one.welts on arms from wrestling and pinning down in long grass and cleavers.
two.electric blue wine bottle..label peeled off…with three purple lupine stems twisting from the opening.
three.cow skull…front teeth missing…stack of rocks on forehead and the four of feathers perching precariously next to eye socket.
1. press full palm
against warm back
a dirty/dry martini and
campari and soda please.
2. termite tracing tree climb
tree house and sticky limbs
abandoned window view
stunning children pull
pulley food basket naked
pj and j
3. a heartbreak dambreak relief
a phone call too much
intense sweaty details
remember this: I will not see you.
a big enough swath of blue
to sew a sailor’s breeches means good weather
in the hours ahead
i will stitch the streets on steel rims
black jeans gone gray
winter. minneapolis. midcoast – not neccesarily in that order.
first. its the snap of winter. sounding out in tiny pinches of snow that pluck at my hands as i fumble to lift a key.
then. its the spreading of heat under my layers that reminds me how important my own bodies heat is.
lastly. its home. its only 6 years but a lifetime. its a stranger now. its the thing i know the best.
three details: three parts
of your face, twitching, my love —
lips shivering as quickly as a vole’s heartbeat
the freckles we joke about (like cinnamon on a latte in gentrified portland)
the freckles i kiss are playing hide and seek
with your dimples, (deep enough for my puckered lips) arrhythmically.
and your eyes.
they roll back in your head.
i see only the white.
your entire brain is moving your body,
my hand is in your hair and i
wish i had a hold of that snake i often brush deep within you,
that pleasure originated these movements
and not malady.
the eye of a needle.
the eye of a cow.
the eye of jupiter.
swords, tender or otherwise
willow switches woven
and waterlogged maps
can point, can brilliantly orbit
can make meaning
can be circle truth.
(I love life in growing orbits)
Details can monkey around
and get you kicked out of the garden.
Details can be the work horse of the day
plodding through possibility
while plotting escape.
Safety pins aren’t safe.
pin pricks and spray-painted cocks
and making the world
for small dicks.
While spit boys
do a number on
the patriarchy’s dinner.
While being fed
by meaning found on
the pattern of cave walls;
you barely can get a hand
1. rituals for acceptance, a dreamspace of mind-uniting. a future hunted down in the now, somehow.
2. gala sitting close again, whispering “yeah, yeah that’s hard…” these hearthollows chambercaves that listen only every so
3. the mysterious captivity of bees
1- gift kite made of paper blowing with the air vent— a bird drawn on (metaphor come true and softly)
2- full belly. Chirpings of children who hold the pencil when I tell them and draw like they can walk through the finished piece into a new life. (A circus, a sea lion with a ball, colored blue gray —- stars)
3- Laughing into day/night, the way seeing yourself in your loved ones makes you feel awake, like you’ve just woken up from a very predictable dream.
1. Two nicely shaped calves, torn beneath the skin. The chiropractor says, “Muscles tear. It happens,” as she scrapes a ceramic tool across them, back and forth, heavily against the bone. Beads of sweat form, a blue gown squirms, a throat is not afraid to scream.
2. A 33 year old heart murmurs something indecipherable about the future. I check my planner again. It could be a number of things.
3. My right hand generously lifts a creaky piece of metal for my left, which reaches in without expectation, pulls out a postcard. Eyes narrow, zoom to the signature. A smile rips my face open, walks past the ecstatic wiggling of the dog, falls back against a quilted bed and broadens. Curl-spasms of toes inside shoes. The tiny print read once for the thrill, twice for the meaning. How long can a smile survive without the company of other smiles? The third time is for survival.
1. street festival on the one grey day of summer
smiling brown band playing flutes and hand drums
knees bending together
kids and one crazy old black man dancing
people clap in rhythm
hands in your pockets
low profile, you sway side to side
2. hands on the smalls of each other’s backs
pat pat, you lean in for a picture, smile, pull apart
hands still on each other
fingers drumming to qualify the touch
3. sitting in the curved window on the street
feeling like a museum exhibit
GIRL IN COFFEE SHOP ON LAPTOP
you bring me a bowl of pickle spears
pale watery green seeds stuck to silver curves
I order apple pie and coffee
you have neither
settle for twirling tomato slices in vinaigrette
merlot in a sturdy glass
while one blue balloon
loosed, floats up
just like it knows it should.
(someone taught me to not follow rules)
1. joking with the waitress
behind the 1950’s cruise in counter
next to the slow moving connecticut river
about that milkshake machine
that’s been the milkshake machine
since I worked here
fifteen years ago
as she makes a chocolate milkshake
for my grandma
2. of what has mostly been unsaid
my sister has received
from my aunt
demanding I wear
a dress in her wedding ceremony
incredulous that we would never acquiesce
to forced gender conformity
3. promises of foxfawn cuddles
and you burrowing into my neck
to find that warm chocklit-smell
of which you muse
4. the sweet eyes of amelia
trusting there is something familiar about me
as I clasp her hand
accompanying her dementia
during her mini naps
and each time upon her waking
cooing “hi grandma” into her bright eyes
as she pulls out the old charm
calling me “her beautiful boy”
again and again
5. that particular symphony
of the nursing home dining hall
mumbled non sequiturs
piled on top of each other
humming and clicking and moaning
in unharmonious keys
to the open air
6. my sister
asking me to be anything
but my full self
in her wedding
7. there is a sense of
for my drawing table
the solace and hermitage
the projects lined up before me
the questions of heart and hunger
knowing so intimately
the ground beneath me
it’s about fuckin’ time.
i adore you!!!
Scratched in red paint.
Layers of beige, green and black.
Trato de marcar el número. En mi telefono americano. No funciona.
Señas del construcción:
un paquete de Maruchan Ramen
Are scattered beneath an acrylic sign. Sans serif: HOTEL LONDRES
Squirming on leaves of kale. The lone kale amidst tomato vines.
I removed leaves rife with larvae and placed them in paper bag filled with scrap wood. Does wood approximate kale?
please, share more any time!
I compiled these today, inspired by your latest post:
I haven’t seen anything
I haven’t heard anything
I haven’t done anything
Except, I’m listening
Ever since the detail collector entered my life I’ve become aware. There is a way of freedom in her daily entries I never had; that I want to have, that I need to cultivate. Freedom. Cultivate. Freedom. Cultivate. Freedom.
enter the dragon
letting the light blood
chickens hay bale
sitting together with no one at the bus stop
she’s mending a stocking
drums beating, offing
foretold random words
pressing against his jugular
cracks in the table
glass, light reflects
sun on your skin
angels making nests
little bright eyes
the rest is
up to you
not thinking linearly
this is sideways
the birds need food
rest is music
the rest is okay
thank you for sharing these!
several moments i love: the unexpectedness of “pleasure” coming after “doctor”. ending a piece with ‘the rest is up to you’ (it opens the end up to possibility). and words pressing against jugular. hearing that the detail collector has brought you more awareness is one of the best things anyone could ever say to me about this blog. so thank you for opening yourself to awareness. may it bring freedom to your words.
Thank you! I had a lot of coffee and was listening to music, putting down words as I listened. Not very focused, but definitely freeing! I’m too closed up as a writer sometimes, and your posts bring something out in me; I love it! Thanks again for the inspiration. I somehow imagine you riding your bike around in the middle of the night. Cool! I, too, saw the girl scouts at Albertsons yesterday.
carla! how i love that you saw the girl scouts too! and really, it means so much to me/my writing that my daily practice can help free you in yours.
wanted to stop in and say hi this week but it was a busy one. perhaps next week!
keep em coming.
A cat whisker on the black carpet
Sand from our walk this morning along the Willamette to the confluence and you didn’t bite the other dog
I am not alone
you are never alone.
(thank you for sharing this slice! it has been so long since anyone has taken up the offer to collaborate here. thank you!)
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