Late summer, the light is still in charge. If you are a sunflower, simply follow the path of the sun. Soon shadow will be cast upon you.
It doesn’t matter. For now, you are still outside that sable silhouette spreading.
In early evenings Venus and Spica dance together along the searing seam of the western horizon. This is the time of long shadows that cast our bodies slender and lumbering like sleeping silhouettes over the fading landscape.
Shadow selves — dark invisible — inner contours — momentary shapeshift captured in sunset light. …
pumps this smash-heart.
blood-grief a locomotive turned butterfly.
a fleeting life with delicate wings and steel mechanics.
animated fully by the imminence of endings.
cut by sharp stopping.
I opened a new chamber accidentally
inside the tender tissues of this idiotic and misbehaved organ.
suddenly left alone.
vulnerability is liquid and evaporation;
impossible to hold in either state
despite the desire for permanence —
the necessity of flight and distance.
the taking away, missing, loss
is the air that I breathe over and over again.
with fins, I swim in that atmosphere, or slither —
a snake diving in banks of winter…
She believes in messages. Stars as images. Mud of the sky. She rounds the corner. Dust motes & chinoiserie. Little ding of the elevator metals. Pullies in the past tense. Lifted.
Ocular oracle. The same positions. The move and the return. Scraps or morsels. Decks of cards pulled. Charts of lines; progressions. Chanting and decantation. Secondhand shimmies. The simmered light.
If a pattern — it remains elusive. She is fire and lingering firelight. She is quite untalented at predictions. Still, I want to believe her. Incessant need for meaning. …
In the palm of the new moon
a new rhythm begins —
soul notes spiraling
around the central downbeat
of my heartbeat,
how her stellar dark heart presents
the opportunity to disappear along with it —
So that I am just the breeze and the stars,
the earth humming and the cricket chants,
the slow-motion of planetary rotation
rocking me into dream drift
diaphanous dissipating drowning
And all of nature echoes inside
the empty space of my skin,
where the light of celestial bodies,
perhaps now invisible to themselves,
is still bright for thousands of years
over immense distances,
reaches me as star rain ricochet ringing…
there is an elusive shade of yellow
I am always trying to describe —
it exists somewhere on a spectrum:
palest blonde to white absolute
the center of chamomile flowers;
tisane of calm
swallowtails midair in forests’ breath;
flaxen winged breezes
the full moon reflected in puddles;
illuminated lantern rounded
it’s not buttercream, goldenrod, or yarrow;
it’s almost, but not entirely or exactly honey
the undertone beneath the chartreuse
of lichen strung from ponderosa limbs;
light inside of Paris-green
it’s most akin to the color of my favorite silk purse
with its long, braided cord and decorative tassels;
glinting threads of Jonquil…
Are they talking about bathing suits? I know that feeling —
this one has horizontal stripes and my hips look as wide
as a horizon of sea viewed from shore on a clear day.
and this one — so ill-fitting that it will surely slip and slide out of place
at the slightest provocation or gentlest caress of waves.
No one wants to be in an unfitted get-up. It looks very bad
and everyone knows it.
I imagine the poor editor, kept up at night by compunction. “We regret,” he wrote a hundred times just yesterday, “we are unable to…
Running full speed into sunset then dusk, the road seems friendly, caressed by humid night air, then pockets of coolness. Fireflies. the vague outlines of homes, shrubs, side-streets, of the hopes and dreams and plans we tend like seeds — some will never sprout.
Here, in the heart of darkness, orbiting the center of things that didn’t work out: disappointments, betrayals, misunderstandings, unfinished business, loss of big dreams — it is not the burned-out or still burning heart, rather a smooth and loving obsidian that beckons, invites the unknowing of the small self that will always exist in the past…
“Displaying that quintessential feminine quality of cutting through abstract theories and ossified intellectual constructs, she ignored all traditional approaches and went straight to the heart of the matter.”
the hat she was given doesn’t fit. the knit shrunk on hot wash. wool now boiled into a cap that won’t even suit a Magpie. she pulls it off her head.
suddenly. cool air picks up hair like each strand is a string of a kite now dancing with static electricity and gnosis. …
in the alabaster samsara
I found the teardrop you left behind, luminescing
in the vaulted hollow of waking-dreaming projections,
metastasized to infinity and evaporation —
placed upon my curious thirst, now
the ocean that moved through you moved
earth into canyons, swells in me, salt in cells,
mineral bones and crystalline skin
left with remnants, glimpses, the transitory
always translated by the melting mouth of reason,
sounded on power&control&dominance
the ever-need for meaning — you must quiet the extra voices,
those outside the ring of your intuition, reach into back pockets
untarnished, find your fleece, that untamed gold-leaf,
despite the tyranny — how we are really…