I’m not sure what to say about all the words of the poets


Sorry I am so odd sometimes. That is I am not very odd at all sometimes. And I am sorry. I go all heavyworded sometimes and I shut up sometimes I think I am being present with attachments I think and then find that no not at all and this is the way of that walk I think and I go heavy and shut up and I have no sense of humor and I shut up and I go all word and I shut up. Poor human. Wipes nose.

Here just have my gravy fried steak.

What I mean is I love you so big sometimes I got nowhere to put it but maybe on the windowsill next to Orion’s nebula, and how does that work? You are not a talking lion for real. But you are. Because Poetry.

I’m not sure what to say about all the words of the poets yet. They do work on me, but it’s overlarge. I am overlarge about it, I mean. So I shut up for stretches hoping the next time the words come to mind I’ll see it quieter. Clearer. I’ll stop trying to make them mean things. And that’s maybe when they will get to mean something. Or nothing. But sit where they can best see me.

Sometimes I get overlarge in hearing a poet–Dear You, Your lung is a genius. Your brain is a bully. Your words make the mortar clinging at the alleybricks. Your heart carves canyons along that green heal ten thousand miles or more deep. I lose my shoes. And it’s easy to see I think you must by now agree that I love you just this way wide of over much.

I hope it’s pure, anyway. I hope the gratitude finds itself fine on fine days. But how on earth remember the way to listen? Just have to shut up a while sometimes a while sometimes until I remember a devastating necessity of pavement. Grain. Kneebones. Stupids. Overtheres.

And then I can hear you again for a little while and it’s nice to talk a bit, when you catch me in the places where it’s nice and oh hello and I haven’t yet remembered just how much you mean to me, before it gets gigantic in my head again and there’s no place for a person anymore and I have to shut up again and listen.



“we are the music makers & we are the dreamers of dreams”

Distressed and fearful over the current state of our world…

In process with hearing, I want to be careful

& forgiving. I want to be as comfortable in sitting with ear & here as I am sifting the love-thought. Walks with the flower. Prayers to the god of the forest. Persistent insistence that the world of the dream is more real than what seems real, or at least of equivalent reality. Honest chats.
You are free.

The most honest question I can think of is still where are you? 

& for the moment it is as if I am whispering the question into a soaking darkness, hoping for the woods. It is clear even in their nature that there is no reason to imagine the woods are real. But I seek them with questions on the nothing air. 
Where are you, yellow moon? my tide pool?  my galaxy? my gargantuan balloon my love in the morning sky, hot air over the wilderness rabbit of mountain, along the range plains, golden & rolling in elk snow?
Where tallwise slender splintering tohoku pines, gather their coastal “in” cradle to daikannon the fishbearer, she offers eyes in earnest gratitude the peaceful ocean swells & unswells, bringing in & carrying away, seeming ever in the white of its roar drawing nearer, the mane of the lion, seas, rides a spray into shorestones; just at the hem of her gown, a temple of the golden image of the sun in pale blue sky? I mean which way to enter? Forget we are always in the forest. We have never left the forest. Here we are in the forest, & how do we enter?

The way a flickering series of photographs is a wall that wants to be kissed.

Victoria watches the entrance to the forest. Away from the street in the grass behind rot-iron, her skin & hair a liquid silver always wearing the colors of the sky & the earth below & supplicant at hand. There is a question to address before proceeding into the shade of the hickory & bramble.

The question cannot be remembered, nor can it be forgotten. It cannot be heard when spoken. It cannot be spoken after it is heard. It is impossible to symbolize into language, because it is a question born only into here, & language necessitates a “there” which is not “here” & so language may not understand “here” because “here” also makes requirement on “there” & there becomes a “there” in our “here” which is part of what’s here, but here, there is “there” here, & we cannot resist the light of the paradox: electric, passionate receptors & nerves; that there is here a “there” here, we begin to swoon over the paradox. The way a flickering series of photographs is a wall that wants to be kissed.
& so here we are in the midst of the illusion, caught in the cataclysm of universe wrought in supertransformidable collision of particle & mind (each made real by the other).
Already in the forest. The trees seem so properly real here, over there, & we’ve lost the question again, but now at least we are a “we.” & we are resting at a busted wood & iron bench in the shade along a small stone stepping walk toward a sound of water, where there must be a fountain just above.
Victoria, out in the grass, & from here, her face looks like the leaves & her body the bodies of the trees. Her hair carries the white of a cloud. Where are you? This is not the question.
Distressed and fearful over the current state of our world…

We are not here, though we have understood ourselves to be always here,

& while it is true that wherever we are, here we are, there is also a way in which we are always seeking an explanation of where we are & can tend to start thinking the explanation is meant to occupy the space of “here,” somehow in place of “here” comes a story about “here” & the story becomes “here” & we don’t know where we are anymore; even though that’s pretty much where we are, we don’t know that, & so we’re lost & also always here; we are lost, here, where we always are, we are always in this “here” & we are always lost here; we are here & we aren’t certain we are here or where “here” is or if we are even there, or, if we are thinking that it is a “there,” the here that we wonder where it is, because we are seeking it “there,” can never be “here,” & so must come to think of “here” as “here” & not as “there” & then to not think of it at all. & to be here. & not really to be here, but. We just are. & we don’t know that. 
But we know this: that we don’t know that. We know this & we do not know that, but that we know this, we color this as that & then we know that. By knowing this, we know that. We are not lost: here we are knowing this & that! 

The trees are real.

They are not here. I have dreamed them. Welcome. The fountain is just above. Remember how the wind feels in the spring by the water, how it is the way the flowers speak to one another, & how you may listen, & how the other life listens when the flowers & the wind are speaking.
Distressed and fearful over the current state of our world…

Remember to forget this

& to listen to the speaking of the flowers & to become that instead of this about about the about about the tongues of the flowers scattered to the currents in air the sunlight makes by spinning low at the waters at the mountain top emerald of St. Mary.

Shed & shed further & shed further & still further,

any reliance we may have in these sorts of explanations. We forget them as quickly as we can. We forgive them & we do not throw them away nor distrust nor discredit them, we seek to see without… & prior… prefiguring framework… pure experiential unknowing… before we dreamed of returning… when we were just “here”… before we were beginning… when we were here. Here we are. This tree is not real either. We let go of thought. We cannot remember how to say what is witnessed on our passage. It is so purely here, & we are so murked in “there.”

It becomes a forest,

only as another equal illusion. The forest is not an illusion & it is not real & it is both real & unreal & it is neither unreal nor real. The forest is a model of reality, just as is the city or the river or the planets or the bathtub; & in science there is a saying that “all models are wrong”

The forest is wrong.

No. The forest is not wrong. The forest is right as the forest. But in being “everything” it fails. & if it fails to be everything, it cannot properly be anything, since it represents everything but isn’t, it represents, then, by design, an everything that is not an everything but only a something & an everything that isn’t an everything isn’t everything, & can’t be relied on in any regard as to how it is that everything happens. It is very reliable as a something inside the everything that behaves as it—as itself—behaves: the forest & the trees. But when we see everything, we can be certain we will know how to deal with all of this, so we needn’t worry over all we do not now see. Soon enough, everything will tell us. As soon as we know we are here, everything will tell us. & we already know what everything is going to say, that it’s all going to be okay But we still need to hear it. That’s how we’ll know it’s true.
Distressed and fearful over the current state of our world…
Safe covered to the probably eye of like a hawk, not so worried over snakes, lazy in a little nothing breeze in warm sun gentle shade & roses.
& nobody saw.

your mostly face


What is passing and what is put? I hear these voices, voices with big names, real names, real voices, real people, big or little, real. To sing it. And what else? Nothing. Whatever is necessary to sing is enough. Air? Wine? Sleep? Get to the point of singing. Beauty has no form. I’m not going to explain.

The singer settles into words like bed

So you closely put your mostly face to a receptive nearly almost ears. And it hears what you bleed. Now, the ribbons are gold and silver, and you must communicate the heart of the matter of the moment of your mind. Yes, you must. And it will sound like silver gold, will it? Put your face close to your face. Then a song will sing into all the world. And all the world will be countless flowers. And rain.

Only what you find. That metallic table, or the bulbous wine glass. Knock on the door of these things and your breath is colors. Obscurity? For the rich.

Everything goes and everything comes. I’m still in the dark before dawn, having made breakfast ― eggs, toast, avocado, goat cheese, butter, pink salt, pepper ― and the heavy gold curtains are parted a couple feet in anticipation of what other than blue out of the black. And between a documentary on the DPRK (then breakfast) and one on Sufism, the mandate of a true faith system, non-corrosive to the individual path, appeared ever-so-lightly available: a lifestyle informed by all experiences, exclusive only to the extent that a human must exercise judgment or die. So, not to live well ― suffering dramatic advances and setbacks ― but to live, as colored by every moment as the sky.


Poem About History


Inspired by June Jordan’s “Poem About My Rights”

I am the history of my thoughts too loud I am the history of hysteria I am the history of nervous system breakdown I am the history of multiple identities I am the history of multi-sexuality hi-curiosity and straight privilege I am the history of my face a wall a don’t fuck with me I am the history of blaming myself for what he did I am the history of sexual abuse I am the history of secondary survivors I am the history of silence I am the history of Prozac and welbutrin and paxil I am the history of why are you so anxious because I am the history of silence of abuse of abusers of violence I am the history of privilege I am the history of too small so sweet small voice I am the history of doormat of crazy of okay I am the history of taking care of you you never me grandma wailing mom screaming I am the history of you. I am the history of choose why can’t you choose I am the history of apologies I am the history of hey baby’s I am the history of wanna fuck I am the history of your dick is not my fault I am the history of mouth shut making myself wrong of witness

But I do not consent to the voice that haunts me: you coward I do not consent to the secondary abuse I do not consent to feeling like a fraud I do not consent to your silence I do not consent to this is my fault I do not consent to berate myself at the bus stop in my coffee in my sheets at night I do not consent to the assault on my mind

My voice my heart my neurotransmitters are not wrong

They are my own my own my own