Look for new poems (and more) at the start of each month.
~ ~ ~
Very curious what you’ll think of this new whatever-it-is that might still be in progress, or might be perfect.
leaves the tit for oblivion, off into
whatever it is, don’t fuck with me
I know your words are fatuous,
how free she feels, unbound
and flowing like life – is it a moment,
is it eternity – breathes all the air
as it breathes her, nothingness mama,
forever ash and seed, winged womb,
matriarch – you sing a well-wrung tithe
that rings us as the elm rings itself,
staying a moment, then leaving, staying, then
we all ask at once: how can we live with vicissitude,
how can we plunge into dark, how can we be
while sliding away, how can we be at all?
Don’t tell me what I am. You’re wrong.
A recent “meditation” on “aging”. Or something.
THE FINGERNAIL CLOCK
One minute I’m clipping my nails, and the next
I’m scratching my face in my sleep,
toenails slicing through my socks.
Where did these daggers come from?
One minute I’m doing my laundry, and the next
it’s stacked too high to carry.
When did I wear all those clothes?
One minute I’m myself, and the next
I’m somebody else entirely.
I’m out of time, baby, like wow
and shazam, totally out there
in the blue green fields of now.
Months wash over me and I’ve never felt cleaner,
sparser, involute as a conch shell growing deeper.
I coil and curl, spun on a chain, acrobat and autocrat
of what’s left of my body, nothing more, splayed and
circumscribed by the wind of my spinning,
whirling through time like a clock growing claws.
Then it stops, and I stop, and when the vertigo clears
it’s breakfast again, it’s Tuesday again, there’s that laundry,
there’re those fingernails scratching away at another day,
another face in sleep, another sky at dawn, another scree.
Why do they grow so long so fast?
Tell me and I will tell you how to live
without a shell or a seed or a clock within reach
or a gull-dang dram of care or a star to wish.
We’re out there, kazowie, kablooie, kablam,
in the big bang blast of time and the mind,
with a deep breath here and a water bowl there,
replete, replete, what a rush it can be
pouring on, spinning on, scratching in clay,
and what is it, where is it, when is it,
is it today? I guess it’s today.
Here’s a little something something, because I needed to include some lightness this month. If this is, in fact, light.
“I told you,” said the alien to their mate,
finally approaching the Earth.
“That one’s moldy.”
Just one of five poems writ to Broun Fellinis on Jan 31. So be it.
Written to Broun Fellinis at the Ivy Room, Albany, CA,
January 31, 2020 (1 of 5)
………at the bottom of the sea
………………roil the bedlife
..the quiet life
…………flash of claw &
Here’s an extra flash prose piece that didn’t make it to the Home Page.
The sun comes up and everything ends. Everything begins. Both at once and in-between. Everything is in-between and always has been. There’s your heartbeat, there’s your heartbeat, and you’re there the whole time, cleaning the kitchen, getting those plants to grow, making an egg. Neural flashes building your world as quickly as they tear it down, like an old flicker film, a flip book of your life. In between breaths you sit by a stream in the woods and for a moment everything is silent, no birds, no rustling breeze, no falling twig. Silence – until the stream breaks in, goes from off to on, delicious, and it’s been there all along. But have you? Where are you now, in that room, in that car, under the sky? There’s a breath, there’s a breath, you come in and out, you end and begin, here’s the stream, here’s the sky, here’s the still-familiar world, here’s a rose, here’s the ground, here you are.