It comes in threes and here’s the third, bad news couched in benign words, no, pareidolia– man in the moon, Jesus in a breadloaf, such a hunger for finding something, anything, even terror. You asked what you should say. Nearby is the country they call life you will know it by its seriousness. Rilke. I don’t know, nor do I want to, really. Give me your hand.
The day’s calvacade, a clatter of hours– this life could use more sotto, more legato. A thing is more striking given the proper setting: Consider a spotlight in its wealth of darkness. The weight of a caesura. Excursive silence.
The night before a departure, waiting for that balm of Not Here. It’s supposed to come in threes, but between worse, and worst– I mean, I can’t even tell if this food has gone bad– implications are tiring. I’m going to the ocean, to take in the water’s endless rehearsal and the steady, steady shore, to live in the littoral– there’s not one thing that isn’t somehow in motion, just I wish they sometimes weren’t
And like that, overnight, the end of full summer— a tainted glass, rain, that striking first chill. Oh there is something so sad and lovely about these first days of autumn: A distance carries more, an absence weighs, a heart grows blonder, gold as desire, as early larches turning to fire, as bold gestures dreamed of in quiet hours, the night gone still. The night that follows the day, the beauty and terror of the […]
Still here, still, here. How many times did she say it? The practice is yoking together. Sprawled along the floor like I know what I’m doing, Ujjayi, ocean breath, now come and meet this foreign body, a little space, a little more, a common interest we seem to share, now tell me more–
An expanse of hours an evening stretching open like a mouth cool breath no, cold . Watching the gulls amid the old hotels and new, so obviously not homes . Anywhere just anywhere else but here
The late-July breeze, distinctive in ease, a quiet morning slipping by, I wake and say I’m here! I’m here! somehow still a fear of loss, despite the day unfolding like a lawn chair, predictable, light-weight . To have, to hold– a leaf-dappled scene a girder on the building, perforated at regular intervals and the word EMPTY over and over, is it a warning? or a confirmation . There is so much space inside these days, so little tethering […]
another day box-like in progression, predictability, oh inflexibility of time– I’d rather an ocean I’d rather that ocean sound that imperfect rhythm constant yet somehow revelatory I know the pilgrim changes it’s not the pilgrimage per se but things are always more tolerable somewhere else
colder this side of the pass rain and the threat of rain, almost worse i think for being imagined, and you couldn’t imagine the things i can think in the vastness of a room
Still light as day this late the urge to linger is compelling a cesura and June gives way like a sandbank I should pack it’s not even that hot but these days there is a muggy weight to motivation why change these hours are made to sit and make plans to pin the days in place tomorrow is a new day but it isn’t here yet
OPTIONAL POETRY 