stop praying for what you want

the birds’ choir
is a mockery outside my window, eight different species on the sill — eight — for gods’ sake!


these days when the
Sun’s arc is long
and the soil is warming for the season — and permanently

i am in my bed with lead bones
annoyed that i woke up again, and guilty with an ungratefulness about it


my steady lament is sung out loud — but still unheard
i counted my mistakes like sheep, to sleep again
they didn’t wander away though
they stay close to their shepherd, always


they say Death comes in threes and that’s true
but it still hasn’t chosen me
instead, conscripting two complacent men, known to me, thirty-six, fifty three, in one week’s time — why?
while i’m out here volunteering for the cause
it cruelly searches elsewhere to complete their trio


of course i’m still fucking here!
the gods won’t give you what you pray for!

courage, love, fidelity, life, death

they’re full of motherfuckery
they know exactly what i — and what you, want most — of all

so they sent these birds here to taunt me


so they keep me here to taunt you

Continue reading “stop praying for what you want”

soul mate

sit with me, straddle me
don’t say a word
hear my heart with your heart
let mine hear yours

look at me, into me
like a Magic Eye
until the real me comes into your focus
our definitions no longer concealed

listen to me, read me
my words are my knowable mind
come, know what i know
and be known by me

lay on top of me
our mouths open
breathe me in slowly and deeply
let my pneuma impregnate you

i want to make you the father of my art

i want to be the mother of yours

Dream Gerund: being

Arte Digitora derived from the poems: “On Doing” & “Dream Gerund”


On Doing

I have a compulsion to do.

But sometimes/often just want recline.

And the softness [and] of being. Pulled tight into a cocoon & the doing hushed out of me and filled with prairie definitions.

My untold untyped Great/lake fantasies.

Fallen grass tufts and waterproof boot slosh and plant names and hours of dendrochronology with fantas/tical idealized notions of rubbing and human collision, of being.

July nothingness would be a dream come true I close my eyes to it and do and do and do.

~ juggernaut

On July 19, 2022, upon noting the correspondence between the words “doing”, “being” and “dream” in the above poem and the published poem “Dream Gerund” both written by the same poet — I created a digital derivative work – works which I now refer to by the neologism that I conceived:

Arte Digitora.

a digital derivative work (Arte Digitora) created on July 19, 2022 from shared media of the poem “On Doing” and photoshopped with digital photos of printed text from two poems by the same author published in memotoallemployees, 1995)
Continue reading “Dream Gerund: being”

the May plow


the beautiful spring day that the fields are first plowed for the season is heartrending
the privacy, peace and space that non-human animals had on the barren 80 acres for the last six months is gone within minutes and hours

on the day they plow
the fields clear of last year’s stover
i stay quiet and invisible, indoors

there is a seen and unseen frantic attempt at evacuation, an exodus of

snakes, turtles, frogs, toads, rabbits, moles, voles, possums, weasels, marmots, skunks, raccoons, squirrels, mice, rats,

evicted without notice, again

geese and sandhill crane nests destroyed

over-wintered graves defiled

and newly-born deer crushed, plowed over and under

/this destruction, all,

for corn to fatten-up confined and tortured

pigs, cows, chickens, turkeys, salmon, catfish, tilapia

for human appetite, gluttony/

death eaters!

if i just stay quiet,
quieter than the snake and mole i saw yesterday,
if i just stay inside, unseen, all day ‘til Sun’s set, like the possum i saw last night,
then kin may seek refuge, find sanctuary here

to catch their breath

some of us have forgotten that they too breathe

and feel fear,

and scream, wail, and mourn

run!!! come, run here!!!
stay right here, please, the roads to west and south also bring death!

i put all my faith into telepathy today

the gulls arrive
chasing and taunting the tractor driver,

he’s no farmer
his hands literally never touch soil or seed

a machine operating a machine guided by satellite

if only the gulls or crows would pluck out his eyes when he dismounts

if only, i would.

Continue reading “the May plow”

vow

and one way to manage

to preserve Their urbane marriage

was to vow to make me vanish

from Him – my face, my voice, my poems, banished

“fo-cus!!!

We’re off to Berlin — and Paris!”

but here i Am—- still

full of wild

&

full of warning:

that no matter how far They may travel

She knows He dreamt me in Her stead

so, i live inside Her head,

beyond Her dark and vacant eyes

inside Their stale and fresh, new lies

shadowing Their past and future skies

Continue reading “vow”

the falls

in the rearview mirror
i see it was a gift
an impromptu roadside picnic
a rendezvous along a fast-flowing river

we slip into a raft, built for two, gently floating,
taking turns describing what we see, feel/who we are/
entering rapids, our hearts racing, ceaseless throbbing/
then paddling furiously, having to steer/
and suddenly, the fear

nearsighted, you caught a life ring, rescuing yourself on a familiar and safe shore/
i stayed aboard and roared toward the falls
alone,
extending the ride, the adventure, the hope of it, all/
forcefully plummeting and suddenly submerged into dark and powerful waters

because,

Continue reading “the falls”

un/rest

am i seeded
or buried

forest floor or headstone above me?

the distant daffodils,
stoic sentries, craning for Sun

at the edge

offer no answer/s to my dark, muffled query

germination and decomposition

indistinguishable,

in the beginning

indistinguishable,

at the ending

in Spring’s cold soil

shaded,

unrelentingly,

by clouds or canopy.

palm sunday : hosanna in the highest


sometimes i touch my own face
with my palm
to remember
that i am also soft

& Holy


Hosanna in the highest, truest Light of Self.

"The triumph of the Light before its obscuration is an expression of the divine, royal Selfhood within each one of us, that is so powerfully obscured by mundane and conventional reality. There are times when we want so badly for that light to shine out of us, for it to be recognized by the world. When the only vehicle for expression is the ego-personality our strivings to be seen are usually in vain. Personality actually comes from the Greek “persona” meaning “mask.” While in this terrestrial incarnation, we are like the Count of Monte Cristo in The Man in the Iron Mask; our behavioral gyrations and efforts to have others recognize our light only serve to convince them that we are egotists, madmen or charlatans. Often we create a false glamour that is not our true Self; we put on an entertaining song and dance act; we live a lie and shine forth a false light: or we simply forget about our light and live our lives as if it had never been.
When we are not anxiously attempting to show forth our light, we are often acting in fear of the consequences of letting our light shine. We either turn down our light or turn it off completely, so that we might pass unseen through this world. Yet, “Within a man of light, there is light, and he lighteth up the whole word. If he does not shine, he is darkness.” This is the sham, the cover up, that we are either parading a false light or hiding our light beneath a bushel. The issues are not safety or creative self-expression, the core issues are authenticity and consciousness. We must be conscious of who we really are as spiritual beings and not let either fear or love of the world pervert or hide the authenticity of our own true Self.”

- excerpted from the Homily for Palm Sunday
by Reverend Steven Marshall,
Ecclesia Gnostica, Gnosis.org

and regarding charity, saviorism, law, justice and martyrs:

Continue reading “palm sunday : hosanna in the highest”

proof of life :

she taught me to not like
myself/

especially, my image

— in photographs and in the moments themselves

ingraining a self-consciousness in me

and in the candidness of my real life

in

play
laughter
effort
surprise
exertion
contemplation
fatigue
wonder
sadness
silliness
conversation
worry
unmade

pose, poise, posture, profile, perfect,

control

and because perfection

is unattainable,

in the eye of the beholder and in the eye of the beheld

she was absent from the photos of our lives, and so also was i,

becoming onlooker, background, photographer,

instead of subject

and, so i learned

to make myself invisible

to become invisible

to accept invisibility

there are so many ways to be a thief, mother


self-portrait, proof of life,
Kahlo, an ideal of self-possession
Continue reading “proof of life :”

ravenous


i subsist on this right now

chartreuse
red, purple, black
and gold

early, brave dandelions, low-key wonders

muscari, moss, catkins, i study in real-time-lapse — like it’s my last Spring / is it?

these black birds — red-winged, grackles, and starlings, their obsidian gloss and iridescence, who could look away

sandhill cranes, five years familiar, but i am still arrested with awe every single time

deer roam in forage for hours for tender emergent greens among last year’s corn stover/

chorus frogs and woodcocks at twilight, i heard them into the night, this had to be the first white noise for human beings

i watch for owls til there’s no more light, straining my eyes / willing them to feast on the moles that i can’t bear to kill /

no one’s here to call me in / no street lights/ and i forget to eat til i am

ravenous or ravishing/ my favorite and unforgettable malaprop

i am warmed, buoyed, sated with vernal sensuality

but the mud, my heart – and hips

remind me
that i am also

Continue reading “ravenous”

siphon

drove past the new plasma store
they’re buying, not selling
do you need to know more?

old cars fill up the vast parking lots
that pristinely fresh concrete,
marred by oil and brake fluid spots

this is a tale-of-two-river-cities,
white kids don’t sell platelets here/
this is no college town
this place was known
for Black boys, kidnapped and drowned

this fucking joint, is it never empty/
how many times can they draw blood per person, per month/
is it just two times – or twenty?

Freedom Plasma: there’s still Black blood to be drained!
24-7 audacity and
not ONE DROP of shame

Continue reading “siphon”

dear human, woman,

if you are acquainted with nearly every star in Orion and Canis Major in the Southern Night Sky from the Northern Hemisphere;

& Castor and Pollux have glimpsed you both in and out of your blue pyjamas;

& the Moon spotlights your face like you’re the star of the show, while asleep in bed, insisting you wake up and be both worshipped and worshipper

through your bedroom windows, overlooking a wet meadow, a red dirt road and then some trees,

from a ramshackle, old green house that effortlessly called you in, to hold you, and to hold you down

on this good Earth,

for a short while/

then, dear human, woman,

you are doing fine,
you are fine,
it’s all fine

nothing gold can stay
except your own aurum treasure of a heart

you, above all, know this

so, all you need do,
is keep

keep, keep, keep.

lying in bed, 4:59 AM EST, March 15, 2023
Continue reading “dear human, woman,”

residuum II | collab with Yeats – he only died 84 years ago

pushed to the margins
hanging on by one stressed thread
to toxic or barren fringe-lands

when the once-verdant centres could, and did, hold

us, all/

“Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.”

while now, all about it

reel shadows of the indignant [shore] birds

harkening

one day soon, you too, will be residuum here


what remains: gulls converge in a chasmic rain-filled pothole in the parking lot of an abandoned mall

An ephemeral asphalt pond after heavy rains in the parking lot of an abandoned mall, long-infested with gulls, as testimony – not merely to the inorganic evolution of consumerism, but of the intersection of NAFTA and other free-trade agreements, American soft segregation and hard apartheid, and the inherent discriminatory and predatory migration of US and Western global capitalism.


Continue reading “residuum II | collab with Yeats – he only died 84 years ago”