Monday, May 19, 2014

More Anatta For Will



How it happens without you
if you aren't careful-

every moment is yes very deep
like beyond the wave-breaking point,

every moment is yes very
saturated with gravity,

every moment every moment
every moment

I was twelve years old and the world tasted of chamomile.
Devoured and shaped by the soft gray fog, so long ago and
long before

the tilting scale questions:

Windmill or fracking drill?
Is that a windmill

or a fracking drill?

Balanced on the beam of a branch, and once I was a child,
hello there, and once you were a child, the past is death
it is the truth of death, it is as if it never was,

every moment, every moment.

And do we all know, you and me and
the swelling human sea, do we know the
healing purity of the struggle?

The churning disparity between windmill and
fracking drill?

I almost can be as brave
and as stupid
as myself
yesterday.

But I am learning to make love
out of anatta.

And I will write a letter 
and let myself be golden for a moment more,

a moment, every moment  

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Yet haste, haste on

Yet haste, haste on


Where do you all go to, small miseries? Fleeing 
like tumbling lemmings spurred by anthrax. 

Holding space for more 
small miseries

more brief reprieve long 
recovery,

more conversations with the landscape:


                                      Oh night sky, can't you hear my tree fall? 


Where am I going when I follow
the tunnel of time? 

Curled beneath
                         the curling gale, 

the brackish wind,

the thickest socks, 

                        the dreams of fog,
                         all underwater

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Heart of Scrimshaw


I gave love back to the universe, and 
all the marrow I scooped from the sun
I returned to the sun and kept the cold 
rock of the moon. 

I wound every smile back
into the skein.

A beautiful dinner that night:
all hen-of-the-woods and morels, 

chanterelles and I lost myself in the saucepan, 

still heart for a moment during the strange,
gray May spring. 

Missing a thing defies the entire landscape
and is blasphemous in no worthy way. 

Yet my bones sing the tired ache, 
I'm real down and out, 

I wipe dust from my eyes 
and consider my keeper.

I have poison thoughts that taste 
bitter and half-cooked, like 

Love is a big dam exploding 
and nothing good happening.

And as time confesses, 
I see that it's true:

Much is fluky, 
maybe unavailing, all in flocks
and scattered showers,

The sky-the bird, 
the cloud-the need,

like a past poet said. 

I remember that bird, looking up at my 
lingering face as it died in my hands
soft and tiny. 

I am not your woman, 
not your fox hole, belong to nothing 
but the roaring vacuum, 

nothing but the scream of 
wind the only embrace for the poorest. 
Poor poor soul, 

wishing for unintelligible extravagances. 
Knives stuck in hides.

I will be in San Simeon soon,
to gaze down on the rookery of seals.

Fully bereft of all but the present-
full galed, full upright. 

I have feared all the changes- 
I've dreaded the mornings,
I've needed more rations
than the rations
I've gotten,

past is a volume on a high shelf
but I am tall and sometimes too tall. 

Brave and sometimes too brave,
asking the earth to offer equal, 

time and long drive crease my palms, 
love I am your ally always. 

Coast recognize
my heart of scrimshaw

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Sea Witch

Sea Witch

I had a brisk, blue dream of Morro Rock
and strangers

that loved me with open immediacy. 

During my wakened days,
all the memories blow past my body
like scorched kelp and sand. 

Emptiness is too generous
an opportunity for silence,

an opportunity for sadness. 

And I'm giving my body to science now,
to the truth of things.

Take this invasive animal. 
See how she does. 

Hide me beneath the quilts
at the market,

crush that coral into snow.

Dream of the sea or not at all. 

I'll say goodbye,
drive away,
and come back. 

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