Postcard 137

Doesn't it always come down to trees, to whom we are a quick irrelevance?
Fitting, fitting.    With my words I am trying a silence.
That is a quick irrelevance, but it proceeds.
With my words I am trying to name a silence.
A useless Adam.
Name the thing of tree.
Name the sky scratch vanishing.
Name the water wick defying gravity.
Oh dare name the strength of sway.
Name roots subliminal and name their speech unseen:
communing without glottal tongue what is, what has been, what will be.
Oh breathing being Adam, it always comes to breathing being of tree.
Be a silent breathing being. Speak with grounded toes.
Correlate irreverently. Humility of forest for the trees. 
Silence still the word proceeds. Silence and still the word itself.
Un-name the thing.
Un-name the rustle of the leaves.
Un-name the hungry sunward lean.
Un-name the self and finally
let there be no name said or heard for the great relief,
the bow-spring return, the twang and whoosh, that final breath of final fallen tree.
To dumb still Adam, alone before mute glory, it always come down to trees

Postcard 130

Walking the beach on a day of many grays, my wife and I came to a mermaid tangled in the sand. She was red as a selkie and spoke only in murmurs and sighs, that we knew. We freed her with ease and took her out to the surf where we were equals. She showed us many new and strange pleasures from the depths. We were, all three, careless in the low waves.

So illuminated and rapt of each others' company were we, that we decided to take her home. The mermaid did not dissent, so we wrapped her up and took her to our house.We had a large tank put in the living room where she would stay -- illuminated and blue. It was delightful. She waited for us while we worked and twirled and flirted with us from behind the glass. I kept the taste of salt upon my lips. Sometimes we would just watch TV though. My wife and I took turns cleaning the tank. It did grow trying. She would swim about, feather and tickle, while we worked. It was pleasant but frustrating. Otherwise, she would sit on the couch with my wife. This was intolerable. Imagine watching your partner roll and squirm from behind grungy glass while you cleaned floating excrement. Judging from my wife's irritability, she felt the same. We got a filter. We watched TV, but she needed attention still, batting her eyes, waving her gills. We tapped on the glass and waved. We blew her kisses. The filter broke. It got pretty bad. We hauled away the tank and moved her to the bathtub. We showed her how to run the water. We took baths with her. My wife grew jealous about the fairness of the baths, but I wasn't sure from what angle. We bickered about feeding her. We stopped taking baths altogether. We watched TV. One day a episode of Magnum P.I. reminded us of something, but we could not make out what. I got p from the couch and went into the bathroom. The bathtub was full. The water was green but empty. There was something dried crisp on the floor behind the heater.

Postcard 136

On what land would we stand if we honored all our treaties, honored all our vows?
There are not enough downy blankets for this shattered scattered land.
What would be if our hands were strong but softly laid?
We could calm. We could calm slow waves.
A map. A map and empty rings. Fingerless hollow eternities
Drag up all the wire of grids and vertices.
Click click the collard cable's coil. The spool will snap unsewn.
What graft and crooked drafts have been obscured?
What little universes, glorious cosmos of life, have been deferred?
Our children? Children all caulked and cracked, stunted. Inured.
There's not enough whiskey in this world to cover bloody topography.
And what if we made a promise of fidelity? And we held to truth in troth?
What shine! Oh hear us:
Cynic slosh. Halogen twinkle. Nylon dross. Patent leather plastic gloss
There's not enough sleep for knife-light dreams

Postcard 135

The little boy who's parents were lost at sea
sat in the sturdy white chapel upon the hill.
Standing plain before two empty boxes,
the deacon spoke of Jesus' feet across the water
and how the savior soundly slept through rough waves
and, woken by the frightened crew, arose
to calm the sea with his voice and with his hand.
When the service was done the little boy left alone
and walked up the hill to the grassy bluffs overlooking the placid seas
Not a ripple suggested a wave
Not a shimmer betrayed treachery
The boy stood at the edge and yelled out
I do not forgive you!
I do not forgive you!
The sea remained.
But his little hand shook with the thrill

Postcard 134

There will be many nights of broken glass.
Its time to lace up high our heavy boots
Light will crystal-scatter underfoot
and it will cut. Cinch tight cinch tight
Is it true still that truth redeems?
In twilight, that will be hard to see.
Even blind, its time to step out firm and sure
The light doesn't fail. It's only dispersed.
Obscured. There will be ashes in the air.
Each day will taste the same, more bitter than the one before
Its time to spit out into dark, and step to where it lands
We may cry, but never mind the salty trails on grubby face
Our path is crystal clear
Its time to lace up boots. Its time to tug on gloves
Its time to step out into it and cinch up weary eyes
to grasp tight friendly hands
Twilight twilight of the night. Twilight of the dawn.
Its time to put rough clothes on. Its time top lace up tight
Civil twilight is so different than at sea
Only brightest start can guide in half-light
Its time to search in gloom to scan for what cannot be obscured
There will be many nights of broken glass to be endured
we see by scattered light. Pull on. wrap up, cinch tight and grasp
Walk out to the angry red. Is it night?
Spit bitter back. Is it night?

Postcard 133

What I am doing, no one else can do. Bend a few ears. What I am doing is mechanical -- a camera's lens. Catch, in every aperture, the sprightly resonance, always always at the corners - the sprightly resonance of love. What I am doing, no one else can do. Wide angle love is the constant joke of a universe in bloom. Recall -- it's all mechanical. What I do, no one else can do. I am the focal point of every parallel wave. Telephoto love is the I see you. Yes you. What you are doing, no one else can do. Close cropped, fine focused, rule of thirds. Allow. Allow the linear features to flow from section to section. What I do, no one else can do. Fish eye, fish eye -- peering out and through, bending a few ears, bending  light. Love of sky, wide and bent -- a hemisphere. No one can do what we do, but try. Chase and capture the corners, the sprightly resonance. What I do, no one else can do.

Postcard 132

No glass on this beach washed flat. Only sand.
And no fires (see above). Only sand -- a broad gleaming tablet, gold and blank.
My bare feet are cipher markers. My new stick marks lines.
From above my cipher says I walk upright, I'm curious.
My line says I lean a bit to one side.
I strike out an image much larger than me with stick lines scrawled sharp and deep.
My vision, too, has a bit of lean.
My image I can apprehend, but only from one side at a time.
Who can see my lines are straight? My shapes are true? And of course, the tide returns.
The waves step broad and light, strike shallow mark as clear and flat as glass.
What did I say, what did I say?
My darling, I have etched upon you some of my memory
-- some scratched light, some punched deep. A good apprehension of me, sidelong.
And the waves slip back under themselves, then the waves slip in.
And my darling, I have etched upon me some of you, memories from just this side.
All in all we are together overlapping scrawls of wave washed memory.
Oh my darling hold on to me. Oh my darling lost like glass.
From where you are, can you apprehend I am slipping out to sea.
The cipher of my footfall, wave-washed, points to sea.

Postcard 131

Use this, use this. Where is the right tool? Anything! The sharpest blade grows fastest dull. Useless. Understanding, careful caught, dried to knowing -- sand in hand. Use this, use this. Every problem has a hammer, right? Beat together to fall apart. Every hammer needs a handle. Beat apart to glass. Use this, use this. Glass blown. Glass glows. Glass grows like hair. Brittle words. Brittle words like fragile birds in air. Use this. Use this. What carries light and sound? Light of load and sound of structure. Scratch line with white hot nail -- pain-etched scratch-raised light and pale. Scars, stitch-bound and suture-tought. Use this use this. Every wound is lesson learned. Every hammer needs a nail. Every pane is pockmarked. Every hand holds fingers. Every finger holds its nail. Every hand is hammer-ready. Every word is frail. Use this. Use this. Lessons shatter out like veins. Every scar is pain once taught. Every word was once a flutter of desire contained. Every shard of glass was once a million grains of sand. Every hammer blow was swing of arm. Use this use this. Where is the right and proper tool? Every tool was once blood carved sharp and bright, the truest, light and sound. Useless. Useless.

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

carraway

Outside in

seeps Street

neighbors

play, low

violence

Snap scrap

radio

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

exhale

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

Eggshell

Eggshell

Doorway Grip

thready hat

Grime sweat

Honest work

Stay stay

look back

Porcelain

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

Clay

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.