Month: 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 reading “Feed the wildlife! (a radical imperative)”human calculus
there is no math
more racking and wrenching than the equations of
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
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
transubstantiation
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
let
let
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
sunday
my feelings, brimming / about to spill onto the floor/ i’ve got no strength, bread or bucket / to sop or mop them anymore/
worth
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
and,
by love,
by love,
by love
and that’s why / for a while,
i will feel worthless
worth less
less worth
less.
“for all your fine washables”
the mundane,
it reminds
amnesiac
my amnesia is nearly complete
i can barely conjure
what it felt
like
to
l_ve
y__
Neolexia: 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:
- Having to do with digits (fingers or toes); performed with a finger.
- Property of representing values as discrete, often binary, numbers rather than a continuous spectrum.
- 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 limineen | poet & crone 