nights
like these
i am not breathing /of/ this air
my body is here
while my face plunges through the veil
in a welcomed disintegration
in both worlds,
atomic and cosmic,
protoplasmic and mystic,
my Earth footing becomes tenuous
and i could
go.
either way.
i began to think,
wondering,
pondering,
more than anything, hoping
that maybe the real purpose for him wading into my waters
was to open the sluiceway to her
for me to enter her streams
for her to enter mine
man, i want it, i need it to be,
some kind of collateral divine design
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;
while now, all about it
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.”
“reel shadows of the indignant [shore] birds”
harkening
one day soon, you too, will be residuum here
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.
“He said that a man had to escape to the country to see the world whole and that he wished he lived in a desolate place like this where he could see the sun go down every evening like god made it to do.”
~ Flannery O’Connor,
A Good Man Is Hard to Find
loving someone in secret
or
losing them in secret
i am someone who can whisper in your ear
and tell you
which one hurts more
bluebird, let me borrow a spot of your blue
your bright blue of song, work, flight
brighten my dark blues of winter
and make me all yellow
“See how He loved [Them].”
swish, swish, knock
swish, swish, knock
a rhythm, a metronome
once a week,
usually a Sunday
you felt very near to me today, also a Sunday,
me weeping while sweeping, or vice versa
my movement conjured you, conjured the once-me and the eternal you/
me, looking down from the landing//
you, nearing the top of the narrow, 2-flat stairs
in your white v-neck t-shirt or “dago-T”
looking up over your thick glasses at me, with your big eyes
with your snaggle-toothed smirk, a gold cap on your front tooth, and mustached/
the broom in your beautiful hands / you, pure lank, pure elegance
i wish it were a saxophone.
instead of a broom or steering wheel.
had i snapped a photo of you on them stairs
with that familiar look/
here am i
my eyes stigmata
overflowing saltwater
corresponding
heartache of this life, heartbreak of this world,
this cross of water, women carry
here i am
creating
fresh watersheds
from my headwaters/
my tears runoff into wrinkle streams/
flowing tributaries converge into
rivers desalinated in sediment of flesh/
creases of time and depth
weather my face/
carved canyons carry
rapids down my cheeks/
raging confluence pours into
the lake of my mouth, onto bed of my tongue/
spilling waterfall
down my throat
into ocean of my heart/
torrents cascading over my lips, chin, breasts,
Continue reading “grail”love, don’t make me a vessel
don’t make me your vessel, love/
you filled me, i filled you
we drank from each other/
you poured me out
i’m empty/
yet you ferment in me/
i know no peace, no piece
only drunken, unquenched thirst/
i need water
i search for |a| spring
a man who knew my father befriended me
causing me to question the nature of my reality,
my history, its validity,
my possibly-false memories
— all, viewed through the lens
of the person
who had vested interest in
indoctrinating me,
who preferred my naïveté,
under the guise of protectivity,
The First Time I Saw Joy Harjo
Chicago 2017
long, midnight, blue-black hair,
unmistakably hers,
melding into her pitch black jacket
an uninterrupted flowing river of velvet
she, a radiant silhouette,
like the haloed total solar eclipse that would occur later that year, in August
her regal face remains unseen, sustaining the mystery
then she rises like a sun to speak, and i am in her orbit
her first words: “i feel The Lake so very present in me.”
her voice ancient with the Earth in her throat
later,
my glisteny eyes meet her glisteny eyes,
i memorize her face, and her hands tattooed in black ink
she is dignity embodied, i think
she inscribes a protocol for me
in my book of hers, made from trees,
i give her a cord necklace
suspending glass vials of seeds
watermelon, corn, clover and milkweed from my garden in these forced-treaty lands, an onion field once, a portage between two rivers
a reciprocity for her words that seeded me, collaterally,
her poetry an eternal spring
watering my thoughts and words
i want to be worthy of the drink
wildly akimbo,
i miss or graze the
easy target who arrogantly loaded my guns
it was always better to
conceal carry
my own spells
and sharpshoot
with a silencer on my tongue:
fail, fail, fall
and patiently
watch the death notices
Continue reading “audio: reading a dream[t] poem: “dynamic rib””this poem was inspired by and derived from a dream that occurred
during the 03:00 hour on February 15, 2023
this poem is inspired and directly derived from a dream i woke up from/with
on February 15, 2023
and is an experiment of raw dreaming dialogue and internal dreaming monologue to express the dreamt experience in poetic format using minimal metaphoric phrasing and language
a familiar woman sitting on the couch
in your house asks me
how many hours do you have to yourself
i am perplexed: “all of them”
they’re all my hours
the roof begins leaking
the one you fixed last year
the one i was reading under while she asked me about my hours
i noticed when the book
suddenly became smattered with rain drops
water drops or raindrops, what’s the difference
it was a Rugrats coloring book
i don’t know what page i was on
but Angelica was waiting to be colored-in and one of the boys was saying “mommy” in a speech bubble
it must’ve been a thought bubble because the Rugrats, except for Angelica, are not verbal
somebody, quick!
pinch me,
call me,
talk to me,
see me,
kiss me,
curse me,
feed me,
bathe me,
fuck me,
flip me off,
for god’s sake
I can’t tell
if I survived
that last
collision
Continue reading “bardo”
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 