At first it was enough
To know the tree was there
That something generous and
Wholly undemanding had appeared
An opening for wonderment
In a beleaguered space
It was enough by itself — adding
More too soon would have
Tipped it in the wrong direction
Trust had to bloom in its shadow first
And then, primed and steady,
They started to receive
And so the dark matter of my soul forms a tear, a slit
so slippery it glides a path for hidden fears to
sidle down to self-dismissal. From narrowed
marrows of neglected time, it rips and gapes
and gasps, widens lurking wise-ass-ness to force
a burgeoning crevasse, an opening so rank
and hungry, it on itself begins to feast and pulse and
hope for bitter ends dissolving into passage
through this misconceived existence.
The hardness of me falls
into a softness indefensible.
I was a man once, slaved to forecast memory,
poisoned as they loved me with conditioned frailty.
Mossy, dank and…
Colors don’t lurk in you, needing
to be turned this way and that,
begging harsh light to call them forth.
Frivolous diamonds expect you to bend
and squint and seek refraction from greedy
elusive facets keeping
all their vibrant secrets hidden
in the hard chisel of war-born crystal.
That won’t do.
For you it must be real.
Juicy, ripe, fired from Earth for
being too brilliant to abide our dust. …
All I asked the night was keep me safe.
Keep me safe in my illusions
snug in my delusions
with a blanket of soft reality, keep me
warm and tight. This is all
I asked of night. It was not enough.
In the empty space
where you were absent, fever brewed
in my belief that safety was the core
of all that made me.
So I was born a whore, enslaved
to keeping things in place.
Cock-sucking darkness, I sank deep inside
dull humanity’s abandoned causes.
I wept and slept and breathed in
and out this weak-knee’d craving
for security. Until the deluge came
rushing, thrusting, pouring…
There’s an honesty between us
that out of hand instantly forgives
all the lies she’s telling me.
The way the weary dairy maid in spring
preemptively forgave the old crook
for stealing away her summer newborn.
Because he was a god. Because he was
her god. And she was his
to feed or slaughter
per whims of wind divined
by his fervent love of Eire.
Onto a grainy beach in brining
subterfuge, she delivered me by means
unexplained. I nodded when told our boat
had to be ferried in secret on dark currents
cured by ancient tears of cloven mystics.
I nodded and kissed her…
Let’s face it: this won’t be televised.
There’s nothing Phil Liggett would find compelling in the scenery of my keyboard. VeloNews won’t be vying for photos of my furrowed, screen-lit stare. No fervent fans line the crowded desk-side with faces painted, shouting allez allez allez while I grind down, typing madly, wishing for a musette.
This is writing.
From the spectator’s point of view, there’s not much more than a little finger music happening here.
Even so, this is my Tour and white-knuckled passage through the Vuelta, where I intend to gut it out all the way to the finish…
I love you, but — Muse, your timing sucks. Why can’t we work this differently for a while? Ideas — the fluid, sexy-irresistible leads with which you often turn me down prolific paths, running over cliffs to get there — what if you for once tried delivering when I’m ready-steady lounging in wide open spaces — pen in hand — my mind a ballpoint?
I’ve had it with the deluges — rushing me from bed at 2 am — crashing rudely through drawn curtains to harass me in the shower slippery — moments after I’ve begun to lather.
Clay pot crowns our star
Sun fires ever present
Ocean inside rises to a boil
Cooking a multitude of grains
Hand picked by earth-bound angels
Bending over centuries in wet grass
In the womb two grains of being
Begin to split into the infinite
Sequence of cells composing a human
What builds and heals and loves and
Loses to start again — this life force
Delivers us to rice and rice to us
No argument from me: this sucks. It’s hard, confusing, utterly upsetting. It’s keeping you awake, making you feel small, like crawling under a rock. It hurt, knocked you down, broke your spirit.
In time this will be a memory. But what can you do in the next five minutes to step out of mind-numbing distress?
Scientists, gurus, countless articles assert: problems can’t be solved by the mindset you’re in. You’ve gotta shake loose, remember who you are, feel at least a little bit in charge again.
Pick up a pen. Find paper. Look around and without art or pretense, begin…
Word of the day is: Hot!
Sighs in summer night say: Heat.
Creativity is hot. I mean
Strip down before
A blowing fan, melting slivered ice
Under your tongue, or stand over
AC vents chasing oven temps out
From loose, billowing skirts — but
You’re still sweating: that kinda hot.
And I mean h-o-t hot,
As in ooh baby, baby.
Cosmic fires are lit.
Life is sparking wild
Inside me while the ripe
Strawberry moon rises.
I came across a small note in a journal I kept when I was pregnant. …