WHAT I THINK ABOUT: WHILE DOING LAUNDRY, SMOKING, OR DICKING OFF AT WORK

Thank you Jenni for sharing Alice Notely with me

Closer to me & closer

Now I feel like being more free

Like…

But I still want to write simply

To have you know that I am a person

And am interested in explaining personal things

What I think about

Thinking is a droplet of moister passing upward

For me

In my throat

Underneath

Lives gremlins

A closed door

What I think about

Is time

A concept that can be arranged

As a cloud with rays of light that look gray passing through it

As a circle

Like the revolution of stars and there lovers gravitation

And as a stream

With its westward or eastward flow bringing everything towards a great body

That body is you

Body can be used to describe the flesh of mammals

Or the sea

Anything else?

Plants are not called bodies

And either are stones

The difference between stones and rocks is whether or not they have been picked up

And if they have

Whether or not they’ve been placed or just thrown around a bit

Sometimes they have been placed poorly and should have just been cast off

That is the beginning of a wall

Unless there is water enough to take down them

And they are a stone

What I think about is being something

If it is good enough to be that

If it is good enough for me

If it is good enough for me to let them see it

It is alright to come home from work and take a nap

Or on Sunday to do absolutely nothing

It is alright

showing up at a woman’s door with nothing accomplished

no need to anyway

One could live there life this way

And in the end having altered nothing

Presented nothing

Have changed everything

The life of an artist

But what woman’s door would you show up at then

If by accident I see myself

A reflection in a shop window

Passing by

I think How sexy you are

I am

And why aren’t there arms all wrapped around me

Because then I would burry all this again

A lethargic lover

With nothing to prove

So like being naked in very nice sheets

Feels better

Or with enough open window to be spotted

It also lets the fresh breeze in

The difference between the quality of linen

Absolutely

SICKENING EXPLOSION OF SEED

This is a poem I like from late spring but don't know how to end

A month has passed and now as I said the lilacs are open
noted, didn’t I, the post cerulean sky

I said, those are for you, pointing out this spray of blossoms atop the dresser

did you notice the lilacs are open?

it is now that we have come to touch again

the day I walked around with those branches reaching out my breast pocket

opening

thus

sickening explosion of seed

sickening to you

no storm pounding the branches against the shutters

no tearing them asunder

the temperature just remains to hot

it was sickening explosion of seed

incomparable, that beauty

of knotted old woods repetitious innocence

sprouting and falling

a push, and out luxurious foliage

green that is silver

witnesses the sun

drinking at the branches

this is not death of or rebirth of like winter bequeaths spring

is loss of and growth of

that which unfolds now that the petals have blown

at the point that once held them, again one witnesses the undistinguishable

distinguished when I took off your clothing

It was your mouth telling me without speaking

again groans at a blood ritual

and the knocking at a gate opening

fingering the softness of intricate and ornate iron reds

perceives it to be there just before It takes him

wet dew

lying in the moist soil under overgrown thickets

prostrations, intent on listening

for a small touch as I give to you

so this wrist

and first this hand

that I remember whispering into through my lips, a part of my mouth

prayers that give rise to scented flowers

I AM ON THE PEAK OF A MOUNTAIN/CRACKLING ELECTRIC HEAT/ IN ANCIENT TIMES IT WAS STILL LIKE THIS

Journal entry 07/17/10

I am on the peak of a mountain
one side fulfilled, the other dropping off in despair

I am on the peak of a mountain
also it is my advent of time
I create with all the organism
these stories future and past
giving birth to my parents
I restore it
having received life through them
I am estranged

I am on the peak of a mountain
being fulfilled means
nurtured through small things
from the well I fill my water vessel up to the brim
finding my home here
calming down

I want to be alive
in love
to sing
to kiss her
I need to be comfortable
comforted

I need to create something I am proud of
a song
medicine

I am proud of this song by Bjork

"5 Years"

“You think you're denying me of something
well I've got plenty
you're the one who's missing out
but you won't notice
'til after five years
if you'll live that long
you'll wake up
all loveless

I dare you
to take me on
I dare you
to show me your palms

I'm so bored with cowards
that say they want
then they can't handle

you can't handle love
you can't handle love
you just can't handle

I dare you
to take me on
I dare you
to show me your palms

what's so scary ?
not a threat in sight
you just can't handle
you can't handle love”

I am proud of this poem in Alice Walkers book

“For two who
slipped away
almost
entirely:
my “part” Cherokee
Great-grandmother
Tallulah
(Grandmama Lula)
on my mother’s side
about whom
only one
agreed-upon
thing
is known:
her hair was so long
she could sit on it;

and my white (Anglo-Irish?)
great-great-grandfather
on my father’s side;
nameless
(Walker, perhaps?),
whose only remembered act
is that he raped
a child:
my great-great-grandmother,
who bore his son,
my great-grandfather,
when she was eleven.

Rest in peace
the meaning of your lives
is still
unfolding.

Rest in peace
In me
The meaning of your lives
Is still
Unfolding.

Rest in peace, in me.
The meaning of your lives
Is still
Unfolding.

Rest. In me
The meaning of your lives
Is still
Unfolding.

Rest. In peace
In me
The meaning
Of our lives
Is still
Unfolding.

Rest.”

I don’t remember much of my dreams last night
but oh, how I love to go there

I don’t want to remember her telling me that she cant give me what I want
estrangement
remembers the tapping on the center of her chest
waking her up, scented openings
ambrosia is a flower

Surrounded by half of boulders loud crazies at Café Roma

Like my grandmother, she’s given me half my style
which I can only acquire from lovely woman
porcelain
it has become dark features
so I am looking good
A kind of food
and let it go
with a smile
whith the remnants of tears not yet dried in the corners of my eyes

Lie
10 years I Ching, 5 years
I know it doesn’t work this way
summer follows spring
neither of us can control its growth
in the shape that it does
like the jungle of trees
with its mocking of birds
some unlucky weather
thunder disperses the clouds
no sorcery here
magic works out
this path with its own will

“I dare you to show me your palms”


A bit of poem that I write here now and was started earlier about my childhood

From within the sound
blows of hot steam
my mothers laborious torso plump
over the ironing board
is my childhood folded up on the sofa
crackling electric heat

Where I sang from
there was always a room meant only for Sundays best
the crisp blue garments falling off of huge shoulders
starched on the pew picking at meat under nails
from across the room this child’s stolen peak at the hairs of gendered monstrosity
his nakedness always hidden under holy white sheets

The second time I left
my father was forlorn on the concrete steps
the suburban stoop still shaded by red brick and juniper
like the city
my mother was still fucking mad

like my mother
the city was still fucking

like my fucking mother
the city was mad

A bit of poem that is just about time

the ages it has taken for water to remove mountains and leave behind canyons
are tied to the past not necessarily rotations
there are new stories that are to be told

So a mouth is open
A thought leaves ones throat
slightly changed
in ancient times it was still like this

That is all, just thought I’d try to share something in this hot month where I haven’t really been writing much but need to blog or else you might start to think I’m not real

love