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 trying. No
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 sinewy 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. I want to be Julie Speed when I grow up–
her work is stellar, and it’s a joy to see her riding her bicycle around town.

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.

after all that…

I cannot write, can’t keep hands
from quaking & hyper-ventilate
an id panic. no good to any blood
thing now. can’t can’t can’t. un-well.

meteorites.

Mismatched perceptions of incredulousness,
meteorites coalesce in the quietus of some
new meaning, some new something created
to meet the fire of your mind, endless wit. &
the absence of an apple starves a heart—it eats itself.

stars, fall.

When candles die I can
see violet-eyed Judas Iscariot,
dead dead & trampled, breathless
balloon-head with the guts hanging out.

placing.

The day is six, it’s
sped away
& now I am
[here] without
meaning or You.

admission #(plenty).

The perfect [letter or poem] is a unicorn, elusive magic, and I fear if I finally seize it, the deathdeer protector of this wilderness between us will arrive at heart’s threshold with antlers thrust & a craving for blood in the gut.