the following excerpts are from a spiral that's been beside me for several weeks.
sometimes, a somnambulant insomniac wakes up and writes instead of wandering.
sometimes I am a somscribulant.
I heard a discussion about a musician/artist who was asked about some lyrics he'd written years before. he said that he did not write them and did not know the person who did.
I understand that - he was then asked what legacy he would like to leave behind;
he said he'd like, years after he had died, for some farmer somewhere to be out in his field singing one of the songs he had written, but entirely unaware of where it had come from or the name of the composer.
I understand that too.
here are some things that were not written by me in the notebook by my bed. some of them end mid-sentence and of course, I cannot complete those sentences now, since they are not mine.
********
why can't we wage a pandemic project, a gentle ardent anarchy to
put down the project of me and lift into that which
is truly
IS
amidst a country of heart's that miss themselves desperately.
if there were a hell it would have no fire or moving flame - it would be a frozen place - stuck -
unmoving like a mask with nothing left to hold it up from beneath.
.....
disrupted sleep's unnumbered dots
connect them any way you want
star constellations make pictures no matter what
because we want them there.
if to let go of wanting designs that map out what it would take to make us happy and
instead just asked
what each moment needed from us,
...
attuned to subtlety,
volatile grace,
sacrosanct ease, what can I
whisper using the tip of one finger -
a language
so soft with no place across any word's surface
to gain purchase
in my throat; I just feel the silk refuge
slipping back to
settle gently where the tongue takes
root deep in my chest-
from which direction do I enter this marginal silence;
the hidden palm of lyricism's lifeline that
...
woken by the sadness of those
unknown to me; watching over my
dangers, my weakness,
my loneliness, climbing my
halved sleep
unanswerable ache where i meet
without hesitance, a love for those who will
always be strangers to me.
and yet, thorough intimacy -
their humanness through my own
immediate, complicated nuance
-a.m. anguish
thicker than ever before
bereft
the prescription? let,
illness heal the physician let ...
.......................
(flowers and rain)
unapologetic icons - I face into their
freedom from what they are, through
field after field climbing cliff to gutter,
every bud wide open and every one, its stem
broken just below its bloom - still, just
nodding yes - a shine
building vision with or without an audience.
too many different colors become one and something new,
fragrance-freighted air in singular inter-scent
present and
dying through me
a somatic sadness
in every cell
hold here sweetly
perhaps beauty discovers itself in its impermanence
we honor this by letting it
fall away.
cling to love, we grow loveless, and to life,
lifeless.
there is
a place in my heart where there is
nothing for
10,000 miles
you should come there with me
we could bring
one tree and just sit very close to it and sink
very deep
- 500 feet deep - match
our breath to its breath.
half breath by half.
imagination uncoupled from sensation
silence turned up, speaks volumes
i dream birds in
my unslept moments
the. mind.
gets. so. slow. I. watch. time. break. apart.
endless streaming waters pour down the street's black sky
penciled-in dream segments dipping trees and geese V's into the horizon.
beneath what's frozen over, I can still hear
rivers moving just under - and touching
the ice - pouring from my eyes,
dry as light condensed in a sealed off attic.
blinding at these depths
no subject object context
true devotion is not self-conscious;
it does not know itself.
I'm not brave but I am
fearless.
in moments
here
not here
this and this.
layers and layers of leaves longing long into
the sky until there's sky no longer;
trees produce leaves just as the mind, its beliefs.
much to be said for autumn, we do not need our stories to be
what we are - essentially - a tree is not its temporal foliage.
don't we get this?
all my shadow falls up to dissolve
like breath into breathing - my inhale is always your
exhale. welcome. you are
well received - 500 sighs unwinding .
how do I enter my life?
unmoved, I continue arriving.
how do i listen to this rain listen to rain
listen like a microphone -
where is it heard? where's the soul?
no internal no external
acoustic lines turn inside out
occur,
run down uncoupled sense gated window
painless and clean into questions
that take refuge
in themselves - listen deep - 500 feet
- stunning -
i lose myself
but i do not
disappear.
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