siberian elm

it’s raining mara says
sipping dandelion chicory tea
talking about the shower of leaves
spinning down

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eat your words

sun on the soles of my bare feet
as patches of refracted light
(in rainbow form)
rotate across casita walls
something akin to being inside a snowglobe
crisp crunch of sun-gleaming leaves
encountering tree trunks
adobe walls
other leaves
on their swirl from sky down
(a swell of gratitude
to mama nature
for tossing this gilded confetti
in celebration of her scorpio creatures)
there’s much to learn from those who’ve studied
the great silent places
the person on the radio says while
discussing the sounds of denali alaska
that’s still one of the best weekends of my life
shiz and i laugh recounting the
gluten tag morning
(me clutching gigantic pastry
in the fancyland kitchen
after an all-out  
queers in the woods
with paper and pens
you eat your words someone at the table says
about tom (but more about his australian accent)
while someone else says natacha spits her words out
(french accent)
though it’s not quite like spitting – more of an attentive removal, vowel by vowel

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gently suspended

i ask regina
if she’s ever released a paper lantern
while we stand amongst
the shadows and colors and
flame-burst sounds

(when one spends the morning
watching brightly colored
gently suspended giants
ascend into clear fall-crisp
desert mountain sky
how can the rest of the day
that unfolds before them
not be made of magic and light)
the smile i flash
must be a dazzler
because of the dazzle the mandolin player shoots back
of band in the plaza at the final farmer’s market of the season
playing that one song i know so well because
of how many times i heard trish, darien and jon
going through it (on banjo, accordion and guitar) it
in the next room over
or on the porch
or on the mini la casa stage
in a room full of swirling IMG_5139 IMG_5152 IMG_5154 IMG_5157 IMG_5129 IMG_5179 IMG_5173 IMG_5172 IMG_5163 IMG_5184 IMG_5233 IMG_5252 IMG_5295


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sweating with duncan
and his kickass yoga
8something a.m.
this one’s for you, mica
somehow i encounter
the sangre de cristo mountains
and mentions of acequias
in one of the water books
i read two years ago
while perched and writing atop
the ogalalla aquifer
having not yet met either
(the sangres or acequias)
there is something (magic)
about re-encountering them in print
having now taken them into my blood
(the sangres as seen from the land of the teapot and mitten
as the sun lifts itself up over them
and crawls across the red/pink sage-dotted sandscape
the acequias as seen atop the schwinn
or from the front seat of debbie and liz’s car
while they explain their significance)
there is a difference
between reading the name of a range of mountains
one has never encountered
and coming across the name of a range of mountains
one has rendezvoused with at sunrise
and knowing their energy
their shape
and they way they help tell you which direction is whic
pedaling up burch
sun lowering so that its light is caught
in gold-leaf (street-lining canopy)
how that intense yellow
changes the color/quality of light as it lands
on the two people walking
on the other side of the road
thank you for being at my side
i speak into sage-laced air
towards peaks rising
from the folds of taos mountain
while her sky-shawl shifts colors
along a powdery purple/blue spectrum
i’m taking a birding-by-ear class
t-birds voice comes in
via satellite

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shadow shift

several oldies
from a particularly good
thursday morning set:
blue on blue
joe joe (get back)
wake up little susie
sugar oh honey honey
michael, stepping through doorway
holds out/hands me
a brown handled bag
holding a brown takeout box
holding two chocolate croissants
light and shadow shift on kitchen wall
looks like a hand plucking leaves
but when i turn to see
no human is there
following an eclipse update from florida
(solar, 2-3pm mountain time)
i thank sledge
for the double visitation
this particular desert/fall eclipse light
on yellow leaves and the
bark of trunks
and all of that against a sky
whose particular blueness
(same particular blueness jonathan noted
after a day of raking up
what hte wind had pulled down
[future soil])
there’s a point sheryl says
where you have to move forward
rather than trying to accommodate everyone
soup in mid-production in the pot
something about the thick of the dark
(stars surfacing)
walking the 1/8th block down
los panditos
a slow shuffle on the gravel
relishing the velvet of hindered vision
you nurture your creative work
you nurture the land
and activism is a form of caretaking
regina says
connecting the dots from
all those stuffed animals i took care of
to now
wherein i say fred savage
while meaning dan savage
and continue to get mileage
out of this throughout the
new moon night

A golfer hits a tee shot as African migrants sit on a border fence in an attempt to cross into Spanish territories between Morocco and Melilla – bbc, day in photos

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hitching swiftly

plump gray clouds
in patches
passing over sun
and hitching swiftly east
perched in plastic chair
in the alfalfa patch
a book about rivers open
in my lap
orangeyellow leaves land
on my shoulder
in my hair
graze my cheek and
glance my knee
on their dance down
black ink bleeding
on left hand
naming intersections and
left/right turns
by now, the coppery schwinn 7-speed
should have a name
the goal: to ride down every street on the map
(the map in which swirls of leaves
ridden through
or patches of sun
spilled down on
or the views of mountains
the schwinn and i rotate around
are not indicated)
the sound of an acequia stream
(somewhere between a trickle and a rush)
off the rio fernando
gates lifted
water glinting
messages passed via satellite
from one desert mountain town
to another and back again
a reunion in the either
it’s not the first time
the word nomad
is used in reference to me
but perhaps the first time
the word lovely
has been placed in front of it


from the water world:


 A Christian pilgrim dips in the water at the baptismal site known as Qasr el-Yahud on the banks of the Jordan River, which also acts as a border line near Jordan near the West Bank city of Jericho. - voice of america, day in photos


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knots of it

breath drifting in front of me
while i run eastwards
down kit carson
to find the mountain
cloaked in cloud
(a shawl wrap)
jumping jacks i say on the front porch
you know what those are i ask
and demonstrate when natacha says no
an offering
of sparkling water
bubbles rising form the bottom
of the shot glass
set next to kate’s photo
i raise my own fizzing cup
to her
body burden: the accumulated total of chemical toxins
in the body, sometimes stored in fat or bone

murder by water
drowned in a toilet bowl
by a u.s. navy man in the philippines
it is a true story followed

by another true story
serial killer aprehended in indiana
seven women at least
the two identified were sex workers

the question comes up of
whether or not to mention
the trans-ness
in that bathroom in the philipines
[or the woman-ness, for that matter,
scattered throughout indiana]
(not wanting to perpetuate
the over-perpetuated narrative about trans/women
and how unsafe we/they are in our bodies)

the urge to howl
until i lose my voice
squashed by the knowledge of other humans
within earshot
this shutting down
another form losing voice

in this culture of quiet grief
we tie knots of it inside ourselves
carry them til they fray
but never come undone

i don’t know what i’d call the list
but it would refer to the shape
rage takes within this skin
how i carry it calcified
and how, though i wasn’t physically harmed,
i still flinch at the telling
i’m still assaulted by the image it conjures
abraded by the knowing

bruised by the awareness
of the trauma humans are
not only capable of inflicting on others,
but actually do – often and everywhere

the list is where i’d keep
every story of every offense to any body
(including land and water)
that i have absorbed

as if i either never believed
that something so incomprehensible
could be perpetrated against another
or because of accumulation

the knowing of violenced bodies
stored in skeleton
carried in my marrow

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