Friday, August 22, 2014
Words are flesh,
they break silence in the shadows,
they lie in wait with giant eyes.
Then on the edge of dawn,
we sit down
and together we look for a secret door .
The words have a hand on everything
the ficus leaves,
this crazy joy,
smell of the puppy, all manner of delicate weird stuff,
Not the force that moves the hand on the paper.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
A loss of harmony with the surrounding space, the inability to feel at home in the world, so oppressive to an expatriate, a refugee, an immigrant, paradoxically integrates him in contemporary society and makes him, if he is an artist, understood by all. Even more, to express the existential situation of modern man, one must live in exile of some sort.
—Czeslaw Milosz, “On Exile”
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
[…] find words for which you
yourself have a fondness. If this is difficult, then I
suggest you use one word to cover the many. The objects
you see from where you sit may be “anything.” “Anything”
may be “nothing,” depending on what your
feeling is. By all means, use “something” if you
agree with the poet who shrieks, ” There is not nothing,
no, no, never nothing.”
— Mark Strand, from “The Monument,” New and Selected Poems. (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009)
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Monday, August 18, 2014
talks to me tells me stories
for miracles and sweet love;
a bitter song is pouring out from
a broken window
and here is the taste
of ice tea memories and ;
by night under ball field lights
Brown Drake hatches
and nothing is real more than
it should be,
the magic graffiti of time
lies in pieces like a jigsaw puzzle
and the inescapable night
locks me in.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
As we all know, a dream hesitates. it doesn’t grasp, it stands back, it jokes, it makes itself scared, it circles, and it fizzles.
A dream often undermines the narratives of power and winning…
A dream breaks into parts and contradicts its own will, even as it travels around and around.
For me, bewilderment is like a dream: one continually returning pause on a gyre and in both my stories and my poems it could be the shape of the spiral that imprints itself in my interior before anything else emerges on paper.
For the spiral-walked there is no plain path, no up and down, no inside or outside. But there are strange returns and recognitions and never a conclusion.
Marigolds are yellow. Trees sway.
Summer like summer. Autumn like autumn.
Everything is forgiven. Nothing changes the sky .
Rain. Green places. All of it.
We are all in a moving mystery,
There will be no second coming.
So, what? Birds peck at crumbs.
I care about some words.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Twilight was a wanderer. He had no one in the world, no home to speak of. Difficulties arose. He was not articulate. He birthed each sentence. He got bored quickly.
"Oh Lord, I thought. I have got to get out of here. I am gone. I sent for the door. The endless summer sky. Then I found God in a box. Yup, not a burning bush, a plain wooden box. Not some Billy Graham Jesus god, I mean the real deal God. The voice whispery like a warm, autumn breeze. It's made a big difference. Everything seems sharper, brighter. Flavors, everything I eat tastes like the first meal of a starving man. I'm noticing things, figures out of the corners of my eye, voices between waking and sleeping. I will die like a leaf falling from a tree. Every angel will wail. New suns will piss gold."
Image: Indian Sadhu, dongo narayam baba omkareshwar