We came with notebooks and pens.
These are not weapons.
Not on purpose.
We came with our ready hands.
Not to fight,
But to talk.
We came knowing you.
Knowing you don’t listen,
We came anyway.
We stayed to watch you:
Make a phone call.
Change your mind.
Wander off to get cake.
We stood when it was our turn.
You stayed seated.
We watched you draw a bell
And delegate our feelings to the edges.
Between bites,
Your corners stained with frosting,
You told us to love you.
You told us we are appalling failures.
You told us you cried.
Someone asked you for honesty.
And crumbs fell out of your mouth.
We left knowing you.
Knowing you didn’t listen,
Unclenching our fists
And sweeping our laps
With our palms.
New. All new. Leaf, bud, shoot,
Trillium closed like candles,
Sizzled sideways until three flames
Arched from the center
Atop three broad leaves;
A stem floats this symmetry,
Like fingertips holding a
Champagne glass
(The Marie Antoinette’s Breast Kind).
New, the resurrected dance, bubble, gurgle
Of our little creek.
Attus’ warm breath
Lifting the hem of my dress
And tangling my hair.
New as every morning,
But especially in Spring.
The blossoming trees show up
Wearing wild bonnets,
New, with the fragrance
Of promised fruit.
A trick of light that only happens in autumn, late autumn, sets this tree on fire, every afternoon as I get in my car to head home. The sunlight completely ignores the other trees and hits only this one with it’s high beams.
It is good to pause and stand in utter awe after the day bruises us with it’s ridiculously tiny fists. It is good to stand transfixed in light and color, shaking like branches off the frustrations that make life so beautiful and so silly. Shedding the little things we shouldn’t worry about: Those shattered pieces we pick up every day; those streaks of color that fall just outside our vision; the stuff we can’t keep intact and shouldn’t try. The things we cling to, hold up, compare, rename, classify, judge and collect.
Today, even against the stark snowy backdrop, the tree looked cement gray. I am reminded of Bukowski and Hinton and the reality of magic.
The sky fell down and bumped her knees against the horizon
The blood pooled just under her skin
And spilled
Transforming the deep blue night
Into a violently hued morning
I skewed my mirrors up up toward her
Ignoring the too-bright headlights
Driving too close behind me
I upturned my eyes
I aimed myself at her shins
But she slipped out from behind the hills
Howling in pain
And set the clouds on fire
Before I could reach her
Blue night to blue day
I lowered my eyes and my mirrors
Raised an unfriendly finger to
The headlights behind me
And drove on.
I felt it trickle
Like a bead of sweat
Trailing between by breasts
It ran down my terrific scar
And sat there
Before the weight and heat of it
Snapped open my eyelids
Sent my fingers searching
Searching, my hands
Grasping now at the pillows
And the covers
Drowning in cotton
Stop
Breathe
I can’t, I can’t
Pinned to the mattress,
Staring at the ceiling,
Blue in morning light
“We thought of life by analogy with a journey; with a pilgrimage, which had a serious purpose at the end. And the thing was to get to that end: success or whatever it is- or maybe heaven, after you’re dead. But we missed the point the whole way along. It was a musical thing and you were supposed to sing or dance while the music was being played.”
I am much more polite
On the morning drive
If I take the time
To walk the yellow voilet path;
The path of bleeding hearts
And flowering wood sorrel,
To the Thump-house
And sit patiently on the wooden seat
And watch the hummingbirds
Dive-bomb the feeder
Just outside the window
While I relieve myself
Of the waste that can make me roar
Up passing lanes and around
Slow vans with One Man One Woman stickers
And drivers with tight gray curls,
Who may pull out in front of me.
What is the opposite of friend?
A dangling question;
Drowning fishes;
The Arizona Desert.
Unexpected silence.
Growing up in my family
Was much like hiding.
When I was little,
I owned a microscope set.
As it turns out,
I am all-seeing but not all-knowing.
When I close my eyes,
I hear a song:
‘Cause there’s a Continental Trailways leaving local bus tonight, good evening
You can have my seat, I’m sticking round here for a while
Get me a room at the Squire, the filling station’s hiring,
And I can eat here every night, what the hell have I got to lose?
Got a crazy sensation, go or stay? now I gotta choose,
And I’ll accept your invitation to the blues
I am not interested in geography;
What I want to know is,
When?
Celebrating Mortality
