30 May 2018

Postcard 129

New clay
too tired
finger work
knead Touch
tips round
belly sand
brown Wireless
stretch sag
fitted Slouch
in fresh
sex over
stove clatter
Steep beans
cherry seeds
Outside in
seeps Street
play, low
Snap scrap
Back fat
grease shatter
Awake Awake
Hot damn
cough clear
Walls sway
shoulder settle
ceiling beam
Pull toes
reach dust
curl grit
hair grease
Glass grime
sun streak
Leg leg
iron smell
damp scruff
little self
Hold clay
mold  Seed
spent Seed
clear empty
clean frail
Long lean
grim bulb
dull Lean
limb hung-ry
Skid dream
ash can
Bittler breath
settle settle
Dark self
smear glass
clear eye
see self
True eyes
true Squint
square blue
Eye teeth
crooked true
Full tongue
soft cheek
roll Full full
pinch shut
Pants snap
boot black
Doorway Grip
thready hat
Grime sweat
Honest work
Stay stay
look back
look back
Sheet bunch
look back
Stay stay
Full belly
woman hip
sway Door
way latch
foot fall
Man man
sand brown
beard face
clay tired

24 May 2018

Postcard 128

The bridge was modern and elegant. Pure white. A lesson in synthesis of fragile lesser parts. Of ghostly strength from synthesis. It arched over a green valley holding an ocean tributary. People came to look down from the bridge, to look up at the bridge, to play in the clean waters under its gossamer shadows. For a time, a pod of whales came to the bridge, rolling lazily in the sun, playing slowly and powerfully in the shallow waters. This brought more people, drawn by their strength so delicately shared. One day, a whale somehow got one of its long pectoral fins tangled in the lattice footworks of the bridge. Neither the whale nor the people panicked at first. It was a novel situation, surely as easily exited as entered. But that was not the case. The whale began to act as one does when inexorably stuck, frantic and panicking, writhing and wounding itself in the struggle. The people perceived that at that particular footing, the tide would withdraw leaving the whale beached on a sandbar. Groups began to organize around various intentions. The other whales had returned to deeper waters, though they too seemed distraught. Whatever intentions there were, were not allowed to materialize. It its struggle, the whale had turned itself over and soon the fight for freedom ceased. There were no people on that dark night when the tide lifted the drowned whale without effort and easily removed its slack fin from the bridge footing, and carried the whale away.

14 May 2018

Postcard 127

The Unbecoming of Self
(Harpers 336)
They take me, take, take
me away & that takes
my sleep away. There
she is in that place &
she can't get out. I'm
like a slow motion
version of my old self.
Where's my wife? I want
my wife. Giraffe -- they
just run around don't they?
Chickens -- I guess chickens
are animals. Pigs! We had
a farm & I liked the pigs!
I feel very good all the
time, oh boy! Why is
that woman bothering me?
My butt is drunk. I have
everything done! Everything
done. Its all going in the
place that goes in the place
for each. This is not a
bad thing. It is just a
different thing. It requires
different kinds of attention.

For all of us who fear --
I must die so that others may live. It will be my mind, I suspect, that kills me. Or, amusingly, my other end - either one incontinent. Lets not discount a failure of skin, or my heart gets up in protest. Anyhow, I will go, finally unknown, finally unknowable. I may leave, but I will go and others will be. Should I rage, should I fight, who or what would I resist, but me --
unknown letting go?
I say easy sink into dark sea unrelenting. I say, feed another stream. Fold up on myself.
And, half written, half unknown,
O rejoice at being.
A being beyond my own design, wondering if I did it well. Well, did I? Let go of words, of hard won thoughts like me, thou, I.
I must die so others may be.
Return to sea.

04 May 2018

Postcard 126

Do not think for a moment
that I don't take stock:

Four starlings harass
an egg-hungry crow
a sheaf of blank paper
-clear white terror
A blue tarp threadbarely clinging to
a single anchor, marks and charts
every pitch and yaw of wind
This hand
-ten solid scars
eleven on the other
Halfway between them,
a single wrinkled plum-pit of being
-bottomless, inscrutable
(In the space of)
seven broken sentences
eight people have passed by
-some to
-mostly fro
Only two of them distracted me
An hour of sunlight in
my cup of coffee
-bitter black
-cool in mouth
Both legs a-tingle
half asleep
My body sleeping on the job
A full bladder
(as distinct from
but not separate from)
a stirring of loins at
a somewhat unwelcome pleasant memory
Four. No,
five. Now
nine or ten cut memories
A single unseen and unconcerned editor of thought
One guilty thought
the table rocks
one half an inch on
four legs
An itch I cannot scratch
A friendly red dog

I am just getting started

01 May 2018

Postcard 125

I don't know
I don't know what I'm for
Be a river of sunshine
Be a graceful piece of thunder

Out on serpentine, the prairie grass
moves beneath the moving wind
with no uncertain grace.
Rooted, then suspend

Cloud-banks and cattle fatly graze,
and chirping careless birds
all seem idle within a nature
of brute consequence

In being, in making sense,
I slide and do I root?
My eyes are full of greens &
bending blue of sky

My ears -- the hum
of wind in trees, of dreamy
sunning bugs, of flirting seeds &
careless spume -- go mute

I settle like the hunch of fence &
warm boards, thoughtless,
unsensed. I root and settle
I am unmade

My surface skittles in the wind.
I am unmade, reduced to hand,
my fat reach, my extend. Ants &
ants. two flies loop and land.

I am two hands overlapped to hold
with every free nerve. To hold the moving air.
To bend beneath and finally to be held.
For a moment to behold every free nerve

To beheld