haitian love song.

B. Olritch

my spirit
ran to greet you
before my feet
left the porch

In the witching hours, all this morning & throughout today my thoughts have been fixed on Haiti. I’ve read and reread reports on the earthquake, as well as the country’s dark and violent history. When I close my eyes, I see the dark glasses and blank faces of the Tonton Macoutes. “Baron Samedi” lingers bitter and wretched on my tongue–the voodoo loa of death & sex that Papa Doc patterned his menacing appearance after.

Nightmares.

And yet I cannot let it go. A couple of years ago I did some extensive research on the country and its history, preparing to write an extended essay on Haiti utilizing the narrative of Graham Greene’s The Comedians. I suppose I’m continuing that research now…and devastated that I cannot call my dad to discuss all of this swirling catastrophe & cataclysm. He loved Haiti with all of his heart, wept at the destruction and political unrest, the violence. I know he’s weeping now.

tiny buttons.

All in the meantime, in between meetings and phonecalls and too-tight embraces by lovers you never really loved (never really loved–no, I suppose not, not in the way you should), all these tiny burdens pressing into shoulder flesh (leaving little pink lines in circleshapes, button-pressed like dozens of small pox scars) compels a search for sandpaper; skin scrubbed clean to the marrow erases all evidence of what even Is.

Start new in the garden, naked bones & dust,
as arrived.

to terms.

When speaking to the great, wild enormity of a West Texas sky, I don’t talk to God anymore–I talk to my dad. Recognizing his revenant in the seawave sparkle of a thousand stars and spilt-milk highways, it’s easy to believe he’s listening from both above and within my bones where blood is born–blood he gave and gives to me. For isn’t he (1/2) my Creator? And didn’t I make him my god as a child? Without pedestal or platform, a broken gutter god.

Nonetheless, his is still the shape of soul I look to, share secrets with in the quiet moments when chaos is ebbed.

She said, “You three
walked into that room
little girls,
emerged as women.
You can never
go back to innocence.”

I grieve & settle into an infinite sadness. Though there will surely be days balloon-bursting with Lovely, there’s a crack fixed and irreparable. A low hissing leak. Less air to breathe.

dear daddy,

I miss your guts.

process.

(I wrote this letter to my father last year after he told me a story about good intentions gone awry…)

A heavy heart soaked in gasoline stench, one lit match away from combustion. My blood of your blood stirs to a stopping, while these bones of your bones echo impending gloom. In a penitent forest, on a throne of dry wood, you dread newer nightmares to come, but here’s a little bird that’s alit near your ear bringing both ululation and laughter [raw discordant exhales push an idea(l) of haleness] to fight such machinations of sulfur.

Still, my typewriter heart jams on a feeling, contriving all goodness for grace. I want what you want, a happier ending–or control of my own god damned fate.  And though chance’s cruel schooling may convex our spines with sickly greenstick precision…we’ll stalk sanctuary back-aisles, cellars and bell spires, pressing tenderly the walls of the these hallowed places to our palms–but with heads hanging bent and hearts calling up, we splinter-souled Quasimodos of hope.

thanks-giving.

I’m thankful for Oryx, the white canary kitten who cuddles so well in the dark cold of desert winter, red wine, gorgeous housemates in an enormous house in the center of town, hummingbirds, family far away (but I can still feel their warmth), a town full of beautiful/crazy/amazing folks who care, good coffee roasted across the the street from where I work, work, dear friends, blue skies & milky way nights, and more more more.

Thank you.

hypnopomp & circumstance.

I am sleepwalking–
id-engaged like an animal
think better when I walk
the tracks home;

[there is water in the moon]

& this hummingbird hums
into the sin-
ewy space just west of my spine;
I ring like a harp
the color of railroad
ties & satellites.

knitting.

“Living is knitting according to the intentions of others. But as we dot it, our thoughts are free and all the enchanted princes can stroll through their parks between the instants when the hooked ivory needle sinks into the yarn. I crochet things…” -Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Julie Speed.

Something pretty pretty pretty.

http://www.galleriurbane.com/juliespeed/JULIES.PDF

everything that happens is from now on.

I wrote a thing or two last night, late by candlelight.
Slowly, slowly I’m re-membering, re-turning focus
to such woodsy thoughts. It is Fall, afterall, and I
look forward to chilly mornings with a little espresso
and a slantlight-lit kitchen table & typewriter or notebook.
No distractions, save for the white kitten playing parrot
on my shoulder.

Maybe. Someday.
Soon.