in undergrounds

I'm witching in, thin
as a claw, coning
furled wings, in-bred
switch swinging
like a bitch in green
grass digging holes
as robots mend
their irons, numbers
grid-rigged, pegged
to blowsy under-torn
documents half-fed
to swans with necks
of lead, fake swans
but happy ones, their
red feet marshed
in mud-tar as real
flies buzz blue
with laziness

the dreams have been sugary shifty and many times I am angry, yelling and yelling and yelling.

things go crash, I'm absent, reading
trash, thumbing thru obsolete yellow
books, wondering what scene we're
in, when the dumpsters turn gold
and its all autumn again, or else
sugar in cement to catch fox paws
or ways to track oneself. One night
I was here, the next I was there.
The rubber band in my mind
goes snap.

all that's left is hair

all I see in the bookstore are decapitated women or naked women skin especially seems to sell spell books and it makes me want to spit nails

ETA: "it's a club, and you're not in it."

I love threads and scissors. I love to pull thread off the spool and to make these little matted nests of color. I like how the thread is soft, how from a distance it looks like hair or an insect or stems.

Mist in the morning and walking through the air is like a very shallow swim. No rain, only humidity that comes in a gray hug.

The sand at the beach is higher. It is high enough to cover the anchor that was my landmark on the beach. "I will walk to the anchor," I'd say to myself. Now I walk to where I remember the anchor is, only I can't see it because it us under all this sand. I would not know this if I saw the beach for the first time now. This may seem banal, but it helps me understand something about history, and language, and what we might mean by "tracks."

I like to think of text as tracks. I am remembering fewer dreams. I think most of my rem sleep happened between 8 and 10 am. Of course I no longer sleep during these hours -- not even on the weekend.

I played with a kitten the other day. A little gray kitten with tender teeth and paws.

I like the word vibrissa. This text has whiskers.

Everything is different

like when I wake up and when I go to bed. how much time I spend outside. what and when I eat.

everything is different.

several days have passed, and I have not seen the skunk in the yard. I saw a small green frog who lives in the mint. I've become more tolerant of moths, who I understand are important pollinators. I planted geraniums. I went to the bird center and fed pelicans. One had a wound in its mouth. Another had an uneven beak. Like the lower part did not meet the upper part. I tossed the fish into its pouch.

we were gone and then we came home. everything is different. new jobs, which means more money, though it is still not very much.

The days are getting shorter, which makes me feel dark inside. Like dusk inside -- the jack-o-lantern dark. Not like halloween, whatever that is, but something round and orange and empty --lit from within. something smudged and glowy.

I want summer to last forever

It's my favorite. The long days make me feel safe; for hours everything is gold. We were moving for so long and now we are resting. But it all feels like running in place.

The other night -- it was dusk, really...the gold-silver light -- we saw a fox in the field near our house. It was a red fox but it looked silver. It was traced by light. The ears were pointed, the tail held straight out behind. "foxlight" I thought. That was exactly, it. silver-pawed. feather-eared. lilac-misted. paused, pointed. forever-light. deep in my heart-bones.

On television there is a story of a man who takes his red dog to the steamy night sidewalk. He emerges from silver elevator doors, crosses the polished lobby, and opens the glass doors. The red dog barks through the glass. The man walks away. The dog trots away. The dog made the man so sad.

Today, dragonflies. At least three of them, one of them clearly blue. I've read dragonflies mean money. money is so sad.

otoliths

I love Otoliths, and I'm super-stoked to have some poems there.

August

in motion

is how we live, sleeping inside skin. I want wheels turning
only in, around. My clothes, they get thin
as I get worn. We were looking out for tracing
clouds, fin slid under wing. We were without
beds. I nurtured sounds. We came to land
on land like rest. We fluttered full to nest
only sticks built into temporary chambers.
In all this moving I remember how much I love.