Monthly Archives: August 2011

Anxiety of Nothingness or: Angels in the Kitchen Light

I think I’m ready,

Ready for Ordinary Life–

Dishes in the sink, the cat sleeps on

As the sun wakes up again. I wait

For divine food. Life-Book on the shelf–

It’s time to come down, angel.

It’s time

I’m ready for as a field is ready

For whatever weather to happen,

Still, Being without asking.


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08 08 11

The men in the work trucks sweep the streets clean of forgiveness.

The morning, unlike the rest, as people slept, stayed inside itself,

Refused its body and the poem a boy sent down the well outside his house.

The sun would not rise to read it,

Would not continue growing in the fields its fingers of barley or heat the ocean for rain.

The men in the work trucks pray for anger and get happiness, so they are angry.

This morning, unlike the rest, the boy stays in bed and listens.

His alphabet wallpaper no longer makes sense inside himself.

He cannot rise to read it,

Counts bees, bruised willow-sticks and ask for forgiveness and gets


The men in the work trucks break open trees and ask for water. It will not rain.

The sun will not eat. Morning turns, then darker.

Whatever poem the world revolved around is a heart now in a well and silent.

As people slept, something gave up, stayed inside itself.

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Your letter to me is pinned to a door and you’ve broken my heart

The day after I had two visions of women lying dead on the side of the highway, I walked around my house and felt anxious. Time stretched on. I had nothing important to attend to. So I took a bath. Tried to read poems. A cat in my house sat near the window as I read a book about spirituality.


Dark night of the soul. How those who are poor in spirit will see God. Not only see God, but only God. And when this happens, nothing else exists. I didn’t want to write a poem about it, because there is no I, or desires.


Though I’m scared and sheltered in America, I wanted to write to you, to reach out, somehow.


I’m standing near a cliff and I want to jump into it, into Nothing, but my heart and something else pulls me back. I can hear the I saying, Stay a little longer.


I’m near a cliff. I found ants walking along my ceiling. They kept in line. I killed them by running my fingers across their bodies.


The book told me to let go of attachments.


You’re current underneath everything I touch. Everything I run my fingers across, which are not my fingers, but Yours. It’s been that way forever. The I cannot hide herself. She takes deep breaths and goes swimming in the grass or walks on a river and creates visions for me as one might bring home salmon after a long drive in a valley.


I miss places I haven’t visited yet, like your room. Or a barn in the middle of nowhere where someone raises dairy cows. I pull a bucket across the dark earth and wipe my hands on my jeans just before sunset.


In Pennsylvania, hay fields can be sanctuaries. There are hunters near by with their rifles and a boy drags a bucket with bait in the Black Forrest. Somewhere, your letter to me is pinned on a door and you’ve broken my heart.


The good news is that everything is happening all at once while I sit and do nothing. Nothing tastes of loneliness. The I self destructs because of it. But I write to find ways into her, the body who swims in the grass and hides underneath the Everyday.


What do I know of the Universe? After the second vision of a dead woman on the side of the highway, I opened my eyes and the moon seemed close enough to be my child. I know something true is happening when I’m afraid of what I’ve written.


I only get moments of knowing love. Then it’s gone in a current by a cliff. I think if I stood still long enough, I’d be everywhere at once. There would no longer be any reason to write to You.


Forgive me. I am not spiritually poor. If I wasn’t in bed, if I wasn’t afraid, I’d be running through the streets, or driving somewhere up north, or on a plane asking myself to be nothing but a moon and a child, not hurting herself all over again for breathing.

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