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,
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

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.

Visual Cather:
The Writer’s Pictorial Imagination

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”

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

Featured

residuum

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


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”

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 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

Continue reading “memo to a particular poet”

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

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.

the sea of inez

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

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

Continue reading “sleep”