unease, familiar
eastern winds unsettle bones -
windchimes sound the change.
quadrille
I remember a good friend’s tattoo
Creating star charts with her own freckles -
Seems a better use of space.
Dolly Parton sings about leaving
Our palms touch as we weave quadrille
Breathless, dance and count, unfettered.
The record skips from reckless stomps
We roar and snake, uncaring.
The tea steeps near my
Waiting, freckled arms
And I am tempted to dip my wrist towards
the steaming kettle.
I look to the aquarium-green room,
Not a shimmer of that gaiety remains
But I beat out the counts with my spoon -
One, two. One, two.
Walk to the doors and be sure they are bolted
One, two
Shake up the dust, let it find new homes
One, two
Measure the sounds and turn all to silent
One, two
If it isn’t heard, it isn’t seen, it isn’t true.
The definition of a love knot
One phrase joins and licks at the next
Which is also the start
Of an infinite loop, an unending test
5 am tea in the dark.
As the routine ignites again
I tie up my robe,
forgetful of socks, untrained
To notice my cold.
Swirling love knot patterns
With milk in morning tea
I imagine you touch my forearm,
But it’s just first sunbeams.
Knot winds around to eat its own tail
Please no more dark when morning unveils.
mirror
“We have no need of other worlds. We need mirrors. We don't know what to do with other worlds. A single world, our own, suffices us; but we can't accept it for what it is.”
― Stanisław Lem, Solaris
witchs
Three girls, lingering
over a park bench
Carving into its wood
Reckless with penknives
laughter and howls
They hold hands, palms slick
The day is hot, palm trees shift
Uneasy, embarrassed by
Their lack of shadow.
Two against one
Suddenly games forgotten
Lips upturned and taunting
Honing in on weakness
They lunge, sick with heat
Shining like wet horses
They lunge, sick with heat
Shining like wet horses
“Who knows what children fight about”
says an old woman, distant -
the palms shake, wild like tinsel.
sorry its been so long
countless mornings spent
letting bright absorb all thought,
leaned in the threshold.
photo by zach kellogg
Gorman
Gorman
doe-skinned mountains meet
sunglasses with light pink frames
i lift my eyes back up from sleep
california wilds untamed.
Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait
fluorescent field-flowers writhe
under the wind, dance like Salomé,
impressed, we take to hills and climb.
out of breath and burning gasps,
your hands create effortless rings
we settle deep into tall, dry grass
warm-and-pink light trawls, haloing.
between these hills, rivers, ravines
i look for something clean.
i look for something clean.
Ema
Everything is made of small triangles
and square shapes here,
Paisley patterns float over wood
floors
I am in the upper room, waiting for a
ritual
that never happens. I search for emotion-redemption -
am left searching.
am left searching.
I sleep in the room that belonged to a
child that is now
no-longer-with-us, and the tensions
between my universe and that one
ripple softly over me, tucking me in,
forgetful of the divide.
We are all children of god, whoever
that is, and I smoke cigars with her father.
Don't worry, stop worrying, my feet are
never cold
I gather eggs for the morning.
I never met you, not-among-us,
but your
shadow falls over,
immense.
cornfields absorb hymns,
the congregation is shoeless again.
There are different deaths,
not-among-us.
After you left candles were lit for the quiet.
old notebooks
flipping through old notebooks and finding drawings from ages ago..
I love finding old drawings -- when i see them, i can always remember clearly where i was, what i was doing, at the moment i was making them. time moves in such funny rivers otherwise, that its nice to have these footholds.
Just also wanted to share an agnes martin quote i read today:
"There’s nobody living who couldn’t stand all afternoon in front of a waterfall .... Anyone who can sit on a stone in a field awhile can see my painting. Nature is like parting a curtain, you go into it .... as you would cross an empty beach to look at the ocean.It’s not about facts, it’s about feelings. It’s about remembering feelings and happiness. A definition of art is that it makes concrete our most subtle emotions. I think the highest form of art is music. It’s the most abstract of all art expression."
first window
First
window
Unknowing
and smoky with doubt
Finding
strands of black hair
Plucking
and pulling you out
How
do I feel less alone?
How
do I feel less
Remember
snapping a polaroid
So
we’d never forget our first window?
Now
its all noise, humming
Drumming
along as I sew new patterns
Pulling
stray black hairs from the path of the needle.
Take
pictures of rivers on my phone,
moment
by moment im losing moments.
I
lay here in wait,
“…yes,
since I am waiting”
Ready
to pounce on every mistake
That
I make, but I like to make them.
There
were cypress trees past the second story,
Mossy
shadows helped me sleep,
Here
it’s desert air, hot then cold, I toss and turn
And
watch the street lights flicker off in the morning.
We
climbed higher on the ferris wheel, overlooking ocean
You
discovered your vertigo, and then we go
I
tipped us over the edge of the known world.
Upside
down I see my loneliness, inverted
Standing up in soaking linens
Embarrassed
of itself, and groaning,
“…yes,
since I am waiting”
over
and over until I’m so sick of myself
that
I stop the ride and get off, uncertain
of
whether I’ve righted
or
I’m still hanging under your version.
Everything is ocean roar in my ears,
And
I can’t hear for listening.
I
weave together braids of black hair
Messy
ropes, and it is still perilous cold.
No
more blankets of southern air envelop me,
So
I seek contentment, wet with whiskey,
As
I sew, crossing back on my own tracks
Looking
to look out the first window again,
See
if I see what I saw,
Pushing
through waves of black hair
But
there’s only more wall.
I'm kicking up dirt,
Crunching
junebugs under my soles,
The
air is thick with their fucking.
I
take a picture from outside,
Where
it looks like every other window.
Greenhouse
Inside of the terrarium
You hold me gently back by my elbows,
pictures are snapped, tucking us in.
Memory is feeble -
Flowerheads flop lazily behind us.
Rain from interwoven, white pipes -
murmur as they create atmosphere
Stuffy and dense, you reach
Guide me through the manmade fog.
Dressed for a wedding
Overwhelming happiness and
Cobalt chrysanthemums distract me.
I split the blade of grass
And form a true-love ring.
Remember to remember
Dead things are always recalled as dawn.
Blink once slowly, memory photograph,
I am withdrawn.
Swapping stories over pale blue cake
I take bites to keep from talking.
Icing stains our teeth, your tongue.
Gridded glass helps me define
Latitude, longitude
Keep my thoughts pinned despite the
Whirring fans and tangled ferns.
“No that didn’t happen then”
Moments slip easily into clear plastic sleeves.
I don’t know the name of that flower
But remember Feynman said names don’t matter.
White obscures the sky, clouds settle in closely
Press up against the glass panes, leering.
its been a really long time since i've put any of my poems into the world. feels weird, but being vulnerable is supposedly a good thing, so i've heard. anyways, this is old, more to come?
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