24 September 2018

Postcard 141

All things, beings all, are born clean into a well worn and weary world.
Stars glow red and every cell has death drive.

Rivers -- metal ochers, metal yellows -- like bony fingers reach to sea.
Big waters barely beat.
Big waters filled with skeletons of all things,
like old coral, oily algae green
And the surface is a sick skin,
a fever sweat for greasy rain-starved winds.

A new clear creature comes up from mud,
and squirms grub-like from sulfuric chrysalis of debris
She does not slouch toward pestilent future or from corruption of past
For a moment she is pure and unseen
She opens eyes as blue as treasure-held fragments of that old sky.

This world is putrid. Each step sucks up the smell of sour decay
each shuffle through the plastic shells of shotgun wadding,
old bent butts, of straws and bottlecaps, clears infertile crust away.
Each step pushes blood poison, brown and veined, up her legs

She moves to exhausted alkali -- the world as desiccate as leaves
She moves through and to a place where other beings might be or might have been:
the strange mindful intention of piled debris,
hard ground stained by dirty fires,
corners strewn with dried black chips of feces

Everything has one property to possess and share: every being has a smell
Every sheet of paper, bound and stacked, every book, broken spined and outcast --
all dim deciduous memories, trustee of image and word --
withers in the infrared and speckles green in mildew damp
and smells like old pornography

All things, beings all, are death drive born
seeking, starving for the echo source
of clear and bright and clean

19 September 2018

Postcard 140

Like everyone and everything, 
she was born of dusty effluent of morbid stars. 
She was carbon bright. 
The filament bridged and glowed. 

Like everyone and everything, 
she was born a bursting prophet of origin and eventuality. 
Rare to rich over-burn. 
She was born a single treed forest burnt crisp. 

Like everyone and everything 
she was born tossed and caught. 
From blank non-being into being. 
From blinding gestate to cold dark earth. A stone. 

Like everyone and everything, 
she was born to veiled nursemaids of pain and pleasure. 
One was called need, 
the other, want. 

Like everyone and everything, 
she was born crying out, to mark short span of being. 
Compressed together, 
screaming apart. 

Like everyone and everything, 
she was born fissured with impurity. 
That is the crack and split of 
pyrophytic seed. 

Like everything and every being, 
she was born highly charged. 
Repulse and attract imminent. 
A spark seeking the touch of circuit.

Like everything and every other being, 
she was born a one time thing, 
in everlasting experiment. 
With potential toward all else. 

Like everything and every being, 
she is diminished by neglect. 
As semi-precious as core clustered diamonds. 
As underfoot as turquoise.  

Like every being, 
she was born with unspoken name. 
Like everything, 
she was born without spoken name. 

Like everyone and everything that must be, 
she was born blankly 
grasping for a given name. 
Oh Turquoise Daughter.

10 September 2018

Postcard 139

The water moves down,
and because it moves together, it flows.
Every ripple is the power of some unseen thing, above as below.
Every swirl an unequal resistance. Still, it moves placid and smooth.
The morning clouds reflect.
A heron, great and blue, an egret, white, set themselves like caissons
along the east shore, hunting down in their own shadows.
The water only has depth straight beneath, in shadow.
Small flies in hordes waterskip erratic. The tension ennobles them.
It is an irritant to look upon, as if all skin can relate.
The slight breeze compels the clouds across the face of sky,
compels the cloud reflection, compels the water too.
The small hairs of my skin rise and join the leaves in sway.
Ants, of course persist. Countless things we cannot see:
retreat of silvering darkness from the face of the land,
ephemeral vanishing act of each drop of dew,
birdsong and birdsong and the subtle speak of sparrow fall.
And birdsong responds.
My mind too moves unseen, and I toss back a whistle.
A whistle too loud in chamber of head startles me.
The heron, the egret, irritable, take graceful wing,
move off and away like cats.
Their shadows too, leave unplumbed.
And the water moves clear, without volume.
The water moves unceasing,
turns blue against the sky