This dream has tendrils
Currently showing posts tagged poetry
A dazzle and razzleTo wrangle and strangleThis dream has rhythmBoom and bass and beatsWithout retreat, just receiptsThis dream has muscleTo rumble and pummelHustle and tackleThis dream floatsLike a butterfly, stings like votesLike Bird plays notesLike Hurston wroteThis dream climbs rhymeLike hope shinesLike justice blindsLike freedom chimesLike promises mark time
But a furious landscape
Cells divide, collide
Moments between the lines
Minutes or eternity
The organ removed
Through the middle incision
Held inside a bag
Flesh once unobserved
Now pretty pink incisions
Make imperfect scars
How much does it hurt?
On a scale of one to ten
I count each ache twice
Body parts no longer mine
Sutures conceal loss
How many syllables
In the pucker of these scars
Mending my many wounds
Eternity is an ellipses on the page
beginnings and endings far from view
A ratio of youth to old age
subtracted in days to accrue
A moon circles the planet's orbit
disappearing for half its route
The pair to each other seldom forfeit
as the line a circle includes
Equal is the distance to travel
each point on the curve a mirror
Where certainties of existence unravel
life's axis tilting familiar
Measuring far to near the ruler proves a riddle
intersecting meaning in a nexus of middles
I see the landscape
Uneven, ravaged corpus
Devils in the dust
Glass shards on a road
Strange courage walking barefoot
Among shining stars
Angry rain rushes
Cresting rivers, rising tides
The land washed away
Light punctures the night
Constellation of rhinestones
Who can tell heaven?
Bending currents around banks
Back to beginnings
Days in December
Afternoons dark and shuttered
Mired in doubt, look above
Cloud from cloud, and some combine
Solace in science and art
Rain wakes languid sleep
Beating hard against the hour
Heavy heaves the huntress
Sun, lazy to rise
Drowsy eye amidst the clouds
Daylight dims, stars gone
Shadows disappear from view
The sun standing still
Wild winds whirl through trees
Lifting the hem of king tides
The beach now is empty
A low sky, stars spark
Sea and shore close their divide
Radio waves move at the speed of Light,
Cacophony--cold--as Daylight's quick exposed.
The Moon on a trampoline--bouncing or bending--
Hangs round in empty Space radiating divinity.
A crown of stars coronates the Universe.
I can give you musicBrighter than the sunPlatform-soled chorusTo leave you undoneBeatboxing double-timeRhythm on the tongueA glitter gold goddessSpeaking her mindIn daydreams, acoustic
without magic square or measure of angles--precise
turn corners to curves as wonder bends light.
Unhook the stars
And scatter them
At my feet, paving
The journey across
An empty sky
This way my heart broke
as tides beat the shore
or purple mountains erode
by pebble and stone worn
The machine mighty--
Silver electric steel
Dynamo and plastic heat
--dies, a lapse deity
"Where will you go," they ask her."I will look outside," she said. The words are in the woods, wild and wreckless, between wide and narrow tree rings, beneath the arch of branches. Distances change and the limits of conception expand with the enormity of the world scaled to her footsteps. Words are in the woods defiling silence, moving across the landscape to puncture, to protect, like a sharp blade or bullet. In darkness and dim light, she doesn't have to be good, even if she's alone and even if she's lonely. She hears herself breathing, listening for the shattering glass of myths breaking. Between shadows and slant of light, in the too-full woods, she can imagine there's nothing to be afraid of. She dreams of fireflies under speckled midnight skies, of fooling fear and slicing inhibition, of losing control. In the woods, there's nothing to hold down; she comes undone, unwrapped of ambiguity, restored in revelation. She creates words in the woods, flesh and dust.
She dreamt of beautiful things and wondered what’s to be, who’s to know and what’s to see. She took a rocket through the skies, and the stars streamed and planets twirled, oceans opened and swallowed worlds. From high above, she fell hard to earth, beneath the cloud and Wordsworth. This world too much, she said to him, soon and late: for mischief and madmen to trip the gates and send us hurling through space and time, head over heels and eyes shut tight, out of step and out of mind. She pulled the horizon like a rope, and wrapped it twice around a Cypress tree, and left the gun where it was found, silver and cold and the barrel ground. Along the slow drawling river, all night and early morning, she sang the blues to ravens, silver dollar bracelets shaking, while around her hearts and beats and levees breaking.
She’s leaving home, getting out of the city, to clear her head, searching for a sky wider than her imagination. Restless, she wants to start, to say aloud what’s only been in her head, leaving all the hours she has known, each moment, on the side of the road. Cars moving slowly, and she moves so fast, a superstar. She says the best things are daydreamers, wishful stars, bends or curves, summersaults and cut grass, open windows and breezy freeways. Once, she believed the myth that she couldn’t be anywhere else. Letting go of evidence, discarding words to listen to daylight, she drives to places alone listening to the radio, obliterating everything to discover the world is not the shape of her window.
A seam is not a fold
Wholeness of a single history,
Cut on the bias between
Domestic lives and secret souls.
Translucent patterns stitched in pairs
Trace irregular borders, turning eyes inward
Among rows of machines, thread and bobbins
Twists of silk, knots of embroidery, scents of love.
The secret lives of seamstresses
In those factories, those offices,
Binding words and sentences.
spring loaded and wearableabsolutes spin as certainty--the hammer drops like lead--exploding bite size beliefsto shatter bone and rip flesh
Dying is fury, the fury of sunsets. Dylan Thomas, tells us: “Fight, fight the dying of the light.” I always picture that scene through the haze of smoke, late at night. When I smell cigarette smoke, I can hear country music: a bending steel guitar, the quick-quick-slow of a two-step, and the cool trickle from a long neck keeping time. I hear Loretta telling me she wants to be free through the pop and hum of curves on my old albums, when the needle on a RCA record player rolls over the vinyl hills of Williams’ highway, lost, like youthful promises, to a bend no one can see around. I would rather watch flowers wilt, wither, than dust collect on silk and plastic, forgotten on the shelf through the shuffle of days. Dying is hard, I think. Sinking down into a mattress, I fall to pieces, my weight dropped…like a beat between bars. Consciousness is hard. When boots scuff across a wooden planked floor, there’s a meter to that heal, crushing starts and ends. Rage rushes through these hisses and hums of mono, of imperfect acoustics to accompany killing and drinking and fighting songs sung through a sneer, like Johnny does, or, against a driving train rhythm that just pushes on, like a heart beat, like a pulse, like blood rushing through veins.
I had a dream.
And it faded away.
It wasn’t good or bad.
Just lost, like socks in a dryer.
We had ideals, this fidelity burning like fire, like promises passing in an hour, like the softness of words when they ramble. We crumble, keeping time and disassembling, holding onto what keeps us trembling. The past and future jitter, like words scratched on walls, the weight from which we crawl, like stars falling against a window, sliding into night’s perfect indigo.
And I’ll follow you
from dream to dreaming,
through lazy white clouds
drifting across an ocean of sky,
wider than both our minds.