Author Archives: kimtnt

About kimtnt

i was accidentally seeking, intentionally opining, intensely observing, building my microcosmos, creating art & writing poetry, all to become real

poem for poet: Nayyirah Waheed, Salt

[ The Lethal Salinity of The Truth ]

Her words are not for me
not about me
Her words are not for me
not about me
Repeat

am i allowed
To float Her words aloud
To sink them in my mind
To lap them from the page

i accidentally swallow,
then gulp down Her Salt words/
like when the surf breaks
and surprises an exhilarated, Great Lakes girl
with a mouthful of seawater
during her first swim in the Ocean

Her words were not meant for me
Her words were not meant for me
Repeat

but

they quenched then drowned me anyway

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Her Light, her light

it’s mid evening
east of The Lake
and the night is dawning
like a second morning

the Full Moon’s light
in a clearer sky
gleams through the generous panes
of this blessed, old green house

Moon’s rise / Her Light

February’s Snow Moon is glowing
in a familiar dance with her beloved Earth/
Sun, their invisible chaperone, is voyeur to their touchless, perfect tango

a family of four deer
mother and children, i think/
are gleaners here tonight
while i consume their Moon play

silent and sitting in the dark, i admire:
coat, tallow, hooves and hot, flow of blood
is all that’s between them
and this howling wind and frozen ground

let me mimic their resilience, integrity
i’ve been so weak, so broken this winter
a fractioned shadow, i am disintegrating, disappearing / my light given or grifted away

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holy ghosts: a statement



“The most important thing for everyone in Gringolandia is to have ambition and become ‘somebody,’ and frankly, I don’t have the least ambition to become anybody.” — Frida Kahlo



in the end, we are all just holy ghosts

lone, holy, haunted ghosts who sometimes want to feel, to be seen or felt by others who occupy our realms

if anyone were to have thoughts or draw conclusions about this particular ghost, about my collection of words, photos, ephemera, art, altars, or the microcosmic worlds i’ve built — now, or when i’m dead

— in the end, and at the beginning,
it is and was,
for me to better understand

my Self for myself by my self

as well, to understand my relationship to others, to the world, to the Earth – the pain and beauty of it all – and my relationship to my creativity – the conception, process and act of creating, and to existence itSelf

/ no one else is essential to interact with,
interpret, interrogate or validate any of it, ever – yet they are welcomed to do so/

the imperative in my work and my art is not to be known or understood by another — even though, even when, that exquisitely rare experience occurs – it may conjure deep feelings of true homecoming or true love

further, being seen or felt – as creative, evocative, provocative, nouveau, derivative, debased or talentless – by someone is wholly different than being truly known and understood by another human being

and although communion, consummation, and collaboration in experiencing, creating, or releasing art can be gratifying, challenging, inspiring and evolutionary,

i must always remember:

all my collaborators are ghosts; i am my own, lone, Earthly muse; i Am my holy and whole audience of one

everyone else is collateral advantage

“in the end, you will find [only] yourself at the beginning”


ghosts: me, Frida Kahlo, Agave & The Moon

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Wolf Lake


“This used to be my playground”
and our proxy for church on spring, summer and fall sabbaths


These were the halcyon days.


Load up the International Harvester TravelAll with wooden doors and quarter panels – it has two gas tanks, you know
Bought it used, but pristine
on payments – from the showroom on Logan Boulevard and Elston Avenue with zero credit history and all the usury


Have mercy.


Follow me, and I will make you fishers of fish


He will bait your hook on the bamboo pole he bought you
Later, you will insist on the “Pocket Fisherman” – as seen on TV

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the bearable light of being

we adapt, mitigate

beholding devastation

in a moment of transcendent light

we’ll call it beauty

i am no exception

golden hour light on a butchered monoculture landscape

thaw

i add my most intentional breaths to the land, to the atmosphere,
for the birch saplings, for a man i knew,
bent over
frozen
in a forced deference
mimicking reverence
won’t, can’t hold
[it never does]

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mammal

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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.


Deer in the full Wolf Moon’s light right beneath the triptych windows,
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.

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human 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


Eyes Wide Shut

diving galaxies behind, beyond my eyelids

into crevasse of mind

deep heart of universe

collapsing, revealing

origin

of black expanse

of eternal presence

sublime of aeons

reciprocal gaze

know me

who Am i


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