All these people—
with their knees,
with their bright sweaters
with their matching jackets—
can we really have the same
Sometimes I work
and sometimes I watch the people walk
by the windows—
the work gets done without me.
We capitalize much on the clockworks.
I house bone, not steel
my flesh is living, circulating
I see yours, the same.
We circulate together and only the birds see it
only the wind knows.
Spending some time in deep introspection
in this eternal mind of mine—
spending some time with
those minions in my bright mind.
It’s evervescent and tropical in here
sweaty and humid
we do work and call ourselves holy.
These spirits of sensation, they trigger memories
and pointer figures to approach and discern—
there is holiness indeed untampered with,
misunderstood, as to be expected.
The forest smells like peppermint
and wraps me inside its Christmas hug;
are those clouds? or the sea?—
Does it matter?
The world spins
and I spend
so much effort dashing the other way.
Frantic flailing sort of running
the kind that finds me
from whence I came.
Dear Sir or Madam—
Do you know who I am? Am I as much a part of your day, as you mine? I run past your gate nearly every day—at alternating times, as it is, but nearly every day. Whatever I may be thinking, be pondering, be musing, you take me right out of it. Your great woooooof!s boom through me like the deep gong.
Fifty times over,
the swan sings soft–
and I, through the garden,
lay not a finger,
The swan and I stare—
the flowers look taller by the hour.
This is the fire,
the fate of the fire:
to wax and bulge as I gaze upon it
and shrivel and splutter
when I turn my cheek—
my chagrin is great
and displeasure bold,
for the night ahead is long.
is the fate of the fire:
to catch a waft
a minuscule flick
and with just a breath
to light a new log.
And then! how she roars!—
I have found, when it comes to travel living (i.e. the act of traveling to a place to cultivate a life for a medium-length temporary period of time before moving along to a new destination and repeating the process), I feel almost all emotions in a concentrated dose.
To a degree, this happens when I’m just travel-traveling, for a week or so to a place. But it really nests deep when I’m somewhere for an extended period of time trying out different notions of “home”.
I mean, you don’t just get to skate by with, “I’ll be home in a week, so I’ll just enjoy this”, right? You don’t get to go home in a week. This is your home.
And I’m so lucky for all of this. Which I feel in hyper-concentration.
the world was steady and still
soft ankle grass hugging loose
my hair catching the chapstick
I held the book with one hand—
not a page shivered.
But the clouds are moving faster, now—
the wind has arisen.
My bangs (my fringe) a windshield wiper
the grass rushes (still soft, it tickles)
my two fingers spring cold at the ends.
I breathe, to warm myself
the birds are my echo
these clouds my muse.
We live in times of mustard
moments and tales
of clamor I close my eyes
for eternal picnics—
I don’t know if the water
my golden dollar.
Sometimes the sun shines–
I still mow the lawn.
I recall the taste of butter
melting in the childhood sun
my scope due North
the dentist around the corner.
Do not tarry long
in the strong luring sun,
you, who would prefer
a golden life.
Her heart tasted like honey butter
in the dawn
I saw her for who she was—
laid bare at a cup of coffee
the mind thumb still undisturbed
cosmic disarray doesn’t get much better than this,
as I sipped.
What a lovely thing, the written word.
When you find that gut-dropping eyebrow-raising turn-of-phrase and you breathe: articulation. That’s me! That’s me written out and articulated!
Then you get along with life–you no longer search for what the hell is this mumble of emotions you don’t have to spend your nights where is the justification?!
It’s equally good, if not better, to read soul articulation you wrote. That takes time (it’s worth it, but it takes time). Reading saves a lot of time.