the future ending
and re-beginning
in one, arbitrary moment
the future ending
and re-beginning
in one, arbitrary moment
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,
but, 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 has always been one of my very favorite works of the French naturalists – the gorgeous, day-glo, corally-salmon Sun and the woman’s arrested and reverent attention — her ear-witness to the birdsong — she reminds me of myself on any given day at golden hour — dawn or dusk //
while most criticism — almost all criticism of this work agrees that this painting depicts a woman at dawn — at Sun’s rise: i’m not wholly convinced.
i have experienced Jules Breton’s “The Song of The Lark” twice in two separate exhibits — at its home in the collection of The Art Institute of Chicago; and most recently, in 2015, at the University of Nebraska’s Sheldon Museum of Art for “Visual Cather: The Writer’s Pictorial Imagination” — where i was able to linger a mere foot away from the painting, studying it, for as long as i wanted — i stayed there for a reverent half hour in its glow.

Author Willa Cather spent her formative years in Nebraska and was an alumnus of the University of Nebraska; her third novel, published in 1915, was named for Breton’s painting — The Sheldon was a natural recipient for a loan of this magnetic artwork ///
while viewing the painting at The Sheldon, i conversed and queried with the fellow-Chicago-born docent — the only other person in the gallery:
will the lark sing their song most sweetly or urgently at sunrise or sunset?
does this work actually depict a neon sunset in the west; or is it, in fact, a day-glo sunrise in the east?
DayGlo color, pigment, paint would not be invented and commercially available until the 1930s — yet, Breton painted his glorious Sun in 1884 — he had already figured out the recipe ///
and, is the woman’s fatigue residual — from yesterday — she, a worker rising so very early, again, — or, might it be fatigue from a just-completed long and hard day’s work under the Sun?
i asked the docent the rhetorical questions i had been silently asking myself.
is it both? it’s both? it’s both.
let the mystery be*
Continue reading “The Song of The Lark”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
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
“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

this is no time
to evict
centipedes,
spiders,
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
Continue reading “residuum”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“
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 our “business correspondence”
inform a collaborator
a coworker – if you will,
of your passwords and process
before taking those pills
my corazón has nearly bled-out
migrating across my torso, my limbs,
and my crown
settling into my cornflower blue eyes
bloodshot — with or without drops and disguise
you imprinted on my heart
a tattoo i conceal

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
glistened eyes, lump throat, and quiver lip
you think they’re for you?
well sir, or ma’am: that’s rich.
all lies,
but also, all true.
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
Continue reading “the sea of inez”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
If ever I fall 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,
the phone rings
i step myself off the ledge,
fall back into the window,
onto the hard floor,
crawl across the rug,
back into my bed
& answer:
oh, hello!
“…”
i’m fine, how are you?