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“
Category: poetry
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”
so, inform a collaborator,
a “coworker”- if you will,
of your passwords and processes
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
corazónal ink
you imprinted on my heart,
a tattoo — concealed.
play possum
i’m fine
no, 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
and, i’m awfully raw,
just please ignore me.
this world can be so cruel and wicked
so,
of course, my tender heart’s afflicted.
you see my glistened eyes, lumped throat, and quivering lip
and, 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
of
the love,
the loss,
so close || this close.
almost, almost, almost
buoyed, then anchored
an internal saltwater aquifer suffusing me
with a congestive heartbreak
it, swelling and stiffening my limbs
and, i cant walk to you or anyone,
i am beached in my own body
my eyes fill my mouth, my throat
and, i can’t talk to you or anyone,
i am muted by our illicit drug
so i
swallow,
swallow,
swallow
the sea inside of me
else, i
drown, drown, drown
in it,
i am not a mermaid
i am merely a human woman
yet my belly’s pregnant
with an Ocean
and, you know that
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
Exposition
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
Continue reading “Exposition”how are you?
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?
someone
i feel like someone
you last loved on a wednesday,
earlier this week
i feel like someone who was once your intense singular joy/ but now and once again,
just an invisible naturalist, poet, neologist and crone
i feel like someone you forgot to mention the Hilma Af Klint show to
i feel like someone losing “our” intimacy
exponentially, by the second, against a shot clock in an un-united center
i feel like someone whose forehead you won’t kiss; whose hollows you’ll never touch with hands, tongue or tip; like someone who’ll never truly climax again
i feel like someone who upset you with
Dream[ing] and that’s where it all ended; like someone who never listened to your diatribe about Waco, or heard of your plane rituals and four-part fruition
i feel like someone whose mystery you’ll let be; like someone whose content was consumed without gnosis; scarfed down like cold “leftovers”
i don’t feel like someone you will walk across a frozen Lake or dry Lake bed to get to, during the apocalypse, Station Eleven-style Continue reading “someone”
With a tail as big as a kite. With a tail as big as a kite.
she strained her eyes
what is that dark lump
in the road
traveling into her throat
Out she went
sighting the black beauty
from fifty paces
nearer, the bright blood
pooling beneath ki’s face
Did he even try to brake
or swerve?
“no”, the tracks and trees say
Maybe the driver didn’t see
the pitch black, moving body
against the snowy white, otherwise red dirt road?
Maybe ki darted out,
in front of the royal blue truck
a truck fit for a rural king
[doubt of the beneficent on Christmas]
machines
everywhere
machines
carssawsgunsplowsshipsplanesmillstractorsthrowersdozerstruckscombines
boatsturbinesrigsdredgerstrainsbargesroadsrailharborspipeshousesbridges
wellshighwayssewersstructuresquarriesreactorspowerlinesstreetslotsculde
sacsfencessatelliteslockscelltowerssignsculvertswallsdockslandfillsdams
she gently pincers the end of ki’s gorgeous black tail
gingerly pulling kin off the road
redundantly committing ki’s spirit
to the universe, aloud
with apologies for humankind, silently
purposefully committing kin’s body
to a safer spot
for mourning
and carrion feast
Ki’s body was unexpectedly heavy
full of walnuts and seeds
fat and strong for a long winter ahead
so alive just minutes ago, I saw out the window
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
for me
for my kind
for our machines
for our structures
for our carelessness
for our selfishness
for all this,
engineered, manufactured, destroyed
the falling snow christens quick
she wanted to go inside
and sob
selfishly,
because the possibility
of an aberrantly painless holyday
ceased with the dead black squirrel Continue reading “With a tail as big as a kite. With a tail as big as a kite.”
Crown
my hair holds memory,
i know this because
i cut my own hair today
as i held the ends
in my hands
i said
did you touch the Merced with me and my boy?
i said,
do you remember my father?
and my other precious loss?
i said,
do you remember the first dog?
i said,
were you here when
i still loved
and was loved?
i said,
you were there when my mother was so near death’s door
i said,
and when i found and lost,
and lost and found, my Self again?
smiles
sighs
cries
laughs
rage
wail
and
song
i still have possessions from all those times
and places,
but no skin,
my skin long shed, my bone resorbed
but my long hair is still me from many years ago
that is why hair is so precious,
i thought,
this is the genesis
of what i have always
mistook as phobia
but no,
i know today
that
physical memory is held particularly, and only, in my hair
more than Samsonian
or vanity
or femininity
my long hair
is
my body
my health
my energy
my sensation
my emotion
my years
my identity
my essence
thank you
for growing
for remembering
for showing
for staying
for flowing
for tangling
for blowing
for graying
for glowing
for floating
for knowing
with me
all these years
no more cuts
without ceremony
and,
i promise
i will never agree to lose you
Open
I walk bare
out in the open
the Sun, Moon, Rain, Wind, Clouds, Sky and Stars
kiss me at all hours
did you see me open up
this Autumn?
after a Summer spent wailing,
wet, yet fruitless
after a Spring spent wading into lies instead of soft blossoms and new grass
Winter approaches, maybe the frost will kill this disease,
for good
I bathe
nearly naked in sunshine, cold rainstorms, in wetland pools and moonlight
unapologetically
|out in the open|
unabashedly
baptising
my face,
hair,
and eyes,
my breasts
vulva
and legs,
my lips,
throat,
spine,
and my wild heart
ceremonially, first
with wine, like Magdalene, anointing and anointed,
in the name of the Mother, Sun and holy ghosts
|a cabernet henna|
then, with rainwater from the willow’s edge, like Ophelia,
lying in the woodland and meadow, flooded
to cleanse or drown [to live, or not to live]
in the name of the Moon
|I ponder the stone cistern laden with glacial deposits and ruminant bones|
the woodland is abundant with new mushroom, new overnight growth
the hint of ancient circles supplants my judgment with instinct
and overrides decorum with new delights
|and old delights, revisited |
an aged grapevine is rooted deep, climbing, trailing, snaking
hidden in plain sight, everywhere
and I’ve intuited It as Ol’ Scratch,
I take a hatchet to quell Its influence, here
You,
Your windows are not true eyes
Your lamps are not enlightenment
So, bless the dark
of the night
of the country night sky
And the Moonset
of my moon
it’s been decades,
but
this place wants to birth or impregnate me,
and I want that too
i want it to
|I come here and open up|
The Bottom (RV)
Get to the bottom of this.
This, means You
Get to the bottom – of Your Self
Do you have to be thrown
down the well
through loss, by the grave, or near-grave
What if
instead,
we pulled the rug out from under ourselves
to reveal the formidable trap door
What if we climbed down into the dark cellar, willingly
to enter our infinite interior
to touch the well
the ancient aquifer within
where the gods reside and respite with our Twin Selves,
our other-halves waiting for discovery
This infinite, eternal presence
be-neath our weathered houses
What if we willingly descended
Into it
Unto it
And we learned to crave the Original Dark
and its companionship
Where we delve deep into our imaginations, dreams, nightmares,
That connect us primally
to the pool of imaginations, dreams and nightmares of every one,
Of every being that ever existed
Collective Unconscious
made Self Conscious
The dark, deep well
we may all draw from
Pour out your false light
reveal the truth:
the unbearable emptiness of being
Cup your hands
Or wade into the well
Deeper and deeper
submerge, swallow
you’ve been bone dry for so long
Do you see that now?
Baptize
The only way
To rebirth yourself
Into something worth birthing
Into something worth being
is by this sacrament, anticeremonially, un-ceremonially
Knowing now the bottom is
The only place where alchemy happens
Where wine is turned into eternal water,
instead of that story first told to you, by them Continue reading “The Bottom (RV)”
the Sixth day
We are in the know
We are in love
We are in love with absolute strangeness
Strangers weaving desperate bits of truths with swatches of lies and patches of mystery together
into idols of flesh-like beings ready to exist in the garden of the unknown
We begin as avatars,
with our hollows filled in with wishfulness and wistfulness
Our first chore: fashion a blanket from our shared thoughts and song
and beneath it, together
We’ll conceal our new being from them, for a while
Conceal our new world from them, for a while
Our whole, true selves rarely revealed
to each other,
or to the other-others
to our-selves
Who are You?
I think,
Better to not know your You,
Not wanting to dispel the myth
of the You I’ve created: my You
Not wanting to deconstruct the perfectly vague architecture
of the You I’ve created: my You
Wanting You only as my own creation
knowing You, owning You, or owing You
or revealing to You,
can never be what I have conjured on my side of our bed,
under our quilts, in our garden
Making You up whole,
completing You with my imagination
is godlike,
You, the Adam
I, the Creator and the Ethereal Eve
I give you the role you think you want
But just for this remote rendezvous
A scripted dialogue has gone awry with dangerous improvisation
A genesis of intangible intimacy, here,
Your being and words disembodied, afar,
is enough, for now.
To know You,
whole and complete and present
as [hu]man Incarnate
Near,
Potential,
Warm,
Muse
The angels hold their breath
What will she [i] [they] do?
For now, in the now, I am curiously
content in this undetermined, undefined serving of You
whether,
an apple to bite, to taste,
or an orchard for my harvest
⊕
dream[t] poetry: Visitation
A man who wore a kelly green shirt
Surprised me in my dream
Crashed on my grandmother’s couch
swathed in blankets, soft and deep
I don’t ask him why he’s there,
It seems we both already know
This room’s exactly where she died,
This Oakdale house, sold long ago
Still, worried that as she ‘rived “home”
He’d given her a fright,
I go to wake her, see her, touch her . . .
What a beautiful, strange night.
He says, “No need to wake her now,
she’s a gem, it’s all okay,
she didn’t seem to mind me here,
I inferred that I might stay?”
I shush’d us, not to rouse her then,
Sound asleep in her old twin bed,
In disbelief, I hear her breathe
Has our connection stirred the Dead?
I feel wondrous, but then remembrance
forges space for Cardinal guilts
Smiling devilishly, making room for me,
he pats the couch and parts the quilts.
