be careful,
some, caution:
there’s risk
they may imprint on you
and never fledge
be careful,
i, caution:
there’s risk
i may imprint on you
you may imprint on me
and one day, we will know
severed skies / severed from each other
you will fly, and, i will stay
yet, we will never fully-fledge
from
the acute nourishment, the acute hunger
from the enduring gravity
of
each other
recipe and method for feeding a baby starling
recipe:
one-half of a medium-boiled large egg, super finely diced
3-4 sardines canned in water, with all the bones and skin, gingerly rinsed under a thin stream of tap water, to remove excess salt, laid atop a paper towel
to passively drain the water,
then, finely chopped
mash sardines and egg together,
then slowly add up to 1 teaspoon of unsweetened organic apple sauce,
the mash should be integrated and mostly smooth
but not too wet or runny
store in sealed glass container refrigerated for no more than 2.5 days
(increase to whole boiled egg and full can of sardines and extra applesauce — and increase mash chunkiness as bird grows)
to feed:
fill a plastic drinking straw with the food,
by pumping the straw up and down into the mash with suction
warm the filled straw in hand while wearing a disposable glove to bring the mash close to room temperature
gently but quickly eject tubes/ribbons of mash into baby bird’s mouth as she gapes for food - like toothpaste on toothbrush almost; it’s daunting at first; she is so demanding! so loud! so urgent!
so hungry!
she will stop gaping when full
wash straw and reuse
(DQ & Five Guys straws are wide, flexible and work best)
repeat feeding every half hour, then eventually every hour or so, about 300 times over the course of next three weeks
to thrive:
during that time create and whistle to her a short, 3-4 note, unique song to recognize your voice
love her, talk to her,
encourage her, comfort her,
and hold her, carry her outside to see the world she will soon enter
also during that time: bring her small worms, slugs and insects to taste and/or eat / you will need to manually reduce them to be digestible for her, at first
then teach her to forage and hunt for them herself; she will use her beak as a shovel to unearth them and poke at and sever them with her beak;
watch her back while she’s busy doing this - be her wingman!
she will teach herself to bathe and sun, fluff, dry and preen
one day she will hop, sputter-fly into the grass, into the garden; into the bramble or tall grasses
then, she will fly and soar - high into the trees, beyond your reach, sight or protection
you will worry about predators and bird bullies, weather, machines, injury and hunger
you will listen for her voice
and whistle and call for her
sometimes you will hear her;
but she will always hear you; she knows your face, form, voice and song
she will still come home for supplemental feeding
she will still come home to sleep in her nest box inside the barn overnight because being a baby bird alone in the world - is exhausting
being a mother bird, even moreso
she will come back, again and again.
she is just pure joy.
she is pure trust.
you are so lucky to have experienced her first weeks of life
you rescued her; but she has restored you, in fact.
please know,
always remember, and never forget:
every bird you see, every wild mammal you see, they all initially survived because of a very devoted mother
i recently binged the biography:
“The Occult Sylvia Plath: The Hidden Spiritual Life of the Visionary Poet” by life-long Plath scholar Julia Gordon-Bramer
i feel fortunate this book was my introduction to Plath and her poet husband, Ted Hughes— and other significant influences in her life and poetry /
hat tip to my long-time favorite podcast: Aeon Byte Gnostic Radio — created and hosted by Miguel Conner at The Virtual Alexandria for interviewing Gordon-Bramer, because, for the first time ever, i was actually interested in Plath — and furthermore, i unexpectedly experienced a psychic “something” with Plath while listening to the audiobook; this “something” — i want to digest, explore – and possibly explain, in detail, in a future essay //
while i imbibed this book, i was simultaneously raising an injured and orphaned starling nestling — on an intensive feeding schedule — and during this time, i learned from the book, that Sylvia and Ted also attempted to rescue an injured and sick baby bird — but after a week, and upon determining rehabilitation was futile, they jointly and sadly euthanized the bird in their gas oven (i know. wow.) ///
Continue reading “Sylvia Dickinson Edgar Anne Hughes”if you move out of the city
if you move into the country
if you reclaim a meadow
if you plant more than two dozen trees
if you oppose paving the dirt road
if you fill ten bird baths, every single day, until they freeze
if you refuse to mow the clover, plaintain, and dandelion before they set seed
if you sit in silence on the stoop each night, watching
if you turn off every single light before bedtime
if you listen, listen, and listen
if you offer your attention
if you humble your human brain
if you embrace your animal body
if you fall into instinctual kinship
if you are ceaseless in your reverence
if you follow your intuition
maybe the crows will tell their brethren you’re a safe one
maybe the doe will bring her fawns to the salt lick during daylight
maybe the snake will slither under the workbench in the barn while you stand there
maybe the rabbits won’t flee your garden at your footfall
maybe the bats will dance in the twilight sky just above your head
maybe the luna moth will reveal herself to you in that meadow
Continue reading “maybe on the full moon”this was the summer of
broken limbs on trees, animals — and men
this was the summer of
the fuck-it, no-good vegetable garden
this was the summer of
“not this year”, “but, maybe next,” — again
this was the summer of
the i-still-can’t-believe-she’s-dead birthday
this was the summer of
nesting swallows, wicked sparrows, and a fallen starling nestling, whom she fed, and kept in her pocket for future starlight
this was the summer of
hanging baskets heavy with rainbow gazanias and pots full of midnight black petunias — for balance — incessant dead-heading and concrete stains, a small price
this was the summer of
the blue serpent; of serpentine bracelets and of the serpent-printed dress — she to be photographed on this land with the flowers, the dog and the bird, like Frida
this was the summer of
first-realizing she may be the reincarnation of the spirit once-embodied in
Sylvia Plath
an ascetic’s petitionary prayer, answered
for six consecutive summers, i’ve observed barn swallows enter and inspect the barn — diving and swooping in and out, perching and chattering wholly unbothered by my presence — but not until this, my sixth summer, did they finally deem worthy and decide to make their nest on a joist in this old, ramshackle barn
to experience their nesting is such a tender mercy in the time of remote, yet constant virtual witness and heartrage of genocide, of global horrors and famine — and of the daily unnatural disasters and unrelenting evidence of abrupt, irreversible climate breakdown and biodiversity/ecosystems collapse.
O swallows, swallows, poems are not The point. Finding again the world, That is the point, where loveliness Adorns intelligible things
Because the mind’s eye lit the sun.
Howard Nemerov
what radiance i’ve possessed in your eyes
has naturally dimmed after these 30 years;
and so has yours — in mine, these last five,
if i am being truthful,
which you know me to be,
guttingly
once the solar star, now, a mere lighthouse on the other’s shore,
do you still wonder what you are?
you,
my sonlight, are still golden, burning hot and bright,
but these blue lenses of ours,
and these blue talks of ours,
reveal
we are animal, elemental,
sometimes too human, and fragile.
only, you fail to acknowledge another possibility, another cosmic continuum.
Continue reading “sonlight [june 2024]”i am on my hands and knees
a belly full of baby,
and so happy,
in our backyard
in June
i am pushing the wrong variety of snapdragons into the soil of the new-to-me flowerbeds — in all my young, botanical ignorance,
on this 3rd day, your ‘due’ date,
they call on a landline
to say to me, “your dead, first father’s second wife is now also dead
… and there is a little money from his railroad retirement pension to be disbursed to you, his only child, a daughter”
the timing feels supernatural.
like a gift, from him — ten years, plus one day, after his death on June 2, 1984 — on your “due” date.
a gift.
we are living friday to friday after just barely mortgaging a little worker’s cottage on Grace Street in Six Corners-Portage Park, nine months ago.
on this 3rd day, your ‘due’ date,
in Streeterville, they say to me, “you’re not even effaced,
let alone opening: go home — but come back soon.”
ultimately, we, me and you, go back in exactly 13 days.
the timing is inconveniently perfect:
The World Cup, biblical Chicago heat and humidity, and the hypnotic O.J. Simpson circus
are not my and your fault;
your father and i bring you home on a sweltering Father’s Day.
you, are now, undeniably a Chicago summer baby and i, was always meant to be your Chicago summer mother.
//
i think about that word — “dilated” retroactively:
how my womb would open and become your light-filled
tunnel, one way — or another
“Why is the World so beautiful?”
Robin Wall Kimmerer
“Why is the World so beautiful?” asks, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer.
It didn’t have to be — the Earth could’ve been Big-Banged out into a uniform, utilitarian and dull rocky planet — evolving without bluebirds, banana trees and bioluminescent jellyfish — or April’s apple blossoms, golden-pink sky Sunsets, and frog choruses,
but it wasn’t.
have mercy.
Continue reading “oh, April”
First,
Unit 8200 came for the Palestinians.
with beta Gospel.
AI algorithmic kill lists, the modern canon.
the devils don’t need the details:
a rough timeline, character sketch
just like their old testaments, will do just fine
their new codices
say “them” are the animals,
illegals,
terrorists,
insurgents
divergent
or merely,
existent
predicated on their math of Dominion and omission
demons conceived, incubated and developed in
Tel Aviv, NSA, USA
traitors to the human race
pledged allegiance to The Apartheid State
they migrate
to Silicon Valley
and live in our clouds,
seed and feed your tech portfolio
buy your complicity too easy and relatively, cheaply
they know you traffic and travel comfortably with your
BlackRock War Dividend Platinum Rewards™️ Card
that your urbane lifestyle co-signs ecocide
that you’ll reliably Demsplain a genocide
as mothers, children, olive trees, & the seas die in real time
before we, the real humans’ eyes
the cultured parasites, comfortably-numbed bystanders in the Zone of Interest living their dream lives,
as students and artists and workers and poets resist their silencing and their systems
the entire fucking World, a Fire Factory
for [US] National Poetry Month
April 2024
many people write poems,
maybe even some good ones, maybe even a great one
but others,
they
speak in poetry
cry in poetry
illuminate in poetry
lust in poetry
revere in poetry
rage in poetry
survive in poetry
mother in poetry
love in poetry
critique in poetry
dance in poetry
inform in poetry
grieve in poetry
wonder in poetry
assassinate in poetry
expose in poetry
imagine in poetry
rebuke in poetry
teach in poetry
confess in poetry
resist in poetry
observe in poetry
exalt in poetry
mock in poetry
grow in poetry
die in poetry
&
live, and live, and live in poetry
these latter are the poets,
metaphor, verse, and prose
entangled
in every thought, in every experience, in every act, in every feeling, in every expression,
inseparable as breath and air,
whether ever read
whether ever recognized
whether ever published
whether ever paid
whether they ever write one poem deemed good by anyone — even themself
poetry
is
the breath
and blood
and milk
and spit
and piss
and cum
and tears
and wine
and water
and ink
and words
in which
poets
swim
not casually,
but as habitat.
i wake up
and first, go outside
read the land, front to back
and observe what’s happened overnight
you wake up
and first, while safe inside,
read front to back, the new york times
and conclude what’s happened overnight
so, how is it always true,
Continue reading “information gap”Hath finally come the hour
when Rengyo will hold fast their
growing, arching, golden stem
long enough to know, to taste, to touch
Lilac’s delicious violet truss?
because, ’til now their Vernal bloom,
has in me, conjured only tragic myth
the one with the cruelest climate and clock,
the tale of an aching,
faith-fulled Thisbe,
and her yet-untouched, devoted,
beloved Pyramus
Continue reading “Syth & Lila: a phenology”You, Cody Roberts, a deviant, a devil,
from Daniel, Wyoming
ran down, injured, captured,
then tortured,
then paraded,
a Young Wolf, a yearling, still a pup
you proudly and confidently recorded your brutality toward the Young Wolf among the degenerates of your town,
then you killed her and torched her precious body
your kind is known for kidnapping, raping, killing and desecrating females of all species
so, i will search for you, Cody Roberts,
in my dream treks,
i will join with the wolves
to find and torment you in your sleep
we will incant and howl for your unrelenting suffering
every single night
until you are finally impelled to end
your own miserable existence
you will then beg for peace and rest in the Afterlife but you will know neither
you will be recorded in the collective consciousness for all eternity:
Killer! Pariah! Deviant! Soulless!
Anubis knows and awaits you.
anything interesting about her
was external to her
having never birthed or midwifed anything original,
she was a mosaic of willingly received or easily imposed externalities,
perfectly squared tessarae
arranged into place, adhered in an unremarkable, familiar composition, so very common of her sisterhood
her mortar was mixed not with the warmth of cord blood, not with the sweat of work, not with sacred tears, or river water
but with an expensive bottled vintage that she bought
she was a surface dweller, invisible to the ancient light or darkness,
both the heights and depths remained beyond her
she was not known as a daughter of Norea, Lilith, Demeter, or Eve
and would not eat of the apple — nor the pomegranate, in this incarnation
but reside and hide within the curated and policed gardens of her kind
she would contentedly remain external to and ignorant of her Self for all her life
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 