“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
secret
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
dream[t] poetry: goodbye, hello
this poem was inspired by and derived from a dream that occurred during the morning of March 2, 2023
some of us are there
to say our goodbyes/
and after all these years apart, i’m still jealous,
i always wanted to be your nearest, dearest, to be your favorite,
it’s still true.
you weigh all of 80 pounds — less, maybe/
how much do the bones of an adult human female weigh?
your hair’s gone
your long, beautiful, gleaming fountain of chestnut hair, your crowning glory
all tender scalp with patchy fuzz, now //
all the vanity’s gone from you, honey,
and you have never been more beautiful
what happened?
lungs, lungs, lungs,
you cough and vomit, several times
as if to prove it /// [to me]
i thought the treatment was working, hindsight out of sight, 2021
march
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
He swept.
“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/
kinematic quote
“Sometimes i think people laugh as hard as they’d like to cry.”
– women talking
don’t let the mystery be
“… When the chips are down and for one reason or the other you begin to recognize that you are not going to be on this earth forever … your body is falling apart … you’ll be there and you’ll say: “I lived 60 years; I lived 70 years, or whatever it is; and I still don’t know anything; I don’t know where I came from, and more importantly, I don’t know where I am going; I don’t know anything mportant at all!! …
I’ve been so reasonable, I’ve been so rational, I’ve been so sober; and now I stand before the door, and I am shaking like a leaf, and I am scared and I am miserable, because I haven’t learned what is important; I haven’t learned the truth — the essence of my own being; I have not been confronted with any reality … I tried to fit into the picture so nicely.”
You know what – the picture that you tried to fit into is going away – from you… be there [at the door] and there’s no picture, no society, no family, none of the things that you thought were so important – just you and a great stupendous mystery which will remind you:
“From that time you came into this world, I was available to you to be discovered; I was available to you to be known with your gnosis, but you haven’t done it at all; you didn’t pay any attention – you went after the reasonable will–o’–the–wisp and the unreasonable will–o’–the–wisp, but you didn’t take a look at this [great mystery]!”
Dr. Stephan Hoeller,
Bishop, Ecclesia Gnostica
grail
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”vessel
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
Crone Consciousness
I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me…the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself… That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art. The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements. It is a materialization, an incarnation of his inner world.
Anais Nin
Here she stopped and, closing her eyes, took a deep breath of the flower-scented air of the broad expanse around her.
It was dearer to her than her kin, better than a lover, wiser than a book.
[For a moment] she rediscovered the purpose of her life.
She was here on earth to grasp the meaning of its wild enchantment and to call each thing by its right name …
Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago
As soon as you are really alone you are with [the] God[head].
Thomas Merton
james, thank you.
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,
Christmas break, age 6, Waukegan, Illinois
Continue reading “james, thank you.”
nah.
one question,
she begged
do, did, you love her?
*see title
such an artist,
[con, vincere]
he
[thinks he]
Continue reading “nah.”poem for poet: Joy Harjo
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
from How We Became Human
New & Selected Poems 1975-2001
Joy Harjo
Continue reading “poem for poet: Joy Harjo”
delayed gratification
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
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 