a weight is lifted.
the earth is round.
the earth is full.
the moon is high and bright.
it lights my way
through dark days
when the sun is hidddne from me.
the sun is a mystery.
the sun is my enemy.
the sun is too bright.
it burns and blinds
and cooks me where I stand.
(I usually edit, edit, edit, for months, but I'm trying some un-edited stuff) (...ok...I added one comma...) (but really, that's all I did) (I swear) (I think...) One Moment there is no series there are no clicks no clicking moments no moment when one moment becomes another no segments of time no striations in the stratum no layering of one on top of another no clickclickclicking of ticks or tocks only one moment, unending and unimaginably long and impossibly short
(for my dear friend, Jeremy Nathan Marks, a poet of mind-boggling talent, for whom this poem has been promised for far too long, though not so long perhaps as the lives of poems go...they are ancient things, even the young ones, and as Memory is my negative Muse, I can not recall exactly where or when this piece began, except that I know it began in one of the many enriching conversations I have had with this man.) The Night Heron the night heron stands silent as the sea refuses the sun. shorebirds' shadows fall on deafness like lids. the sun speaks and you see the stars. the wind tells your stories in voices of the night. you hear. you listen. you find your roots in the reaching branches beneath still waters. broken reeds whistle a hollow tune in the wind and chatter like bones in the breeze. a clap, and you fly, pulling long legs from the water dripping behind you, lighter than any great blue, heavier than light. we search the sky for fish while our branches blow in air. we stand knee-deep in wetness while all the life, all the time, is right here. this song sings itself in the sun. undone things thunder as one while the elders look on mutely and mourn the lost morning of man. this work will never be done. this song can never be un-sung.
Well....looks like I blew it. A high tea for 30 ladies on Wednesday afternoon, dinner for 160 today, plus the restaurant. Just couldn't manage. Not enough solid time for my usual omphaloskepsis (lovely little new favorite word...contemplating one's navel as an aid to meditation...a very vital part of my writing practice, I have discovered...) We'll see if I can post up two later today? Maybe that will sort of count as catching up. My brain is swiss cheese. All that I run on is fumes. The words are buried.
I want that feeling. I miss that feeling but I don't miss wanting that feeling so much of the time and I don't want to miss that feeling anymore, having so much of one's mind made up of the wanting and the waiting for that wanting to go away. Yes, I do want it. I want it so badly that I can not risk what having that could mean what kind of lean that could lead to, what kind of lean need that could mean to me.
(no, really...) ...of "What the hell is this?!" and times of "Ah, this and this go here and that goes there." and many episodes of “Just a little off the top, a little snip here, a little trim at the back” and times of “More here, build this up and up, Yes! more there too, just a bit more in the middle” interspersed with the odd (usually very odd) sequence of "Ummmmm..." and occasional (ok, fairly frequent) times of “Would. You. Just. Get. The. Fuck. In. There. I. Swear. I. Know. You. Will. Fit. God. Damn. You. Fuck. ing. Words.!.!.!"
