Monthly Archives: December 2010

The Body Knows Not

The body knows not
the absence–reaches still
when no one’s to receive her. I do
nothing. But listen,
the body knows grief.
I want another
to accept her void. I mean,
another way, body!

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Attempt. But I Still Eat Coral.

But when I lean over the chasm of myself / it seems / my God is dark / and like a web. –Rilke

I wrote for a couple hours tonight and everything was off. The characters were there, but bits of Picassos laughing and refusing to get in place. Not in the cool, abstract way. In the sloppy, we need structure and form, way.

Writing is a marriage and takes work. Some days we fail in beauty. But at least we attempted a mess.

I have a good friend. I imagine he walks by my window as a lantern and hides behind hedges so as not to wake me. But often, he gives his words and kindly leads me to wandering down a path I wouldn’t usually take with my thought.

If I could write him a poem it would be about a great chasm in the middle of the sea that is sad it has caused a tidal wave and even more upset it will never be filled with coral. And I’d take the coral from my own mind and speak it into the chasm like sailors, asking for shore.

When your heart breaks for a distance, it seems you may never experience a closeness. But just around the corner, a listening ear. And the one who wasn’t brave enough to love is pressing a nose against a glass and weeping.

Somehow, poetry is all of these things.

And I am very much alone with the Dark and my mirrored self, unspeaking.

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After Being Invited to a Party Which Requires White Gloves, I Reply:

I am on long island sound, wishing

for a sign. A star might appear

and tell me what my bones, or the want

to taste of me, means. The star’s beat,

its blood, mixes with mine without having

to break my own skin open–-

what a relief! Silence,

the horrid wait. I can’t see! I say,

and it says, Be there. Be there. 

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the last train departs, 2am

I like the long haul, even
the pull of snow on my back, when
everything stills–there’s a memory of you, who perhaps
was once me, a ghost, looking in on glass,
to what happiness–what does the heart do,
a tulip about to shoot through
so much chaos? I like the still between us,
so many, looking for a way to be total, earthly,
honest with ourselves

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Fried Chicken & Coffee (& a poem!)

yay! Part of the Gaigemon Series is now up at an awesome blogzine called Fried Chicken and Coffee!

Upon reading the story behind the blogzine’s theme (Redneck literature), someone asked me if I knew the origins of the word. I said, Well, where I come from people always associated it with the farmer’s tan. Nope. Not so. I guess my Texas Redneck culture is off, historically. It’s from the Union workers in the coal mines that used to wear red bandanas. There you go.

Here’s the POEM!

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Book of Gaigemon Continues

Book of Gaigemon III

 

Above, a strangled herd of stars. You hunger
For notes. You can’t distinguish between

Grace and emptiness—bite the lips of both,
Tear ribs from fish, burn the lost headed

Man. What are you carrying? a boy,
Hunted, speaks from the stall, spine aglow

With snakes, with petrol, Let me carry your dead, he says—
Now it’s over, no one knows how to be born, where babies go.

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Snow Petals (and a Hurrah)

I have exciting news. Between working many hours and seeing many friends, I have been able to scramble a bit of writing time and submitting time. I will have two pieces appear in Fried Chicken and Coffee, a southernly magazine. And there will also be a review of my chapbook in there as well! Also, a journal I have been admiring and finally got the gumption to submit to has accepted two sections of my ever-on-going-what-do-I-call-this-prose-or-poetry piece, Aura Girl. The journal is out of Manchester, UK: Sein un Werden.

And now, a new poem from yesterday after waking up to snow petals. The first bits of white this year.

Woke slow to salt-lick fur, the brow of earth,

eye-field, plowed in surprise–the weight,

my animal heart, woke to the patter of snow.

I don’t know how to wake. I don’t know

the graves of trees. The end, a beast

in quiet fleece, a peace, waits for me.

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