I need you to read
through me like a script i have
I need you to read
through me like a script i have
Life for us is a game of words
in a world that lives without them.
You want the world to be an ethical place
but what does ‘the world’ mean? What
does ‘place’ mean? What does it mean
for the one to be or become the other?
If we were not here, would ‘the world’
care if it was an ethical place or not?
Could it become anything other
than what it already was?
Evne wehn teh wrods dno’t maek mcuh snese,
my thoguhts loko betetr in linse of eqaul legnth.
And the mathematics of the self?
What is the sum? What is the product?
What is the difference?
guilt is a kind of
punishment that we learn to
inflict on our( )selves
Caution, meet wind.
Keepin’ the ‘Po’ in NaPoWriMo…
I walk out of the house and I cannot remember where I am going but still, I go there.
this is not spoken word. these are words, spoken. ~ this is not slam, this is the door. this is the window. this is the glaze. this is the breeze brought across your skin. this is the wind on the water and the breath on the surface. this is the ripple. ~ this is the breath of the earth brought to the sky. this is the surface where the landscape is seen. this is the landscape where we all wander. this is the place where we all are lost and this is the only place where we will ever find each other. ~ this is living a vibrant adage. this is living on a verdant ledge. this is living on that vibrating edge. ~ this is not my body. this is my voice. this is vibration brought into being. this is my mind pushing a column of air, somewhere. this is sound shaped into meaning. this is me breathing, in you. this is muscle and cavity, moving. this is diaphragm, lung, larynx, tongue, lips and jaw. these are my words in your mouth. this is my world in the mouth of your mind. ~ this is not performance, this is incantation. ~ this is where body touches mind. this is where meaning is born and this is where meaning dies. this is not finding meaning in a story. this is making a story mean something. this is not seeking meaning. this is living meaning and this is making all these things mean something. this is not seeking, this is making. this is mind making myth. this is myth-making mind. this is making myth mind. this is myth making mind and this is making me (into) a myth. ~ this is not ritual, this is invocation. ~ this is not some thing, this is something lived. this is some but not all. this is the sum. this is the current. this is the slow movement of mind and this movement is not mine. this is the company of misery. this is the beat of the beaten. this is the brand of the new. this is the spent cartridge, the smell of sulphur and a cloud of rust in a sepia sky. this is blood sucked straight from the sand. this is the tatters of the temple’s torn curtain. ~ this is pure speculation. this is mind ore. this is the whore of the mind doing its helical mambo. this is me fucking me. this is what it means. this is what “it” means. and this is all there is. this is all there is. this is all there is. ~~~~~ (I began this piece sometime in 2015 and have tinkered with it on and off ever since. As happens often with me, I get tired of looking at things or I don't know what else to do with them and so I abandon them here....
“Poems are never finished – just abandoned”
I sometimes (very rarely--when I somehow, strangely am not too embarrassed to--when I actually feel comfortable enough to--share with people that I actually write poems...) tell people, when this, that or another topic comes up in conversation, “You know, I’m actually working on a poem about that.” Recently, I have come to realize that often this “poem” that I am working on is often just a line or two sitting in its (or their) own otherwise blank document, waiting for me to finish it (or them)--sitting there in a primordial soup of meaning (or is it meaninglessness? I lose track...), like dry little sticks, poking up through that pure white nothingness of snow, waiting for spring to come and the thaw to begin and the juices to start flowing up, up from the soil from which they are growing. So where or what is this actual “poem” that I say that I am working on? (Is it the twigs? Is it the snow? Is it hiding in the earth underneath?) It’s not the grouping of words that finally finds its way onto the page, and it's definitely not those one or two lines, sitting there, all by their lonesomes on that big, blank, cold and lonely page. It’s something else, something that existed long before I even knew where those one or two lines were going to go or where they came from or where they were going to take me. It's something that spoke to me with something more (or was it less?) than words. It's something that I sometimes think of as a constellation, for lack of a better word to describe how this thing that hasn't yet made it's appearance in the world feels, or felt, back before it knew what it wanted to be. It's a thing that starts as a melange--part scent, part emotion, part kinesthetic feeling, part logical thought or conundrum or paradox, part memory or missing memory that pulls at me from the dark corners. It's like walking into a pantry (your grandmothers, your dream grand- mother's, your dream grandmother's dream), full of spices and herbs and root vegetables, dark and dusky autumnal reminiscent golden light and being overwhelmed, dumbfounded and found dumb and mute, being stopped right their in the tracks that you only just now (by virtue of this thing happening) realize you were riding on (when you thought you were in control, thought you were in the pilot's seat), by.....
...something... ...and then trying to put that something into words because words are all that you have and you know--you just Know--that someone, somewhere has had that something in their hands before, had it run between their legs like an obstinate feline, they've felt it brush by them, felt that very same thing's whispery wing push a gentle breeze across the skin of their upper arm and you just KNOW that you have to tell them, "I felt it too."
The poem is a thing that exists outside of time and space. It was there even before I wrote those one or two lines and it is something that is also else and other than the final thing that eventually finds its way on to the page. “A poem is nonetheless present from the conception, from the first germ of it crossing the mind—it must be scratched for and exhumed. There is an element of timelessness. The leading atomic scientist in Australia agreed with me the other day that time does not really exist. The finished poem is present before it is written and one corrects it. It is the final poem that dictates what is right, what is wrong.” —Robert Graves (from an interview in Paris Review) “Even the right words if ever we come to them tell of something the words never knew” --W. S. Merwin (from “What the Bridges Hear”, in his brilliant book of poems, The Shadow of Sirius) ~~~ It is thanks to Holly Lofgreen that I have come back to this Intersection and finally finished it and posted it after it sitting in my drafts folder for at least a year. We have been discussing this ephemeral nature of the poem--where it comes from...where it goes--which has helped me to crystalize these thoughts. There is power, real power--the kind that comes from a vulnerable honesty--in her work. You need to read her.