Monthly Archives: December 2022

The Very Last Zeptosecond of 11:59:59: pm on december 31st


the future ending

and re-beginning

in one, arbitrary moment


old year’s, new year’s ode

And she took a bath
and washed her hair
and cleansed her [w]hol[l]y self of that
grimy year
though 365 memories remain in the dark roots of thousands of her golden strands,
more are silver now

Out into the cold air,
pitch black, save for waxing gibbous Moon
naked
open pores
bare feet
wet hair
pouring her bathwater into a remnant patch
of snow-covered ground
drain and septic are unfit for this ceremony

Let this vintage
permeate the garden/
recharge the aquifer from which she bathes and drinks/ evaporate into cycles of the atmosphere that she breathes /

breathe, human, woman, breathe

believe this, yet better, know this:

everything is ouroboros.

nothing ever begins.

nothing ever ends.

nothing.


The Song of The Lark

it’s always been one of my very favorites – because of that gorgeous, dayglo salmon-colored Sun and her arrested, awed attention and ear-witness to the birdsong //

i’ve experienced Jules Breton’s “The Song of The Lark” twice — in The Art Institute of Chicago’s collection – during college – and most recently, in 2015, on loan to the University of Nebraska’s Sheldon Museum of Art;

Nebraska was home to author Willa Cather (Cather is a Nebraska native by way of colonialism and settlerism) and her third novel, was named for this 1884 painting//

while i was viewing the painting at The Sheldon, i conversed and queried serendipitously with the Chicago-born docent: does the lark sing most sweetly or urgently at sunrise or sunset; does this work depict a sunset in the west; or a sunrise in the east; is her fatigue residual, a worker rising so very early, again, on end – or is it from an already completed hard day’s work? or both, both, both?

let the mystery be.


her first december there

She can now tell the difference between
Lake-effect
and “real” snow
purely by observation
without having Googled the weather

senses attuning
She becoming corporeal

She can now tell the difference between
wishfulness
and alchemy
purely by existing
without having read leaves of pulp

spirit honing
She becoming ethereal

both, humbly naturalizing to leeward space


time

i stay here, alive,

by the minute, for you

by the hour, for my dog

by the day, for the crows

by the week, for my son

i can’t measure time any longer than a week

these months and years just dis/appeared


in the shallow of “halfway” – an untitled poem by Khalil Gibran


“Or do you need more?”


Do not love half lovers
Do not entertain half friends
Do not indulge in works of the half talented
Do not live half a life
and do not die a half death


If you choose silence, then be silent
When you speak, do so until you are finished
Do not silence yourself to say something
And do not speak to be silent


If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it
If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance


Do not accept half a solution
Do not believe half truths
Do not dream half a dream
Do not fantasize about half hopes


Half a drink will not quench your thirst
Half a meal will not satiate your hunger
Half the way will get you nowhere
Half an idea will bear you no results


Your other half is not the one you love
It is you in another time, yet in the same space
It is you when you are not


Half a life is a life you didn’t live,
A word you have not said
A smile you postponed
A love you have not had
A friendship you did not know
To reach and not arrive
Work and not work
Attend only to be absent
What makes you a stranger to them closest to you,
and they strangers to you


The half is a mere moment of inability,
but you are able for you are not half a being.
You are a whole that exists to live a life,
not half a life.

– Khalil Gibran


residuum

“The Distances They Keep”, Howard Nemerov, the blue swallows, 1967


this is no time
to evict
spiders,
centipedes,
the occasional, lone
boxelder bug,
dozens of out-of-season ladybird beetles
or
the almost-always odorless stinkbugs

from
our houses

to do so now means certain death, outside

there is a field mouse
in the dormant compost bin
depositing black “rice”
in washed egg shells and pomegranate rinds/

a mole engineers deeply excavated burrows around the foundation (much too close),
mound-builds in the prairie, and
constructs a minefield for toes and ankles in the remnant, dumb lawn/

the grey squirrels shelter in the woods across the snow-covered dirt road
the red squirrel in the barn is insulating with stuffing from the patio cushions/

black walnuts, please mast next year
oak sapling, pray, grow faster/

i will plant a meadow exclusively of sunflower come Spring/

black-eyed juncos,
black-capped chickadees,
bluejays,
woodpeckers,
and cardinals,
but especially,
the juncos
have learned to tolerate,
and expect my winter presence among them, per nemerov’s counsel,
i don’t wear feathers in my cap – or coat/

the remaining turkey and deer
still grieving, post-hunting season
are tentative,
but returning;
i set out stone salt licks and millet, reverently, repentantly, respectfully, for them/

i count the crows each morning
but truer, i count on them
their steady, regal presence
their voices call to me for sardines, kibble, peanuts
i oblige and always will

[can] we all [can] live here
alongside
inside
and outside together, as kin

i don’t speak
but i telepath
that,
and
this:

i am the residuum here

a wolf spider and their reflection / every spider should be presumed to be an incarnation of Anansi

poemo

poem memorandum

poem memo

poemmemo

poememo

pomemo

poemo



poemo: noun / pōɛmō /

a written memo disguised as a poem

a written poem disguised as a memo/memorandum or as “business correspondence“


memo to a particular poet

i am going to bed, now
at 7:08
to lessen the ache
of being awake

this is a poem
this is the business
of us artists
this is “business correspondence”

inform a collaborator
a coworker – if you will
your passwords and processes
before taking those pills

my corazón has nearly bled-out
migrating across my torso, my limbs,
and my crown
settling into my cornflower eyes
bloodshot with or without drops and disguise

the weight of this goddamned red muscle
i’m so fucking heavy-hearted
this cursed organ’s still goin’
my sweetest, singular escape, now aborted

the only thing i can do right, right now
is to sleep
the only thing i can do wrong, right now
is to think

(who should i send this memo to?
– no one, if not, to you)


corazónal ink

you imprinted on my heart

a tattoo i conceal

“Forever”

play possum

i’m fine

nothing’s wrong

i just really love this song
gives me the blues sometimes, is all

a snake, a possum, a doe and fawn
on the roadside killed, again, i saw

i heard the breaking news story
i’m awfully raw, so please ignore me

this world can be so cruel and wicked
of course, my tender heart’s afflicted

my glistened eyes, lump throat, quiver lip

you think they’re for you? well, that’s rich.

all lies, and also, all true.


mermaid

i feel the gravity
the love
the loss
so close || this close
almost, almost, almost

buoyed then anchored

an internal saltwater aquifer suffusing me

with congestive heartbreak

swelling and stiffening my limbs
i cant walk to you or anyone
beached in my own body

my eyes filling my mouth, my throat
i can’t talk to you or anyone
muted by our illicit drug

swallow,
swallow,
swallow

that sea inside you

or else,

drown, drown, drown

in it

i am not a mermaid
i am a human woman

yet my belly’s pregnant
with an ocean

she’s y/ours

[ i’ve named her Inez ]


Amscape

Amscape : (noun) [ am-skāp ]
(am + scape)

The exclusively self-known, inner landscape encompassing the psychic and pneumatic terrain of a person; the interiority of be-ing|beingness; the complex and mysterious interiority of a human being distinct from one’s outward persona or personality and from the professional, familial, interpersonal, or social psychological evaluations, analyses, opinions, perceptions or stereotypes rendered or held by others.

from the Online Etymology Dictionary:

am (v.)
first-person singular present indicative of be (q.v.); Old English eom “to be, to remain,” (Mercian eam, Northumbrian am), from Proto-Germanic *izm(i)-, from PIE *esmi- (source also of Old Norse emi, Gothic im, Hittite esmi, Old Church Slavonic jesmi, Lithuanian esmi), first-person singular form of the root *es- “to be.”

landscape (n.)
c. 1600, “painting representing an extensive view of natural scenery,” from Dutch landschap “landscape,” in art, a secondary sense from Middle Dutch landscap “region,” from land “land” (see land) + -scap “-ship, condition” (see -ship).


sleep

sleep keeps you from me

you, unconscious and at rest
with my newfound enemy:
the Succubus
she eats your dreams of me, love
that’s why you can’t remember them

then, this great Lake
like a cold floor
between our warm
twin beds in winter
get out of bed, love,
come, sail to mine, risk it

simpler, open your hazel eyes, please
thumbs, please dance in the blue light
say more, tell more, please
anything satisfies, love
everything does

more. more. more.

i decide, beloved,
to curse and steal
your sleep, i cast you awake, reel you in
that’s why we’re both so tired
come morning

you disrupting my life
i disrupting yours
equally, beautifully
always perfectly equal

only until your
scent imprints on my pillows and neck
your strong, hairy limbs entwine mine, smooth and soft
our fingers finally warmed, at rest
beneath our sexed sheets

and our eyes close
our breath slows
we say goodnight to each other always

‘night, sweet
baby, ‘sleep


Exposition

If I ever succumb to dementia or Alzheimer’s

I might blurt out all my

deepest secrets and desires

and my darkest shames

Let me tell you my truest truths now

so you won’t feel

bewildered, surprised, stunned, shocked, repulsed, or devastated

later.