Monthly Archives: January 2023
Feed the wildlife! (a radical imperative)
I set out natural stone salt-licks year-round for deer in two spots on the perimeter of the land I occupy [I’ve witnessed birds, and I suspect other wildlife enjoy/require them too].
I buy bags of apples on sale and try to set out 5 lbs a couple evenings per week for the deer during winter; I cut up a few for possums and rabbits nightly.
January 28, 2021
A deer foraging not on apples I set out, but on “weeds” – wildflowers, herbs and grasses
just beneath the triptych picture windows of my living room as I went to open the drapes to the Full Moon’s light – a second dawn, just before I retired to bed at 1:00 AM in the morning.
I feel like the salt lick, the small sweet apples and fruit scraps are my insignificant attempt at respect, alms, honoring and reparations for all we have destroyed and to the survivors who endure and remain in the middle of a cold winter. This is agro country, and not a speck of corn or fruit is left behind for wild animals in the barren cornfields and orchards that were once forests filled with acorns, walnuts, pine nuts, pawpaws and twigs – and prairies filled with grasses, herbs and wildflowers.
Continue readinghuman calculus
there is no math
more racking and wrenching than
human calculus
to find oneself
not as integer or integral
as both function and derivative
yet not a real variable
as undifferentiated
only momentarily tangential
eternally infinitesimal
telemarketer
she answers every unknown call
thinking it might be him
on a burner phone
calling to say
calling to tell
calling to ask
calling to weep
calling to laugh
calling to breathe
you
yes
wait
soon
now
everything
anything
‘this’
we were not that singular, after all
in spite of all evidence and words
to the contrary
we began and ended
like everyone, everything, anything else
sure.
but
this, i know
we never grew boring
we never stopped loving
we never stopped wanting
then
still
you vanished
so
what does this all mean now
what does anything mean now
what can anything mean now
what is the meaning of meaning now
this, i don’t know
explanation
she was never really glad to be here
here, as in, born
not really, no
still,
she paced herself
bided, abided the days which turned into decades
in the city
she moved out of the city
she moved out to the country
she paced her herself
bided, abided the days which turned into months and years
in the country
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
until she could not
one more
anymore
intruder
let them know she was killed
in a struggle with an intruder in a house
then let them know she was the intruder
then let them know she was the house
undo
i sometimes wake myself speaking to you aloud from my dreams
the Lake carries my voice
in one direction, west, at night;
if i’m being truthful,
in sunlight too
do you hear me in your sleep,
or when awake, in your perfect nest, your perfect, structural roost
no rest then, no rest now,
be or do,
do won out
i found /no, fought/ for my contentment
then lost /no, loved/ it away;
if i am being truthful,
it was too easy
i want to get back to when the tolerance of crows was all that mattered to me; when meadow and sky were enough to hold my singular, regent attention
and forget /no, ignore/ the attentions of men who unbecome and rebecome strangers
fruition
There is no possibility of self-directed evolution without tangible, material exposure and palpable, psychic vulnerability.
Fruition is not guaranteed, but neither is the familiarity [or longevity] of stasis.
— kt, february 2017
Poemo (prototypes) :
The secret ambition of all lyric poetry is to stop time. — Charles Simic
a good melancholy
a phantom history – a life, no mere limb
one i didn’t know i had, to begin with,
let alone, lost /out on/
a door to a paralleling universe
and no wormhole key
the hours
in the days before their deaths
which could now practically and reasonably
be measured in hours,
she began liminal dreaming
even during daytime
and she saw a white horizon
containing a silhouette of golden-amber woods alit like filigree
and a golden-amber house, likewise
and she knew the house was for her
and she was not afraid
sunday
my feelings, brimming / about to spill onto the floor/ i’ve got no strength, bread or bucket / to sop or mop them anymore/
the velveteen poet 