Spectre
Behind you,
the weird grey graffiti of shadow.
You loom
above yourself, outside yourself.
It's called
projection--casting your darkness
onto objects,
landscapes, people. The good news?
Project
is also a noun, at least when the stress
is placed
on the first syllable. The word leans
its weight
forward, prods you on, invites you
to wear
whatever magical clothes allow the work
to happen.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Ships Set Out
Ships Set Out
Ships set out to cross oceans
with maps that ended. This was the edge
of the world with saltwater draped atop it,
unbounded as sky. Months of this,
years of this, the heading-toward-ness,
and still, the crew worked and ate
and slept and conversed. If nowhere else,
here was land, an island, a shore.
Ships set out to cross oceans
with maps that ended. This was the edge
of the world with saltwater draped atop it,
unbounded as sky. Months of this,
years of this, the heading-toward-ness,
and still, the crew worked and ate
and slept and conversed. If nowhere else,
here was land, an island, a shore.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Blot
Blot
Halfway through my drink, I notice the stain
that adorns the rim: small, smudged, pink.
All the traditional stand-ins for a lovely mouth
arrive. A petal, a bud, any part of a flower,
really. Coral. The pink underside of a seashell.
I settle on a pencil's garish eraser, which leaves
crumbs and streaks of itself to blot out error.
I press the napkin's edge to the lip print,
and clear what water and detergent had not.
Again, this becomes a glass dedicated to the task
of cleanly containing water and slivers of ice.
Some other woman painted her lips and drank,
quite recently. It is not alarming, this ongoing
exchange of mouths and glasses and water.
Halfway through my drink, I notice the stain
that adorns the rim: small, smudged, pink.
All the traditional stand-ins for a lovely mouth
arrive. A petal, a bud, any part of a flower,
really. Coral. The pink underside of a seashell.
I settle on a pencil's garish eraser, which leaves
crumbs and streaks of itself to blot out error.
I press the napkin's edge to the lip print,
and clear what water and detergent had not.
Again, this becomes a glass dedicated to the task
of cleanly containing water and slivers of ice.
Some other woman painted her lips and drank,
quite recently. It is not alarming, this ongoing
exchange of mouths and glasses and water.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Key
The Key
Here is the key to the city.
I know, it is heavy. Not the city,
the key. Not to mention gold
and beribboned. I'm assuming the gold
isn't just brass. Should I bite
it? Can't you taste gold to test it, bite
down to see if it puts up a fight
in your mouth, against your teeth? Fight
the urge to brandish the key
like a baseball bat. No, you cannot key
the Mayor's car, nor egg
its windshield, or knife the tires. Egg
me on to fit the key in a lock,
to turn it, a steering wheel that can unlock.
Here is the key to the city.
I know, it is heavy. Not the city,
the key. Not to mention gold
and beribboned. I'm assuming the gold
isn't just brass. Should I bite
it? Can't you taste gold to test it, bite
down to see if it puts up a fight
in your mouth, against your teeth? Fight
the urge to brandish the key
like a baseball bat. No, you cannot key
the Mayor's car, nor egg
its windshield, or knife the tires. Egg
me on to fit the key in a lock,
to turn it, a steering wheel that can unlock.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Stow
Stow
Put it inside of something with a handle.
Stow, tote, lug--whatever version of carry
occurs when you bend and reach for it.
Zippered, flap-pocketed, grommeted,
trimmed in leather or tweed--the bag
is heavy even on its own, even without
any of your belongings tucked away inside.
Lift with your legs. Push into the floor beneath
you, the floorboards, the grass, the rooty dirt.
Put it inside of something with a handle.
Stow, tote, lug--whatever version of carry
occurs when you bend and reach for it.
Zippered, flap-pocketed, grommeted,
trimmed in leather or tweed--the bag
is heavy even on its own, even without
any of your belongings tucked away inside.
Lift with your legs. Push into the floor beneath
you, the floorboards, the grass, the rooty dirt.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Momentum
Momentum
Tonight, a swarm of crows
hurtling overhead, with the velocity
of sand flung from a beach towel.
As if in response, the train
arrived just then, and pulled open
its doors to reveal a people
dedicated to holding closed
their coats, their scarves. This train
is conductorless, carries itself
North or South, and stops
at the same speed in every station.
How to classify this momentum:
the elevated train, cables
and currents embracing passengers,
the eruption of crows in multiple?
Tonight, a swarm of crows
hurtling overhead, with the velocity
of sand flung from a beach towel.
As if in response, the train
arrived just then, and pulled open
its doors to reveal a people
dedicated to holding closed
their coats, their scarves. This train
is conductorless, carries itself
North or South, and stops
at the same speed in every station.
How to classify this momentum:
the elevated train, cables
and currents embracing passengers,
the eruption of crows in multiple?
Friday, December 18, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009: White Christmas
White Christmas
Why the preoccupation
with holiday snowfall,
with a landscape blank
or blanketed, all the houses
and hills like the bumpy
outlines of figures in beds.
Why the need for cold,
for a calendar materialized
in weather that lingers
and lingers. Is it only so that
we can look out on it from
a place of warmth, so that we
can glide on top of it as if
our very feet had been recreated?
Why the preoccupation
with holiday snowfall,
with a landscape blank
or blanketed, all the houses
and hills like the bumpy
outlines of figures in beds.
Why the need for cold,
for a calendar materialized
in weather that lingers
and lingers. Is it only so that
we can look out on it from
a place of warmth, so that we
can glide on top of it as if
our very feet had been recreated?
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009: Branches
Branches
Branches, do you feel satiated
in the summer, the lush sheen of leaves,
saturation of sun?
It is December. What do you sense
in the river of wind coursing through the spaces
inside of you?
The snow lies on your bark like stubble.
There is a nest on your highest limb,
a bowl of twigs gradually filling with snow.
See how it balances, it doesn't spill,
so well-constructed is it within you.
Branches, do you feel satiated
in the summer, the lush sheen of leaves,
saturation of sun?
It is December. What do you sense
in the river of wind coursing through the spaces
inside of you?
The snow lies on your bark like stubble.
There is a nest on your highest limb,
a bowl of twigs gradually filling with snow.
See how it balances, it doesn't spill,
so well-constructed is it within you.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009: Toothbrush
Toothbrush
A plastic wand in the mouth, sugared gel
gone frothy from water and agitation.
Attention to the undersides, the backs,
the overlappings, the gaps. There is intimacy
in here somewhere, I tell you. The toothbrush
runs stiff fingers over calcium as a woman
untangles her mussed hair--without faltering
or judging. The bristles lean equal weight
over fissure, filling, veneer. Twice a day
we spit out traces of what's been taken in,
the blunt spikes slipping beneath the gum
as a reminder of how easily we are pierced.
A plastic wand in the mouth, sugared gel
gone frothy from water and agitation.
Attention to the undersides, the backs,
the overlappings, the gaps. There is intimacy
in here somewhere, I tell you. The toothbrush
runs stiff fingers over calcium as a woman
untangles her mussed hair--without faltering
or judging. The bristles lean equal weight
over fissure, filling, veneer. Twice a day
we spit out traces of what's been taken in,
the blunt spikes slipping beneath the gum
as a reminder of how easily we are pierced.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009: Thirst
Thirst
The wineglass does what liquid wants to,
collects in the flat puddle of the base.
The stem needs fingers enfolded around it
for it to be a tool, an index finger and a thumb
and a ridge of knuckle. When you drink,
you tilt its lip to meet yours, briefly,
and then set it against the table or whatever
surface is in front of you. All it takes to push
an object into its purpose is a set of fingers,
bent like a crane's legs, and thirst.
The wineglass does what liquid wants to,
collects in the flat puddle of the base.
The stem needs fingers enfolded around it
for it to be a tool, an index finger and a thumb
and a ridge of knuckle. When you drink,
you tilt its lip to meet yours, briefly,
and then set it against the table or whatever
surface is in front of you. All it takes to push
an object into its purpose is a set of fingers,
bent like a crane's legs, and thirst.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Percussive
Percussive
The strain and drape of clothing against skin,
measurements converted to volume, sensation.
Socked feet sliding against a tiled floor,
a sandpapery whisper deep in the instep.
Numbness sputtering into splintered pain,
a hand or foot reawakening to itself.
The big sting under an eyelid solved
in the retrieval of an eyelash, a tiny fishhook.
The gentle pressure of a cool fingertip
against the throat, percussive, verifying bone
or indentation, the places by which the body
is exposed as tent, frame, drum head.
The strain and drape of clothing against skin,
measurements converted to volume, sensation.
Socked feet sliding against a tiled floor,
a sandpapery whisper deep in the instep.
Numbness sputtering into splintered pain,
a hand or foot reawakening to itself.
The big sting under an eyelid solved
in the retrieval of an eyelash, a tiny fishhook.
The gentle pressure of a cool fingertip
against the throat, percussive, verifying bone
or indentation, the places by which the body
is exposed as tent, frame, drum head.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009: Nicolas Evariste, "The Passenger"
Sea Legs
From land to water,
the body must account for motion.
Beneath the boat,
the sea churns, a roiling, lunar
terrain. Its beat
crawls through you, adjusts your bones
within their limbs.
These movements read as uncertainty,
tremors, the shakes.
But deep inside the trembling is
a trust in the rhythm
of approaching ocean. Lean your weight
against ship against water,
and wade into disorientation.
From land to water,
the body must account for motion.
Beneath the boat,
the sea churns, a roiling, lunar
terrain. Its beat
crawls through you, adjusts your bones
within their limbs.
These movements read as uncertainty,
tremors, the shakes.
But deep inside the trembling is
a trust in the rhythm
of approaching ocean. Lean your weight
against ship against water,
and wade into disorientation.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009: Amy Casey, Begin Again (http://www.amycaseypainting.com/)
Torque
Buildings, trees, teeth.
All can be wrenched from moorings
with the proper amount
of torque. Leverage and pressure and
the impulse to yank,
and how can surroundings resist? Oh,
let's be honest here,
landscapes are altered everyday. Holes
are constructed in
city blocks, big boxes of earth and space
and beam. Trees keel
over, roots revealed and splayed like tentacles.
And of course the old
string round the open door's knob, tied to
the tooth. Steady your palm,
its innate desire to push and pull. On three.
Buildings, trees, teeth.
All can be wrenched from moorings
with the proper amount
of torque. Leverage and pressure and
the impulse to yank,
and how can surroundings resist? Oh,
let's be honest here,
landscapes are altered everyday. Holes
are constructed in
city blocks, big boxes of earth and space
and beam. Trees keel
over, roots revealed and splayed like tentacles.
And of course the old
string round the open door's knob, tied to
the tooth. Steady your palm,
its innate desire to push and pull. On three.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009: Ffffound! Quoted from:storm.jpg
Sleet
Rain on its way to becoming
snow. Water in the process
of becoming weaponry.
Droplets flung like darts.
The sting of the in-between.
Transitional types of weather
bewilder and entrance:
pearls of hail loosed upon
the green lawn; the frost
sprung up on leaves
of its own accord, an
internal snow released;
and this, the sleet,
diagonal and digging silver
claws, a volley of arrows.
Rain on its way to becoming
snow. Water in the process
of becoming weaponry.
Droplets flung like darts.
The sting of the in-between.
Transitional types of weather
bewilder and entrance:
pearls of hail loosed upon
the green lawn; the frost
sprung up on leaves
of its own accord, an
internal snow released;
and this, the sleet,
diagonal and digging silver
claws, a volley of arrows.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009: Gwenessa Lam, Curtain & Chandelier: http://gwenessa.wordpress.com
The Curtain
The curtain's spine is first to wear dirt.
The sheer panel dims over time,
a failing bulb. The edges of the ceiling fan
grow furry with sediment, like petals
recalling pollen. Without movement,
life is present, but only through accumulation,
congregation. Stillness calls out to stillness
in the language of decomposition.
Dust and tarnish will stain anything stationary,
will drape dusky hands on unmoving material,
turn brightness into pallor. The curtain sighs,
content to go on gathering, gathering.
The curtain's spine is first to wear dirt.
The sheer panel dims over time,
a failing bulb. The edges of the ceiling fan
grow furry with sediment, like petals
recalling pollen. Without movement,
life is present, but only through accumulation,
congregation. Stillness calls out to stillness
in the language of decomposition.
Dust and tarnish will stain anything stationary,
will drape dusky hands on unmoving material,
turn brightness into pallor. The curtain sighs,
content to go on gathering, gathering.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009: Ffffound! Quoted from: All About | :: Dan Shepelavy ::
Strange Beasts of the Present
These days, strange creatures still surround us,
but they are getting harder to identify
because they are learning the best hiding places.
In the hood of a car, in a wallow of oil,
for instance. Or the bottom shelves of libraries,
between pages of books that go untouched
for years. In a nest of leaves in the gutter.
In the mouth of a VCR. We'll need to teach
the children how to search for them, how to
distinguish the sound of their breathing
from the hum of the lights or the fridge,
and to coax them from their dens occasionally,
so that we can remember how good it feels
to be near to something untamed, otherworldly.
These days, strange creatures still surround us,
but they are getting harder to identify
because they are learning the best hiding places.
In the hood of a car, in a wallow of oil,
for instance. Or the bottom shelves of libraries,
between pages of books that go untouched
for years. In a nest of leaves in the gutter.
In the mouth of a VCR. We'll need to teach
the children how to search for them, how to
distinguish the sound of their breathing
from the hum of the lights or the fridge,
and to coax them from their dens occasionally,
so that we can remember how good it feels
to be near to something untamed, otherworldly.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009: Ffffound! Quoted from: Tumblr
Bow
Satin folded in upon itself,
arms bent at the elbow, clasped behind
the back. A fastening, a knot, but not
for function. You are meant to untie the bow,
to pull at one of the ends, to take its hand
in yours and disentangle its temporary
prettiness. It readily unfolds,
a butterfly transforming in reverse.
Satin folded in upon itself,
arms bent at the elbow, clasped behind
the back. A fastening, a knot, but not
for function. You are meant to untie the bow,
to pull at one of the ends, to take its hand
in yours and disentangle its temporary
prettiness. It readily unfolds,
a butterfly transforming in reverse.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009: Notcot #26715 (Post number 350!)
Resilience
This tire came from a tree.
A curved blade shaved
a strip of bark, winding
around the trunk, a whittled
barber pole, a study in
exteriors. Latex seeps
along the cut. And still,
the tree is fine, we slice
it almost every other day.
Latex drips out like overturned
correction fluid, and we
siphon it, keep it, praise it
for its ability to be changed,
its resilience. We wrap wheels
in its buoyant embrace, or
compile and compress it
into an eraser, a marvelous
tool for removing, resurfacing.
This tire came from a tree.
A curved blade shaved
a strip of bark, winding
around the trunk, a whittled
barber pole, a study in
exteriors. Latex seeps
along the cut. And still,
the tree is fine, we slice
it almost every other day.
Latex drips out like overturned
correction fluid, and we
siphon it, keep it, praise it
for its ability to be changed,
its resilience. We wrap wheels
in its buoyant embrace, or
compile and compress it
into an eraser, a marvelous
tool for removing, resurfacing.
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