for the dreaming

baigz stoking the outdoor kitchen rocket stove fire
while trish pre-emptively washes
the dishes i’m not yet done with
and blames it on the coffee
bits of hazelnut shell projectiling themselves

across front porch
despite being shielded
by baigz’s cupped palm
as he cracks them

mica unpacking
boxes of workgloves
whose brand the boss
is emblazoned on each
which is ironic and hilarious
for this places where
it seems safe to say that
the one thing we each have in common
is that we don’t like being told
what to do

ripped off the scab is the metaphor i use
i went into the weekend carrying that i say
and i came out of the weekend without
the weight of it


how this photo
(The Amazon rain forest (R), bordered by deforested land prepared for the planting of soybeans in  Mato Grosso state in western Brazil. – voice of america, day in photos)
brings about the same kind of ‘capitalism/humans suck’ response

as when liat mentioned something about
how 40% of elephant deaths
in chunk of time whose measurement i don’t recall
are due to
the slaughter of the sweet swaying giants for their ivory

proud tyler says of the typewriter poems
others moved to tears almost moving me,

this is the healing trish says
to which i respond with something
about how i can either drop twenty bucks
to submit my manuscript
which will most likely get rejected
or i can go out and write a poem
for someone who wants it,
someone who says this is exactly what i’m looking for
and win

tossing dried
reverend so-and-so’s lima bean husks
onto compost which stirs up
a black/blue/orange-winged butterfly
who lifts and flits past
inches from my face

it forms me
i tell hawthorne

about lake michigan waters
who was born along the opposite shore
of the great lake that i was born near

sprigs of mugwort tucked
beneath blanket / on top of pillow
for the dreaming
trish walking through kitchen doorway

in those peacock leggings plus
the surprise of a bright red-orange
thick shiny flowing wig

i hang the heavy oven door open
after pulling out the trays
of roasted potatoes
to let the heat tumble and roll
over itself into the kitchen around me

from the water world:

Malaysian youths cool off in a river as schools remain closed due to hazy conditions in Hulu Langat. – voice of america, day in photos

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where we cocoon

9something a.m.
honna and i calling to each other
through the walls separating
our lairs where we each cocoon
around the warmth of wake

dangling upside down
from the rings in tower grove park
while honna chases tubes
across mowed and littered lawn

you could call it
sasafras acres i say
of the 16 acres
at the edge of spanish lake suburbs
that stoph walks us around
and points to the treelines
that mark the edges of land
the sound of a horse whinny
through the foliage

tyler and i tune into country
for part of the drive and
note several elements of
the formula: a guitar solo
after the second verse and
if you use the word girl
in the song, it must be rhymed
with the word world

fricative i write the word down
and phenome restoration
while someone on npr talks about
building the layers of sound that
became part of the first


from the water world:

Flood waters rise around a title loan store on Garners Ferry Road in Columbia, South Carolina, USA. South Carolina experienced a record rainfall, with at least 11.5 inches falling. – voice of america, day in photos

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dear ones,

gone off-farm for a few days to sling sorghum at a big ol’ fair in st. louis.
be back in a few.

magical early-autumnings to you.

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our lives are extraordinary

overzealous loofah vines
from hoophouse sidewall ropes
this is where, hoodie-wrapped
and stomping down tall grass in galoshes,
at age almost-40 i learn to breathe
myself back into my body
i love my job i say
on the aluminum ladder
in that light (meaning the
particular glow of late-september’s
sun angle) in the novelty of layers
(fleece tights and purple skirt
and hoodie with hood up)
while i reach to pluck dried lima beans
from their vines
which is a funny thing to say because
this work is not a job
and trish, who’s prying apart the
old hoophouse door frame with a crowbar
says yeah, growing food can sometimes feel
mundane in the day-to-day, but our
lives here are extraordinary

monarch on blade of tall grass
then on my finger then
delivered to the perch of a
peach-colored zinnia
did the tomatoes ever tomato i ask
cross-legged on a raincoat for a blanket
phone held up to face
satellites linking us from a time zone apart

and later observe: i guess your love
is way less angsty than mine
_______placing sharpie markers
in front of those of us gathered
around the popcorn we dig out with
improv paper cones
for a round of exquisite knucks
resulting in:

tiny hoot
zany stud
blue past
tuff dirt
high toad

it is unanimous amongst the circle of us
that these (variety unknown)
blemished light green skinned apples
are the crispest, balanced sweet/tangy -est
juicy but not too juicy
deliciousest ever

how we pluck hot pink glitter-cards
from the pile in the middle and
laughing at what they reveal and
offering multiple interpretations


sun dipping down
gold orange yellow
to our left as emory, trish and i
pedal south / home

chen daddy classic:
pot-stickers and stirfry
how we eat on the front porch
and the conversation continues
into post-sunset dark

ty and i laughing about
the rookie hats we’re going to wear
to the best of missouri festival
where we’ll sit with our
outdated non-perfectionistic

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nothing between me and sky

in the dream
there were houses and apartment buildings
on flimsy-looking hydraulics
that shouldn’t have been on hydraulics
we were in the bay (joolie and i)
and walked past a body that was receiving
some attention because
the body was no longer a living one
we look through the crew of people
tending to this body to see a face
turned to leather
i am so upset about emory
(2 or 3 or 4 years old)
throwing things at people
with disregard and unawareness
that i lose it
crying and howling
at my limit with frustration
at not being able to get through
nothing between me and sky
i wake up in the orchard
to birds that look like arrows
flinging themselves across
sunrise cloudscape panorama in handfuls
some so close i hear the
swiff swiff of their wings
cutting through air
as the talcum powder moon
lowers itself into lightening horizon
smell of espresso and
trish’s venga venga
transporting us both back to

south america
while i sip my frothed coffee milk
minus the sweet
(which really is the thing that makes it coffee milk)

like being pregnant trish says
of what it’s like to
strut around with that
apple harvest bag

the particular feeling of
apple tree branchlings
grabbing hold of
my hair
as i pluck fruits under the trees and
climb ladders and their limbs
to reach those dangling above

we apple pick hard and
lunch/snack hard and
almost-nap hard
under a golden delicious tree
using harvest bags flattened out
as blankets

cloud scraps that
look like sanskrit
into tadpole turning serpent turning
saying something about


if you can fillet a fish
you can stuff a bag into a bag
trish, flabergasted, insists
(in reference to packing up
a sleeping bag)
while trish and i dissasemble tents
in the middle of the orchard
where emory howls and
cole rolls up her sleeping pad

we wave goodbye
to the faded apple sign
tacked to a utility pole


the way trish and i laugh about me
laying down the law from the front seat
about turning down the voice volume
not long after i engage the
window-lock not long after i say
i can’t have this about the
fishing poles hovering
above my head
dreams where i’m driving and i can’t open my eyes
dreams where i’m driving but i can’t reach the
wheel or the pedals because i’m stuck in the back seat
dreams where i’m driving and... i share the variations
from the driver’s seat while heading west
with a dirty windshield
into the blaze of not-yet-setting sun

one deer
galloping across county highway
then later a pair
darting across gravel road then
a bit later a trio

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rodeoing our way up

how we start with a strip of paper
fold-tied into a knot
and follow with the layering and then pinching
to make our paper stars

our canoe-on-pond travels
take emory and i to california
where we go to the whale watcher’s cove
and point out the
great blues and megalodon

i’m like the impossibly unpleasable parent
i say in the passenger seat while we
roll under cloudy sky
on county highway v

rodeoing our way up
the steep steep gravel road
signified by an apple-shaped sign
across the highway that fades
a little more each year

at the long dinner table cherie and i
laughing only the way wisconsonites can
about our pronunciations
of the word b-a-g

you dweebs dan kelly addresses
the two seven year olds
and talks to the dogs in pig latin and
calls/screeches out his barred out call/screech
while walking into the light in the barn
to turn it off
to improve the eclipse-viewing experience

a telescope that resembles a small cannon
or a huge firework
trained on the harvest moon
being slowly obscured by
blood veil and we
lean in to look

moon busters dk calls the packs of
black cat firecrackers he hands us
to toss into the bonfire
so that the sound might scare the clouds
out of the blood moon eclipse sky
we need seven people he calls out
seven people for the blood moon summoning ritual


trish reading harry potter outloud
in the big dome tent
in the bright of her headlamp
set on red

when one sleeps out in an apple orchard
in the midst of harvest season
one is woken by the occasional thud-sound
of an apple now and then
falling from branch to ground

sky my ceiling
clouds slow-scatter revealing
the blood veil slowly lifting
itself off moon surface before i
deepdive into fresh-air sleep

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the light that hurt

dear dazzling humans,

believe it or not, this is my two-thousanth post!!!!!! (at roughly ten details a day, this means – oh – just a small collection of twenty thousand details!!!! what!?!?!!?)  though i often think the details are not really even about being the details, and though i also think numbers can be insignificant, this does seem like a bit of a milestone, no?

(when i say the details are not really even about being the details, i mean i have come to understand that the things we make aren’t even really about being the things we make. for instance, building a timber frame for an outdoor kitchen recently wasn’t really about the structure that resulted. it was about how i gouged away at heartache when i was taking that mallet and chisel to the logs. it was about how we all had to carry and lift those logs together because none of us could have done it by ourselves. it was about how the structure, as long as it stands, will hold all that we carried into its making [some of us were navigating the turbulent seas of heart tumult, some of us were falling in love, some of us were being broken open so that all we were was the light that hurt and the light that balmed bursting out of our ribcages , some of us were leaving home and some of us were returning home, some of us didn’t want to be some of us right then and some of us flexed muscles we didn’t even know we had]).

i digress. the first year of collecting (and writing) details was illuminating – the way the first year of a daily practice can be. such daily showings-up can reveal us to ourselves. but by year three, i considered quitting (when the illuminations and revealings became more subtle and quiet). at year five, i really really considered quitting. now i’m partway through year seven, and i do sometimes get caught up in wondering what the point is – especially the times i find myself dragging my feet to put another post up at the end of the day. but then, sometimes i’ll give an-over-the-shoulder glance back at the details (a year ago today or what comes up when i search ‘death’) and i am astounded at the glintings and gleamings of the trail of word-jewels i have been leaving behind me. i can be dismissive of and mean to the details:  i tell them they are not poems (they’re not). but i can also love them (like when i just called them jewels up there).

i recently put a tip jar up on the detail collector (see that cute thing in the upper right hand corner?). i figured the two-thousandth post might be a great occasion to officially unveil it. it is a small way of attempting to love/validate the details harder. i don’t really think money can provide love or validation, but i do think that attaching a certain kind of value on something someone makes (whether it’s monetary or not) gives it… well, value. i say this while also saying: money is the most confabulated thing to ever exist on this planet and i can think of no force other than money responsible for generating the most dehumanizing and damaging (to all life) conditions in the universe. i am also someone who finds conflict in everything. so here i am, conflictedly directing your attention to my little tip jar while also acknowledging my complicated feelings about having such a thing sullying my space of daily practice and your space of detail collecting enjoyment while also saying here’s a little gesture for me to value my ‘work’ (while putting the word work in parentheses) and offering a possibility for you to ‘value’ my ‘work’ too, should you feel so moved and behooved and have the financial resources and emotional desires to do so. imagine the detail collector is me busking with words instead of music. should you feel inspired/moved/changed and have the dollars to do so, go ahead and drop some in my hat.

i think what a lot of this is getting at is you: i want to offer the glimmeringest gratitudes to all/any of those who have witnessed my witnessing along the way (any part of the way), and to those who have also shared their own details. it feels gargantuan to be known/seen by you knowing/seeing me. i appreciate your youness and your kindness more than you know.

enormous love,

lulu on trumpet

yours truly on drum
and bagels on bike – dancing
while we morning-send0ff him from the porch
for the five-hour ride ahead
i point to the scritch scratching
of a trapped chimney swift
and joseph dissasembles the old stovepipe
soot flies out and a section of
pipe tumbles down on feathered body
and everything is
wild chaos for a moment
(bird behind stereo
bird colliding with window screen
bird caught swiftly and squawking
in joe’s hands)
but the bird is finally free
smell of lemon balm
its dried leaves crackling
as i pull them from stems
both kitties stationed at either side
while breeze lifts/falls around us
at the outdoor kitchen table
i call to emory
and point to the gigantor hornworm
which turns out to be the biggest

any of us (em, me, trish, joseph)
have ever seen in our lives
(5 inches long and roly poly fat)
undulating/worming its way across gravel drive

somewhere between telling emory
(who walks  his bike painstakingly slow
up the just-graded gravel hills)
to hurry and
singing at his side while we pedal

(it’s the knowing not the going that will bring your body home
teach your bones how to stay) on blacktop
i shed the thing nagging me
to get a move on so we won’t be late for dinner
(because dinner will always be there.
and so will home.)

i’ll be your wingman anytime joesph says
in the already-goldening light
at dinner circle where a pan of
just-fried (and battered) okra awaits


how the pink-on-seagreen/blue
sucks me out the back door
(it’s one of those moments where
the quality of light demands that
i put my body under its radiance)
and only when i turn to glimpse the garden behind me
am i struck by the luminous
moon swollen and rising
small cat parade down the back road
trotting in my wake
we settle/nestle
within view of the oak trees
where i sing down
the sunset sky

i’d glitterbomb her shiz says
if she was into it


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