There is so much for one's attention.

after a week a reading,

I see pelicans in their hovery, undulating, connect-the-dots. They fly in elegant lines that trace the coast.

I see a white haired woman eating bread out of the bin at the grocery store.

I see swim flick of a fin on the horizon.

I see a spider.

The bank of dense and luxurious honeysuckle near the back door at work -- its fragrance is thick and radiant. Sparks flicker in my brain.

There is too much to take in. I must sleep and sleep for what feels like years.

we are not allowed to make pictures of ourselves

light, and ash, and bone

a fine casing like porcelain, enameled pelt

tether of coal, fire

breath and flesh, aspiration

into the dark recess, into stone

the word is a discrete text

a little map we crawl into

Bellum Letters Revisited

look at how young these people are

dancing makes us human

what happens there in the occult deserts

the dissonance

the matrix contains a beleaguered pop star (does she still want to do this?)

weapons |

commercial pop's infectious repetitions

like we've been here before

like we are all just trying to find a way to make it bearable

it's so hot. who lives here? who gets to live?

google anything you want. pretend it isn't there if we can't see it.

Meditation on Plastic

as if I could press myself into a piece of wax

as if it could retain us

we retain it

we make mention of detritus

we accumulate its bits

on top of everything: pianos

falling down, ruined

the place where her lips were

there were lip prints

a synthetic rope made into knots

unweaving itself -- unthreaded

six thousand petroleum snakes

just six thousand of millions

there are too many to count

I count myself among the ruined

I, ruiner --

to say it makes the shapes tremble

I have been busily writing/making poems, but they are on little scraps of paper all over the place. I will work on posting them here.

On an elevator / of human fingerprints / of the most delicate / fixity

"a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing"

"Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted."

Today, I'm thinking that I'll be making a poetic object or poem in response to a favorite line of poetry or poem for NaPoWriMo. I'm thinking of it as a sort of commonplace book/quilting project.

Also, the Poetry Booth debuts this Thursday, April 7th. If you are in the area, please come make a poem with us!

when we all just go about because there is nothing to say

In so many ways I want to be a different person. I want to be like a sweater you can turn inside out. I want to live on the other side of the world, or in a desert, or a cave. In the middle night, under the blue halo of the porch light and in the gauze of insomnia, our backyard looks like the moon. I want to live there. I do live there.

pop music like conversation hearts -- all my tethered veins -- all the notes tied up.

When I have the energy to pretend, it's so much easier. (if only we were all pretending, if only this wasn't real) It's like something singing, like a longing for what's not there.