Sunday, September 26, 2010

Let me ground you: a childhood of after-church-Sundays

Lunch, then open houses.

Ruth—a family name. Truth—not.

The 3.0 that we were. Went looking.

In the forsales—mostly cubed, with lids.

Father number two did research, his thumbs

ink-stained, licked.

I think we all enjoyed. The clean windows.

Shiny knobs. Bathrooms w/o brushes.

Garages without car.

The promise of built-in shelves.

Of insert family “here.” Where the highest

number of stairs, was,

we wanted hard, historic woods.

Put an elephant in those closets.

Swap cards. Loddy-dah. Our tradition.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Orange questions I have

Orange questions I have/ They crunch

so loud I can’t hear beyond / the crisp mouthfuls

How at twenty four weeks/ the fetus / with inner ear grown full

hears only the mother’s heart: /Life in a single sound/ Tapping

Yes, I remember this/ The day the sound/ breaks open

And light pours in/ Comes back to me now

(Custom-fitted for blogger. Off blogger, imagine

spaces where there are dashes)

Post Peaceful Ecstasy Disorder

I dream whales each night, wake at the sound

of my voice calling out in sonar

Also, orgasms at the sight of doves

The touch of wind spawns spontaneous waltzing

I rocket to the rafters at the thought of mud

An ant and I mind-fly over cocoa islands

Pirate-dressed, I shop for candy at funerals

A tongue of rice brings back the first breast

The smell of glass water I am wet for

A breeze comes my last hawk life, where again

I am circling, circling smells

I will dive down for, and eat

Monday, September 13, 2010

You, good ocean, will stay

The woman who is dying does not reach for the organic yogurt. She is dying. The trace blood in Yoplaits keylime wont hurt much. The woman who is dying who reaches for the bread, on the shelf, isnt in a store hurry. She is dying. She loses time reaching for the seven grain slowly.

The woman who is dying is tying up ends—a multitasker! Some days she is ready already, her prize in the sky—or some place that smells sky. The woman who is dying who is she, when alone in a night room, does she really exist? Who, never you does she long for?

The woman who is dying youll wonder you dreamed the leaves turned up where she passed. Was that her shadow that snagged the old stone?

She who is dying sprouts wing buds. She leans in. You are always the other side of the world.

The woman who is dying will tear out your throat when she goes: you know she will. You will throw a patch over, so the air won’t go, suck leaf to blowhole. You practice now with paper.

The woman who is dying is beyond carnivals. She says someday and really means it. The woman who is dying is the queen of hearts that will break. The cardhouse will fall when she becomes wind. She will become wind. You, good ocean, will stay.

The woman who is dying has that shine you long for. Shes not dying to know. Her eye falls far over your shoulder; shes good at lying, smiling she never says it though.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Earth 101

- Blue exists beyond the trees--called sky, we grow up towards

- Feathereds who fly, fly in flocks

- As the mountain nears it grows larger

- The loving stone has secrets

- Beings disappear and reappear and disappear

- Leaves dry when they die

- We can always know day by its brightness

- Trees touch each other in the open

- Colors are everywhere

- Hunger returns

- To stay we must eat & drink

- If we jump we fall back to earth

- World is also behind us, even if we don’t turn to see it

- Shade is sun’s child

- We will sleep again

- A force here moves our hair

The world/ whole

when we arrive in air we see our mothers face/ blurred
those hollows of eye and mouth/ those bruised fruits
in the sun/ soft edgeless she speaks our name/ her voice
her moving lips related/ her shape drifts in hems/
nurses margins/ warm ghost / through water she ebbs
over/ over the creek lip/ our eyes without edge see one
body swirl/ taste the warm drops/ learn the shrill cry
is our own/ the smudge of light and dark who dances/
is mother/ tree/ windchime: the world whole: we listen to its warm tomb

(A side note: this is a version created for blogger. B/c blogger would
not honor/translate its true form, i have added slashes to best
mimic the poem that, when allowed, has no slashes, but spaces.)