Sunday, November 16, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
late july, 2008
I think it may be
humbleness
that brings us back
to ourselves
humility in the face of sharp wind
round wind
tree rustlings
neighbor laughter
and branches outlined
against a clouded sky
thoughts bearded and furred
are wiped clean
exposed bone
calcified polished bone
(sound of far-off rooster and metal tools on metal spikes)
(highway).
humbleness
that brings us back
to ourselves
humility in the face of sharp wind
round wind
tree rustlings
neighbor laughter
and branches outlined
against a clouded sky
thoughts bearded and furred
are wiped clean
exposed bone
calcified polished bone
(sound of far-off rooster and metal tools on metal spikes)
(highway).
june 30, 2008
I think back to
things
I couldn't possibly remember
the wind brings it back
and the swallows
wheeling
slow overhead
the sound of the wind
at my back
echo of scrubbed earth
far out beyond the
train tracks
and hum of traffic
the wind is exactly behind me
parting my hair
the birds are confetti
sparks
in distant trees
catenary
and the clouds roll
silently like a
screen
being pulled silently taut
i think about my uncle
Rick
staring into the wind scrubbed
Wyoming plain
of distant gray shapes
reflected
I think about being young
about letting go the pressure
to work
to make
to create
i sit and wait for it to come
back to me
rolling in like fog
i let myself be hollow
a watcher
bone and hair
feathered
and quiet
the wind hits the back of my head
like a soft curl
a breath of rain and dust
all sounds are magnified
bird calls punctuate
the soft grey evening air
like commas
sharp beaked cries that cast
a net over our
weeded empty backyard lot
i want the words to spill out
sideways
ribcage polished and spun
empty
save for breath
expanding
funneled
air of
just this place, causing my chest
to expand
contract
expand
rusted red metal armchair
gasoline can
bathtub sunk to its knees, in earth
firewood stacked
leaning tin rotting wood garage
just covers old gold car
exactly
like a skin
painted rocks
blue pink stripes
yellow cactus yucca tree
open lid of sky
scudded with soft clouds swallows
chirp dovetail flying over the face of the wind.
things
I couldn't possibly remember
the wind brings it back
and the swallows
wheeling
slow overhead
the sound of the wind
at my back
echo of scrubbed earth
far out beyond the
train tracks
and hum of traffic
the wind is exactly behind me
parting my hair
the birds are confetti
sparks
in distant trees
catenary
and the clouds roll
silently like a
screen
being pulled silently taut
i think about my uncle
Rick
staring into the wind scrubbed
Wyoming plain
of distant gray shapes
reflected
I think about being young
about letting go the pressure
to work
to make
to create
i sit and wait for it to come
back to me
rolling in like fog
i let myself be hollow
a watcher
bone and hair
feathered
and quiet
the wind hits the back of my head
like a soft curl
a breath of rain and dust
all sounds are magnified
bird calls punctuate
the soft grey evening air
like commas
sharp beaked cries that cast
a net over our
weeded empty backyard lot
i want the words to spill out
sideways
ribcage polished and spun
empty
save for breath
expanding
funneled
air of
just this place, causing my chest
to expand
contract
expand
rusted red metal armchair
gasoline can
bathtub sunk to its knees, in earth
firewood stacked
leaning tin rotting wood garage
just covers old gold car
exactly
like a skin
painted rocks
blue pink stripes
yellow cactus yucca tree
open lid of sky
scudded with soft clouds swallows
chirp dovetail flying over the face of the wind.
june 23, 2005
of course it wouldn't be
relief
hothouse
steam
pressed wrists in your closed
fists
in the middle of the night sometimes
i wonder if you have extra
hinges
springs
the way you move around me
and sometimes cup my face
in both hands.
relief
hothouse
steam
pressed wrists in your closed
fists
in the middle of the night sometimes
i wonder if you have extra
hinges
springs
the way you move around me
and sometimes cup my face
in both hands.
monday, june 22, 2008
a morning of birds in the tree
invisible sweet calls
rustlings in the shade
the one that sifts the sand
scrapes his bill (beak) through the dry dusty dirt
looking sideways for bugs.
stereo birds
back door grackles and loud ravens
overtaking the tree
just at the edge of our backyard (louise's)
black heavy gurgled cries
ominous smudges in the branches
impatient harsh cries.
kitchen window
sweet round sound
peacocks.
silver water sounds
movements through the fence
bowl of blood red lava rocks
mismatched children's chairs
wood stump with alabaster ashtray
white birdbath
sunbaked earth
quieter now, the cracks open.
the ants have blocked the
entrance to their hole
with sticks.
invisible sweet calls
rustlings in the shade
the one that sifts the sand
scrapes his bill (beak) through the dry dusty dirt
looking sideways for bugs.
stereo birds
back door grackles and loud ravens
overtaking the tree
just at the edge of our backyard (louise's)
black heavy gurgled cries
ominous smudges in the branches
impatient harsh cries.
kitchen window
sweet round sound
peacocks.
silver water sounds
movements through the fence
bowl of blood red lava rocks
mismatched children's chairs
wood stump with alabaster ashtray
white birdbath
sunbaked earth
quieter now, the cracks open.
the ants have blocked the
entrance to their hole
with sticks.
june 1, 2008
(retrogrde old marfa writings from this summer 2008............)
Entry #1 of the Summer "Blog":
June 1, 2008
its funny, when we have these moments where we think everything is all ahead of us, that we are indefinately young, we stare out of the classroom window with disdain for the present moment, the teacher in curls and high-pitched voice, the chalk dust in the air.
i remember watching the dust motes in the air outside of my fifth grade classroom window, and the slant of the sun, magic square, and thinking it was an important moment. a moment that congealed, and afternoon Denver sunlight that stiffened and froze, light that became solid through the leaves of the trees.
it seemed all in front of me then, maybe it was second grade, i still remember my teacher's face and the feeling of upcoming escape.
late spring (slanted light!) through trees, reaching to the second floor classroom, crowned.
the quietness of green halls, nurses offices, phones, ringing, empty lockers.
at some point you realize that time catches up, and those still frozen moments of light falling on you are mostly past..
that thickened light that gathers itself in the afternoon, and quietly masses in pools, just under the front door green gold dust specks sunsmote...
particles of dust in sun,,,
i had a dream once that a mantle of light fell on my shoulders, crowning me, in my parents' green living room, flecked with mirrors, and polished wood, 'mantle' and the voice that said it spelled it out...
in the air
i think of words like 'smote, smite,
storm'
and i think of light falling
Caravaggio's 'Conversion of St. Paul'
man struck dumb mute under
sideways horse
bathed in light
sunswept
church bells
manic wind outside the open door
flecks of sun shadows in the
door fast
like the wind tossing the dust in the yard.
white curtains breathing light in and out
bright electric light
church song
dogs peacocks roosters
powerlines
i can hear the hammock turning over.
Entry #1 of the Summer "Blog":
June 1, 2008
its funny, when we have these moments where we think everything is all ahead of us, that we are indefinately young, we stare out of the classroom window with disdain for the present moment, the teacher in curls and high-pitched voice, the chalk dust in the air.
i remember watching the dust motes in the air outside of my fifth grade classroom window, and the slant of the sun, magic square, and thinking it was an important moment. a moment that congealed, and afternoon Denver sunlight that stiffened and froze, light that became solid through the leaves of the trees.
it seemed all in front of me then, maybe it was second grade, i still remember my teacher's face and the feeling of upcoming escape.
late spring (slanted light!) through trees, reaching to the second floor classroom, crowned.
the quietness of green halls, nurses offices, phones, ringing, empty lockers.
at some point you realize that time catches up, and those still frozen moments of light falling on you are mostly past..
that thickened light that gathers itself in the afternoon, and quietly masses in pools, just under the front door green gold dust specks sunsmote...
particles of dust in sun,,,
i had a dream once that a mantle of light fell on my shoulders, crowning me, in my parents' green living room, flecked with mirrors, and polished wood, 'mantle' and the voice that said it spelled it out...
in the air
i think of words like 'smote, smite,
storm'
and i think of light falling
Caravaggio's 'Conversion of St. Paul'
man struck dumb mute under
sideways horse
bathed in light
sunswept
church bells
manic wind outside the open door
flecks of sun shadows in the
door fast
like the wind tossing the dust in the yard.
white curtains breathing light in and out
bright electric light
church song
dogs peacocks roosters
powerlines
i can hear the hammock turning over.
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