a phantom history
an entire phantom life, not mere limb
one i didn’t know i had, to begin with,
let alone,
lost /out, on/
a door to a paralleling universe
without a wormhole key
Author: ©️K.T.2026
Earthling, poet, crone. In planetary hospice.
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, while still hot
in heritage Jimson weed blooms, all lemony on summer nights
& harvested, unblemished squash on autumn afternoons
in brown bats, sighted overhead at dusk from the stoop
in thriving houseplants, all properly named and specifically watered
in clean sinks, sheets, floors and birdbaths
by pages read, no matter
by the number of rabbits who see me and then, choose to ignore my presence
in folks, walking exhausted, in heat, rain, cold or snow, who accept my offer, and climb into my truck with their groceries or booze — for a lift home
in miles walked with the dog, and in my stilled-patience as he endlessly interprets the “news” thoroughly with his nose,
in native prairie plants restored, by my own hand, New England asters, ironweed, sweetgrass, coneflower, have all the mercy,
in minutes spent on the phone with my son,
my golden boy, across two time zones
“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
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.
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- 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 — or 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.
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,
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.
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”her first december there
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
time
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
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
residuum
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”
