? Is there anything like being an android? Meaning, consciously, is there anything like being like one?

In a video game, of course. I was never one to kill androids or aliens. But for once, perhaps I should try it.

I have friends who do it.

I have friends who are so depressed that all they want to do is lie in bed and kill androids. Or aliens. Or whatever they make video games out of these days.

In high school, I think I contemplated video games in my head for fun. As if my life was a video game. I never played.

Except Sonic the Hedgehog, who was blue, if I remember correctly.

If I had started taking a serious interest in video games, I may have never continued to pursue poetry.

Does one pursue anything? Like a coat-tail, perhaps it pursues the human-mind, whatever “it” is.

If I let myself tell myself to keep at it, I’ll end up sitting at the computer for hours, trying to create safe spaces for words / this could be a video game attitude. It is likely I would have been very good at killing androids.

Instead, I am pursuing words which, to be honest, is quite difficult. Sometimes, I have to get out my special sweater which my mother wore in the 80’s, just so I can trick myself into thinking that I have magical powers.

When the sweater fails, I tell myself that God has plans for me. I think they call this “notions of grandeur”

And when these notions stop leaving notes on the front doorstep, or in the pine tree on the path to the library, I want to throw myself in the grass like a child. Like I did, once, when I was 5 at McDonald’s, and my mother pretended to leave me there.

She actually just drove through the drive through, to trick me into thinking she left.

Perhaps poetry is in the drive-through.

When this happens, I start believing that I should have taken up biochemistry or video games.

Of course, now that I am reading my old essays, the past-me is laughing hysterically and saying

Shannon, you’re a real idiot sometimes.

But still, I think it might have been fun to kill androids for a living.

Depression aside, the drama alone would be worth it.

And think of the opportunities for online gaming communities.

I imagine it now,

whole identities with scales and other such ammo.

Or, as a biochemist, I could use gaming to de-stress from matching DNA strips. Thinking, secretly, to myself that the murderer must have had fun in the brief-moment of invincibility, wondering how someone could not wonder what the body sounds like while breaking.

As it is, I sit at a desk, most days, trying to make the imagination give me a child or two before I mutilate it into a poem.

Dramatic or depressed? No one knows. The androids, unlike humans, never tell their secrets before they are killed.

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Dead-things, and hope–To-do List

Didn’t read the book on neurology today.
wanted to know more about canyon-lilies
or why I keep worrying about small things–
whether I forgot how to tie a horses lead-rope properly,
whether I still shoot a .38 as well as when I was 12,
hitting every left-over beer can from my father’s friends,
and if the fear of dark-things-in-hallways ever goes away.
didn’t meditate today,
didn’t see knots floating in the air,
or run long enough on the treadmill to mystically communicate with air,
but felt, for the first time, hurt by someone I let in.
That’s why I don’t let anyone in, J said.
And I made a list when I got home.
reasons not to hurt yourself,
to be more like your future-self…
didn’t read the book on neurology today.

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Another song-poem-thing (not sure what to call them).


Click Here to hear: scrollsinthestillair


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Song-Poem: “inlikeness”

So, getting a bit more adventurous with the garageband. Here’s a new one, with another one baking in the oven—>check back soon for that wordling.


For now, “inlikeness”

Click to listen to: inlikeness

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