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

Poemo rhymes with memo.


in my winter cocoon
enveloped in sheets and blankets
my eyes closed all day

these damned windows,
seams of daylight break
through fiber,
try and force their way through slits and lashes,
i resist
pink lids, i won’t study and map
your capillary streams / birds, please don’t sing / i refuse to perceive anything but my own inlands

i don’t feed
i don’t drink
i don’t think
i don’t move
i don’t feel

i only let


i am not dying though
i am working from the inside
autonomic, appearing halcyon
while transforming
all memoir of you – from idealization into unbiased slurry, and,
into something, new
into something, else
of me

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


my feelings, brimming / about to spill onto the floor/ i’ve got no strength, bread or bucket / to sop or mop them anymore/


i measure my worth

in deer so at ease they’ll eat kale from the garden, less than five meters from my door

by a home-cooked meal eaten together, still hot

in heritage Jimson weed blooms on summer nights

& harvested, unblemished squash on autumn afternoons

in bats sighted overhead at dusk from the stoop

in thriving houseplants, all named and watered

in clean sinks, sheets, floors and birdbaths

by pages read, no matter

by the number of rabbits who see me and then ignore my presence

in folks, walking exhausted, or in rain, who accept my offer, climb into my truck with their groceries or booze for a lift home

in miles walked with the dog, and in patience as he interprets the “news” thoroughly with his nose

in native prairie plants restored, by my hand, New England asters, sweetgrass, have mercy,

in minutes spent on the phone with my son,
my golden boy

in bluebirds who sing on my bedroom windowsill especially on my birthday

in knowing how the Moon will look this evening even before she rises

in poems written by, for or about me

in acorns from the sapling white oak i planted, knowing one day, i won’t be able to count them all

with a plate of at least 6 different kinds of freshly cut fruit

in hummingbirds, monarchs, hummingbirds, monarchs, hummingbirds who visit to feed, rest or cocoon

in vibing unabashedly
to music playing loudly
in the barn, in the yard, in the car

in frogs perched on the back porch light, and toads spotted and avoided on the sidewalk in the dark

in trust placed in me

in Duchenne smiles from friends and strangers, but especially strangers, and in the intense knowing look from babies anywhere, but especially in line at Walmart

by how long i kept the christmas tree – fir, spruce, or pine – drinking and alive, far more so than a dozen long-stemmed red roses

by the crows that come back again and again, recognizing my face, voice and reliable aluminum pail / us, counting on one another

by a batch of perfectly brewed and bottled sweet, iced tea

in spying even one snake, one turtle or one heron all year long


by love,

by love,

by love

and that’s why / for a while,

i will feel worthless
worth less
less worth


“for all your fine washables”

the mundane,

it reminds

blush-colored lace bra soaking in bathroom sink
blush-colored lace bra soaking in the bathroom sink with a smidgeon of Dreft during the evening of January 4th 2023


my amnesia is nearly complete
i can barely conjure
what it felt

Arte Digitora

Arte Digitora, alternatively, arte digitora, artedigitora, #artedigitora

Arte Digitora is art/e that is organically, intentionally or incidentally created, conceptualized or derived from intentional or incidental digital/cellular communication and/or collaboration and hosted primarily – though not always exclusively – in digital space-time.

The art/e primarily consists of digital/cellular communication text content including email correspondence; word-processing documents; text and direct messaging conversation blocks or bubbles; shared photos, images, screenshots, icons/reacts/emojis; shares and links; voice clips/messages; and social media comments — using a variety of digital/cellular applications and platforms; anonymity or identity may be implied, preserved, protected or negotiated.

This art/e is created, conceptualized, utilized or reproduced by one or more participant humans based on singular, multiple, continuing or abandoned digital/cellular communications; it may be fixed i.e., “locked” and immutable, or the art/e can be fluid, altered, edited, deleted, interpreted, archived or restored in its original form or any subsequent altered/edited form by any of the the original communicators or subsequently, by those with access.

Arte Digitora are not NFTs, but NFTs may contain elements of arte digitora.

Any Arte Digitora may be migrated and reproduced in physical space in the form of inspired or derivative 2D or 3D works such as prints, photos, books, sculpture, crafts or objects, or as audio/visual, performance, tactile or projection art.

from Wikipedia:

Art is a diverse range of human activity, and resulting product, that involves creative or imaginative talent expressive of technical proficiency, beauty, emotional power, or conceptual ideas.

from Wiktionary:


  1. Having to do with digits (fingers or toes); performed with a finger.
  2. Property of representing values as discrete, often binary, numbers rather than a continuous spectrum.
  3. Of or relating to computers or the Information Age.

New Me.

And, most of the World,
well, at least, the entire mattering World
came together
for one brilliant night and
even part of the next morning
with a somewhat contemplative,
protracted, very long, somewhat meditative
five ENTIRE minutes squeezed in between

And, it came to pass that there
were nearly 18 continuous hours
of agreed-upon
global activism and change-making
that had not been witnessed for exactly
364.24153644 days, previously

The World’s manifesto:

Whereas, starting tomorrow, January 1
life will be better,
so much better, different, good, great even

Again, they each individually proclaimed:
starting tomorrow, January 1
life will,
might, may, could be better, so much better, different, good, great even

Ahem, that is, to be clear, not your life,
just mine.
new year, new me.
Me. Me. Me.

keep your Sun,
give me the Moon.

(inspired by mckersin: “Just helps that the world’s energy is all in agreement that we doing everything different now”)

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
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.


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
and “real” snow
purely by observation
without having Googled the weather

senses attuning
She becoming corporeal

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

spirit honing
She becoming ethereal

both, humbly naturalizing to leeward space