the weird signal

a fluid popping sound in
the cluster of round globes
spun like silk, zealous but
unimpressed
while a delicate signal flashes
like a dying insect into itself. We should know better, thrusting
our endless ideas into the illusory corner, banging our heads together. We should find
relief in the weird
signal. We feel better
this way, overwhelmingly alone, distorted and contorted against
the sprawling seashore. I felt wet hands groping from below,
in the shallows like a
dream serpent and squealed.
We follow the thread into its knotted center and curl
against the cluster, crushing
our inner vacancy, kneading it
into a firm and solid
concentration, a pill, a
pulsation, a
reminiscent beacon.

confounded

sounds of shallow puddles
and funky swallows
a bird hears loops,
and swims a spinning spiral
this one
alive in all pulsing fullness
and striving, like
feathered leaves
to move , against the force
upards forever, crooning, ballooning
and leaving the silent garden
to spawn

the world you love

The world you love is a spinning point in a great revolving field. The field of stars, extended with incredible deliberation outward everywhere, bound together with threads of light like music. The heart you hold, central in your body, a quiet tenderness that makes you human, these places all fit with exact precision to the world you love. Fathers watch living enactments of the actualization of love, all the time, a bird and flower and light arrangement of parts. The souled body; a room in the middle of all these concentric circles. I make a gesture, my mind relaxes to you, and around me you settle in like a chamber of breathable liquid, the air; an infinity of possible points. In the most elaborate and sudden construction, billions of tiny arrangements form. The wheels of time and physical motion collide with the border of actual conception, the conception of life, and we recreate the world. I am always making these adjustments, and finding ways to communicate, to interact with you. Please listen, turn your ear and your heart to my voice. I am offering you something, a living reminder, calling out from a place so unseen and untraveled, where you astoundingly are. Live in the way that brings your heart up from a well of held peace.

the death of beauty

I just woke up the same way I have done for
one hundred sundays, in my bed alone, still
sleepy, quickly losing my dream awareness.
I start thinking of my lonliness. It burns,
but not enough; I am still comfortable here,
in this repeating cycle, that always brings
me to my thoughts on sunday. It is not good.
My head is blocked and heavy; by the end of
each day, I am falling down defeated. I can
remember being alive with a quick vibrancy,
connected like water to the vast expanses of
a world spread out beneath me. Now I am sad.
I want to see you, right now; there is no
better time. I turn to you, turning inward
to myself, a soft place, and a blinking
ember, just enough to ignite the old flame.

Today, we are all womanly. A little twisted
shield, that you hold, that you need, that
will not protect you. We must learn to open
in the tender way of flowers to one another.
But I am just bored, and cynical. And I am
obviously stuck in a place where love is so
scarce, I am oblivious to the love I found.
Like a giant snake, return. Give me a soft
home in the hills, where the earth is clean,
and the water is cool and fresh; give me all
this and I will abandon the tired old wheel
of constant unhappiness. I am longing for a
life. I am longing and pulling hard at it's
threads, my failure. The death of beauty, in
all my dreams, strained out of the faces and
houses, making little buzzing model machines
to fly; crying out how long I've loved you.

circling in

a few times, the correct phrasing
ultimately divides, a cold raisin,
splayed open in the fingers
of a little rambling song
someone listen! undo
the creases of your mind on that
soft green pillow
a light, pale, unnatural green
like the green of the florescent
eco-demons, traveling
in droves though an only semi-parallel
world, a cheap digital imitation
of reality, stripped clean of emotion
and repercussions. A bat flew in,
and the boys all smiled,
music, making a play on
the back of her neck, light
and some vibrating sand on a plate;
golden, reminding you
of her, the way she spread out
and open underneath the sun, like
a field on a hill. Startled, the
animals all scurry off and fly up
depending on their form,
and you are alone, except
that we are never alone.

the feeling that he/she likes you

in every moment, I forget you,
and all that you have done
to protect me, to give my life
a quiet glowing warmth, that I
carry everywhere, and goes into
other people's eyes. but i
digress; leaking out of my
hands, with my feet sort of
twisting against the floor,
i think heavily about the
people i am not like, and i
want to jump and dance in
a swirling circuit of fire.
This is the way it goes, a
sort of swollen flop forward
into the curtain of tangled
meanings. Holding onto a
cold black rail, i watch
water dancing in a ceaseless
and relentless way, it makes
my face twitch, i am smiling
hard against this feeling of
incredible defeat, and you

walk quietly up beside me,
and look over; we are
afraid together--i know i
am--and also in motion,
turning together
like the ongoing ocean.
whatever this feeling is,
give me your hand, and
together we'll submerge,
breaking the thin
vast film between worlds,
and surface, where everything
is superficial.

watersong

there it goes in great gushes
sloshing
all over the forested surface
channels and creases
and blankets, sheets,
sparkles of fire, wet glint, the spray
all strange forms
all born from the same ocean
folding and foaming
arousing a small glittering vision
a static pulsing,
bent light leans in
on the creature, the first clambering form
the moment of panic
gutteral noise, bloom, blossom, blown
the curtain dropping
and lifting
revealing the
complex meandering of
some animal, silhouetted and momentary
like blinking
or swallowing water

concertainty

I ME
I make a bird
'IF you cans e e with
out looking
AS long as a filament
as long as a ray,
tENSe; past and present
teNSe ; pointed : poised
!
a perfect little raft
to hold fifteen thousand
species of ant
. They are so small
> The world is so small
= everything
listen
there along the sundrenched shore
in a sundress, soaking, WHat kind
of a woman am I. WHere is all of
this going,. there we go again...infinity

who ever said, whatever, or never
combine mathematics and poetry. i

really really like looking out &
across the sea, when there are
sillhouettes of diving flocks of
seabirds, and sand to press your
feet into, and the sense of being small

We should feel that way looking out into
the internet, too, that it goes on and on
and on forever, below and above the surface,
like a sea of swirling brine, capable of sustaining or
destroying life, and of dissolving everything; and indifferent
.

wet with light

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

curling ARound the current

the bent flame of the animal locks its grip on man with
unwavering eyes, no one understands the current that is
passing between, no one; eat them, make a tree bend hard
and snap, feed them, wash your face, make a little gesture
so she will come, the room i am in is not me, it's not at all
like me to be in here! I should be in trees, swimming around
naked, Laughing and making the animal noises. I was
spinning as a child, and always snapping twigs and
springing up. I remember getting quiet and listening
to the continuous purr. the animal is waiting somewhere
outside, I sleep, human dreams and memories, a
thousand fish crossing great open tracts of sea; the old
hull of a ship, corroded, and worn through by the brine;
a woman, all tangled in seaweed; the notebook and
the open inkwell, a library in the forest; she sat calmly
in the surf, taking her time with each piece, like music
she had to write, and i spoke but without a common
language, so i remembered my breath, and the small
things, the snail and the crab, his serrated edges.
today, all I need is something fluid, some movement,
depth, horizon, and the birds, that is all.

the beginning of anything

they encircle me
in a silent concert
ten, eleven, twelve
droop and swirl
swoop and drool
i am an under-
water canary
trying to sing
in the liquid thickness
SEE! the drifter slips in
alongside the fourteen
children and in a soft
and enchanting voice
recounts the day before
when everything was smelling
like garbage and your eye
was twitching
give in, he says.
There are flippers
and fantastic fortunes in the
night and in the blooming
of your tiny song, oh please
SING!! use
the very most
simple of gifts,
the very most
tender offering,
a word with
smooth curls and
important lines, the
balance and the elegant
spontaneous gesture
ALIGHT!!! Love is like
a bird resting on a branch, breathe
easily in and out, your shoulders
dropping, remember those fierce
bright wet eyes how they saw you,
remember, and go
on like a flower,
giving everything
and be curious like
a child, alive like one thousand
children, like a swarm of light
the notes all blending
and bleeding together
as in a dream.

the golden flow of time

to descend, in a
gentle way through
the bright chambers of
sweet calm beautiful
light, all the way down
to the inner glowing
sun, the soul in which
the heart rests
i am doing each thing
because i must,
and because i am trying
endlessly to learn something
and avoiding something,
and learning to be close
to what i am avoiding
while keeping it by me in
a strange ancient rhythm
a movement of the feet
and arms, all so hesitant
and wordless at first
and then breaking open like
a birds egg, all over the
two of us, all over the world

fearless delirium

what is dancing: slippery strange & sillhoutted

this is a question to which the appropriate answer is green and wild like a shoot
I came into the room because there were three places I wanted to be at once
again the little bell chimed and caused an unexpected shyness in my belly
she waited in the parlor holding a packet of old papers and muttering
the famous congregate in a place made of ten old aluminum frames
getting really really close to something but not quite touching it
the fingers on her handmade dolls were unnatural looking
I spent entirely too much money on repairs and tickets
all of this is exactly the same and slick with hot oil
i went backwards for twenty-five minutes swiftly
along came a tiger wearing a wristwatch and tie
afterward all the confused mingling ones left
against the rhythm of the band she reveled
I will stand here in my underwear awhile
lost in a softly billowing pillow of white
two of us making love in a cloud of lust
the music makes me feel an emotion
everyone is watching me i know it
there goes the showboat outside
beautiful as anything at two am
we will remind ourselves to be
sliding across the deck naked
clambering across the heap
giving in to the primitive
actually knowing love
confused with glee
stand behind me
wearing nothing
smiling openly
knowledge is
continuous
silhouetted
rather dull
i am tired
we like it
the word
wonder
power
flame
trees
skin
ink
lily
cat
ax
it
a
i

thirteen Bushtits

a white line stretches out forever
and upon out feet
a little rubber padding
perfect for dancing
we are the people who come
quickly across the wet hills
dripping with ideas
and bound in the strangest
sounding ways
a little fire draws a small circle
of fluttering ghosts
all keeping ahead of the
last most devastating thoght
the towering fever
the blinding oblivion
spits and scatters all
matter violently and evenly
like seeds across the wet hills
a filament of something
resembling truth whirrs
and begins in the gaping
chasm of space we spread
ourselves out as naked
as fish beneath such skies and
quietly watch them, all
thirteen of them, passing through
the scrub oak, gray and white
diminutive and deliberate

a place in the braid

with calm observe these three minutes as they pass like liquid over the hills and satisfy something inside my body like a ghost I wrap in a twining entanglement the hero his home is a silo a broad sweeping field ranges out for a quarter mile beneath whatever kind of sky is holding reception some force behind those stars, each point a tiny burning everything forever and climbing then and with such grace all timid and ticklish; he holds both hands together like a cup and calls upwards is this me, is this all i am, is this my time; and the music is tiny and it rocks him and it mocks him oh leave me alone! Oh dearest bird of all fire and color, just give me time and music and send me forwards like you are, ALL unthinking and strange, all pleasant and then tender, I give all I am to you, little voice, I forget who I am for you , and you leave me again and again, in a strange bind, singing to the silent stars.

thinking: hard and fast

this is almost certainly

a lie, or the opposite
the starkly revealing flash
of something too true to notice in emission
the apparition of some forgotten aim
like a dream I swallow
deep gulps of
thick silent stale air
the air in my life and then
like a quietly rising balloon
just like that
i am gone

..... as long as the water .....

I am a well

saddened camel
as tired as a giraffe
in the dust at dusk
as bright as a fish in the sun
as long as the water
and my head is bobbing
like candy over the water
I leave you
splashing and
pouring out the heart of all you
love, the heart of all you've done
like a dancing camel with wheels

we laid face up and stared
into so many fluid dreams
through which we would
swiftly flee for fifty sweet
and sappy minutes; for fifty
minus twenty two times thirteen

whatever, days or minutes;
I seem to have lost count

I sit in your pool
as long as the water
my bottom
all sopping
and sob