Category: creature watching

sapere

whale music

to know
to be able to
to taste
to feel
only this how
i am because we are
& need know only this
& how machine will disagree
does not make it less true
but only more like the living
and less like the thing
whose badge of being
is of efficiency
& departure from
the dirt & blood
& flow of living
earth as she
remains
still
here
an offering
beyond product
or production
in echo
beyond
any other sound
however loud however
bleeding it leaves us in our ears
where we swim deep underwater & still here & here & here to hear us––
tho bleeding it leaves us in our ears however loud
however any other sound beyond in echo
still our offering here remaining
in dirt & bloodied waters
beneath you

sensing

of our dendritic sensibilities

what sort of creature is this
i
?
bound to the dark
fascia of time & energy
in the image of a constant
unfolding possibility
and why does she still
hear so many here
claiming intelligence
as a thing to be grown
outside the source
code of genetic material
that makes the material
of our bodies essential
and essentially made
of stuff so similar to
what still grows in the soil
or flies, or swims, to be
fished, felled, uprooted
to death by agendas
of progress fueled
by forgetting our bodies
already know unchecked
growth as cancer
& we know where its
progress inevitably
ends & know that
with treatment in
time we can reverse
these growths we can
prevent we can protect
the living if we will––

mud & muck

on being embodied

it is not enough
to tell you i think
by way of begging
some acknowledgement
of being for doing this
would mean sidling up
to Descartes who despite
apparent cognitive prowess
managed to decide it was
appropriate to electrocute
dogs who he thought did
not think enough to feel
maybe it was their eyes
the naked love of them
that scared him into
such denial &
despite my best efforts
toward intelligence i tend
to love like a dog
prone to run
with sweet baby Jane’s
moonlit bodies stomping
muddy prints in the surf
at the shore in the light
of the moon
that excess
our all

que c’est

Qu’est-ce que c’est ?

It is like wanting to be able to dance
in a place where my feet are steeped
in tar pits, and I am the soon-to-be exhibit,
wailing with my tusks turned to sky.

Je veux me réveiller et je veux croire
qu’il est peut-être possible de rester là,
pendant un petit moment avant d’être
choqué en retour d’accepter la violence
quotidienne.

I want to dream believing it is still possible
to stay there for a moment before
being shocked back into routine
acceptance of the routine violence
of a given day.

I sit here, bleeding, wanting to insist
let us not for now pretend to be saving
each other when simple company
is enough. If it isn’t, then what do I do
with this knowing? That you will never
hear.

The idea of rescue for anyone here is far
past the depths, and here is my confession.

I do not know what those depths are called.
I do not know this space. I cannot name this time.
And yet, time keeps insisting. On seeming to know
me. What a thing, imaginer.

But I suspect.
That something about being makes this happen.
Peut-être.
That I spend what life I have in service of what
I will never be able to offer in kind.

Où es-tu ? Je ne peux pas en voir.

Enough,
éventuellement.

When hope gives out, I only want
to dream.

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