//
archives

Archive for

Landfill

As a child’s laughter, rolling
over rocks seeping
into earth, spraying
itself into the air into the heavens
and hells and through our lungs into our bodies
and back again.

At first silent: scrounging about in refuse;
constructing a language
from discarded bottles
and broken housewares.

You and I, we began to speak as if newness were our tongues’ function.

Advertisements

Mourning October

I.
Speak the whisper of stones, of morning-breath freezing about birch-trunks.

It was cold in August: my fingers played at the candor in your cascading hair. And you said I was “fine” by the standard of sea-care. Adrift? no, but drifting certainly

toward a certainty. Waves from somewhere crashing around our feet.

Before the end of day we watched the sky pulse gradient without light. The lack of color alarming: it and you and me together, under the hood of some ornamental star

and we were indistinguishable from ash and snow.

Under rock. Above sea-salt. There are places in this world filled with joy and we cannot find them.

II.
Two songs intertwined; four legs measuring gaits of varying length;

your eyes and my mouth so close never meeting.

The ash dissipated as we turned our backs to the earth, we forced ourselves toward frozen light.

Me and you and it were lost, becoming birch-song and stone-gaze.

Constructing Birdhouses

Small bits of tinsel between my teeth, building
a home from words wrapped
in strings of cool blue and earthy tans.

Each weave a subject stuck by ad-hock adhesive:
mud, clay, feathers, the tangle
of a spider’s web no longer being spun.

Can you tell I’m a bird, fluttering
against wind?

The ache of labor, imperative to build
shelter; to become restless in cooling wind.

Neither cavity nor cup,
but crumpled paper and leaking ink.

10/04/04

1. To dilute the subject, i.e. the image.
2. To employ modern fragmentation in search of some unknown center.
3. To make a separation from the internal “I”, existance in relation to the remainder of the world.
4. The poet is as much of a reader as his audience.
5. A poem is something you THINK.
6. Poetry is your breath after you have left the room.
7. To write of life, which is made up of thousands upon thousands of superimposed images- far too many to make sense of individual moments.
8. There is infinite space between the dreamer and the dream.
9. To be concerned with the interaction of things, that is, with the movement and motion around us.
10. To be absolutely concerned with the natural order of the snowflake.

Mourning October

Tell me of the whisper of stones, of morning-breath freezing about your birch-trunks.

It was cold in August, as fingers detaching from hands played at candor. And you said it was “fine” by the standard of sea-care. Adrift? no, but drifting

toward a certainly.

Before the end of day we watched the sky pulse gradient without light. The lack of color alarming: it and you and me together, under the hood of some ornamental star

and we were indistinguishable.

Under refuse. Above sea-salt. There are places in this world filled with joy and we cannot find them.

Roundabout. Reversal. Two songs intertwined; four gaits of varying length; your eyes and my mouth so close. Me and you and it were lost, becoming birch-song and stone-gaze.