--how much darker?--
the place which isn't anywhere,
threading the hallways,
between the houses, on wires--
cast up, like a hand,
to the sky--
the space unbound, unwoven
how much deeper?--
a scream might sink forever,
in the ever-changing chasms--
race forward-- ever-falling,
un-echoing.
it is dark beyond the windows--
I see only my reflection.
--the thick stucco--
but the walls within it,
beyond it-- much thicker, much closer
up against my throat
--this sliver,
to press lips against it,
slit. From the soft dark,
my throat--
a brush of air--
and rush forth,
into the greater darkness
Thursday, October 23, 2008
shadows
In Venice-- I was a boy
was a bird
was a ghost
-- wandering the not-streets,
chasing the own
corridors of my mind.
In Los Angeles-- I was a girl
was a peddler
a traveler, the Jew
was a snail
--pressed under myself
my home, everything else
flat against the sidewalk.
In Beijing-- was nothing
a map, a mural
a notion
the doves who weren't there
--flew high,
the water in the canals rose
after them into the smog.
--was everything, there,
in the streams, the trees
filled the hills like light--
illuminated myself.
I was space not surface
--what did my hands do?,
when I was there,
--there was no shadow-play,
in that old place,
I can't name it.
was a bird
was a ghost
-- wandering the not-streets,
chasing the own
corridors of my mind.
In Los Angeles-- I was a girl
was a peddler
a traveler, the Jew
was a snail
--pressed under myself
my home, everything else
flat against the sidewalk.
In Beijing-- was nothing
a map, a mural
a notion
the doves who weren't there
--flew high,
the water in the canals rose
after them into the smog.
--was everything, there,
in the streams, the trees
filled the hills like light--
illuminated myself.
I was space not surface
--what did my hands do?,
when I was there,
--there was no shadow-play,
in that old place,
I can't name it.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Santa Ana
... so we've got a wind-advisory, then. Makes me wonder, a little, exactly what we should be doing to, uh, "secure ourselves"... from the wind...?
---
snaking,
the twigs whipping
the rustling howl,
the trunks waver
passes
the world is blowing.
rushing,
the sloping rooftop
the empty sidewalk
--slams it.
the window cracks
against the frame,
the world is blown
strays
through the screen
hair, papers ruffled
chill, to rest
on the carpet.
the howled passing
rustles
---
snaking,
the twigs whipping
the rustling howl,
the trunks waver
passes
the world is blowing.
rushing,
the sloping rooftop
the empty sidewalk
--slams it.
the window cracks
against the frame,
the world is blown
strays
through the screen
hair, papers ruffled
chill, to rest
on the carpet.
the howled passing
rustles
Friday, October 3, 2008
September 31st
A velvet sky,
and hanging lights, gold
swinging in the empty air
and soft air, with the streetlight cupped
washing down—heat the shadows
the soft burr in me, on me
arms and lungs, rubbing together
up against the night
and hanging lights, gold
swinging in the empty air
and soft air, with the streetlight cupped
washing down—heat the shadows
the soft burr in me, on me
arms and lungs, rubbing together
up against the night
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Oh God...
... that sucked. That sucked beyond what I had previously thought were the more or less extant borders of besucked-ness. Isn't Fate a good parent-- to keep us on our toes, lest we become relaxed and lazy...
... ten days in Italy, and I wrote five lines, and actually that was a good thing-- because a decrease in poetic output is actually a sign of improved mental health for me. Well. And isn't being pleasantly amused just bad practice?
No worries though. That's been taken care of. Nice resounding shove back into all the stress and mess and nonsense. I suppose that's better, isn't it? More interesting? Ah. But, God... well... I don't know...
... but I do know that this is a new poem and that I'm strapped for titles.
---
Somebody knew once—
and all knowledge is forgotten
and all knowledge is lost
-- between one breath and the next.
and we are lost between each heartbeat
and the next. and we are lost
between this footstep and the next
and we are swimmers in our own tides
and against them.
Still—someone knew once, and I
, I remember,
I remember.
and all knowledge is saved,
all knowledge is remembered,
and nothing ever dies, but it lives
on, even in the whistle of the axe,
even in the mumbling of the survivor
and in its numb walking ghost, soundless.
and I,
remember. I remember.
and in the humming of the executioner.
and all things are waiting, are whispering
and all things are walking with you
through the darkness, and whispering
your name, whispering, “Say it! my name
Name me, say my name!” “A name, say it—
my name!” and I,
remember, I remember a name
and I name it, and I say a name
and once someone knew,
and someone named, once,
and all knowledge is dead
and is dying, and we are dying
and I said it. I said it—
the name I remembered,
I said and I remembered,
and I said it,
the name--
... ten days in Italy, and I wrote five lines, and actually that was a good thing-- because a decrease in poetic output is actually a sign of improved mental health for me. Well. And isn't being pleasantly amused just bad practice?
No worries though. That's been taken care of. Nice resounding shove back into all the stress and mess and nonsense. I suppose that's better, isn't it? More interesting? Ah. But, God... well... I don't know...
... but I do know that this is a new poem and that I'm strapped for titles.
---
Somebody knew once—
and all knowledge is forgotten
and all knowledge is lost
-- between one breath and the next.
and we are lost between each heartbeat
and the next. and we are lost
between this footstep and the next
and we are swimmers in our own tides
and against them.
Still—someone knew once, and I
, I remember,
I remember.
and all knowledge is saved,
all knowledge is remembered,
and nothing ever dies, but it lives
on, even in the whistle of the axe,
even in the mumbling of the survivor
and in its numb walking ghost, soundless.
and I,
remember. I remember.
and in the humming of the executioner.
and all things are waiting, are whispering
and all things are walking with you
through the darkness, and whispering
your name, whispering, “Say it! my name
Name me, say my name!” “A name, say it—
my name!” and I,
remember, I remember a name
and I name it, and I say a name
and once someone knew,
and someone named, once,
and all knowledge is dead
and is dying, and we are dying
and I said it. I said it—
the name I remembered,
I said and I remembered,
and I said it,
the name--
Monday, August 18, 2008
the imp of the perverse...
I am having a moment.
In less than twenty-four hours, I board a plane for Venice-- and I'll be gone for 10 days.
... and so, of course, as I was wandering around in the pre-dawn this morning... I started to feel... odd. Of course I'm excited and of course it's going to be wonderful, but you don't really appreciate how much you love your home until you're about to leave it.
The days are just starting to cool off a bit, and we've had some wonderful salty breeze coming in from the ocean. Everything's taking on that "roasted" scent, which means fall in Southern California. The very strange, rather wonderful wild blackberries that grow along the road that traces the ridge are finally black enough to eat-- after one wipes off the various carcinogenic pesticides and smog compounds. And the summer construction workers are *finally* packing their shit up-- which means that I (selfish me) can now walk along the roadside and not have to worry about squashed by a cement truck. Prius, yes. Cement truck, no.
... and oddly enough, I always associate this season with "glow". It's something about the light-- maybe it's the angle of the sun?-- that changes from summer to fall. The mountains were all misted this morning (LA is also the "Land of Smoke"... if you're more into the Native thing), off in the distance. And yesterday, I was walking and staring at the trees, and leaves were green and alight.
When I get back-- there'll be a spark in the air. I think that the hills around here must burn off all the heat that they accumulate during the summer in the early fall. Culminates at the end of October-- who believes in ghosts?-- but there's always the feeling of things crackling towards the end of that month-- at least for me. Fall's not harvest time so far south, so going into winter means something different than it does in other places. A time for releasing energy rather than gathering bounty. Change-time.
... well. That's all well and good. I like Fall. But now-- because my disposition is not a cheerful one-- I'm also thinking about how... temporary... things are right now. Rented room, applications to fill out-- don't know what I'll be doing 12 months from now, but I don't think it'll be here. Not in this section of the valley, at least... which I have had the immeasurably poor taste to fall in love with. At the very least, I'll have to go towards the center-- maybe to Atwater Village... please God not the West Side. And if I am both very lucky and very unlucky-- not in the States at all.
It's too bad the world's so big-- because then you get caught... you want to see every corner of it, and also to never leave your home. Something to be said for the world being one town, and then several more down the road a little bit-- then you can do both. I suppose it's easier to think that way, though, when one's "little home town" is a sprawling city of 10 million people, hm?
It is either endearing or infuriating that I can be thinking this way before a long vacation-- but that's just how I am. I need to figure out how I can be like Kant-- and never move out of this neighborhood, and take a walk the same every morning, the same route with such regularity that people can set their watches by it-- and still drag the world around on a string despite such strangeness.
... it starts, perhaps, by obtaining a UCLA library card... if the library will not come to Eagle Rock, I will go to Westwood and bring it back in a duffel. Oh well. Maybe all that petrified creativity from the Rennaisance will leak out of the stone and into my head, and I'll figure out a better solution.
In less than twenty-four hours, I board a plane for Venice-- and I'll be gone for 10 days.
... and so, of course, as I was wandering around in the pre-dawn this morning... I started to feel... odd. Of course I'm excited and of course it's going to be wonderful, but you don't really appreciate how much you love your home until you're about to leave it.
The days are just starting to cool off a bit, and we've had some wonderful salty breeze coming in from the ocean. Everything's taking on that "roasted" scent, which means fall in Southern California. The very strange, rather wonderful wild blackberries that grow along the road that traces the ridge are finally black enough to eat-- after one wipes off the various carcinogenic pesticides and smog compounds. And the summer construction workers are *finally* packing their shit up-- which means that I (selfish me) can now walk along the roadside and not have to worry about squashed by a cement truck. Prius, yes. Cement truck, no.
... and oddly enough, I always associate this season with "glow". It's something about the light-- maybe it's the angle of the sun?-- that changes from summer to fall. The mountains were all misted this morning (LA is also the "Land of Smoke"... if you're more into the Native thing), off in the distance. And yesterday, I was walking and staring at the trees, and leaves were green and alight.
When I get back-- there'll be a spark in the air. I think that the hills around here must burn off all the heat that they accumulate during the summer in the early fall. Culminates at the end of October-- who believes in ghosts?-- but there's always the feeling of things crackling towards the end of that month-- at least for me. Fall's not harvest time so far south, so going into winter means something different than it does in other places. A time for releasing energy rather than gathering bounty. Change-time.
... well. That's all well and good. I like Fall. But now-- because my disposition is not a cheerful one-- I'm also thinking about how... temporary... things are right now. Rented room, applications to fill out-- don't know what I'll be doing 12 months from now, but I don't think it'll be here. Not in this section of the valley, at least... which I have had the immeasurably poor taste to fall in love with. At the very least, I'll have to go towards the center-- maybe to Atwater Village... please God not the West Side. And if I am both very lucky and very unlucky-- not in the States at all.
It's too bad the world's so big-- because then you get caught... you want to see every corner of it, and also to never leave your home. Something to be said for the world being one town, and then several more down the road a little bit-- then you can do both. I suppose it's easier to think that way, though, when one's "little home town" is a sprawling city of 10 million people, hm?
It is either endearing or infuriating that I can be thinking this way before a long vacation-- but that's just how I am. I need to figure out how I can be like Kant-- and never move out of this neighborhood, and take a walk the same every morning, the same route with such regularity that people can set their watches by it-- and still drag the world around on a string despite such strangeness.
... it starts, perhaps, by obtaining a UCLA library card... if the library will not come to Eagle Rock, I will go to Westwood and bring it back in a duffel. Oh well. Maybe all that petrified creativity from the Rennaisance will leak out of the stone and into my head, and I'll figure out a better solution.
magma
... written awhile back.
---
Calcium liquifies at 839.2 degress Celsius--
melted bone, therefore, is very hot.
If you kiss me--
should I cover the trees,
make a shard-forest of crystals?
-- they shine harder than leaves.
---
Calcium liquifies at 839.2 degress Celsius--
melted bone, therefore, is very hot.
If you kiss me--
should I cover the trees,
make a shard-forest of crystals?
-- they shine harder than leaves.
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