some instructions for leaving

in which nothing leaves

I may not have loved since entering
this purgatorio but I have known attractions
fired by recognition
of another body
in whom I recognize
some ancient home
the here-not-here, by rock & sway
of crowded boat, my form giving
against the solemn jag of craggy cliffs
through dark orifices of another war
where some cite the wine-dark sea
of avengers, mourned back
to battle and then dead
whose sons return to repeat them
until all lines of origin are erased
I, too, descend
from ancient clamor,
silenced now:

carbon fixed first inside familiar cells
of marine life: phytoplankton, algae,
buried & altered over eons.

I slept beneath you,
before fire, before when
rough-gloved hands
came to enact what they called
refining
pulling apart
my ancient form: ethylene, propylene,
remnants fastened
into intricate chains.

I know to be molded,
to take the heat of this earth
made hot enough to burn its own
past the capacity for return
I know the sudden cool that
follows, before this
float, where I fill, sink,
shatter

having bottled illicit toasts
swallowed by shrubs in midnight parks,
passed hand to hand in fallout
aftermaths, left beside desert rocks,
emptied by those dying
of thirst to cross
as leaf dies into another life
as whale becomes carcass becomes
food, light, shelter, home.
as bone into mineral, into soil
into tree, then leaf again
by the light of a distant star

but i cannot rot, only break
into finer pieces,
some sand-sized
but never sand:
ever eroded
never transformed

denied my next death
i may only attach myself
to blood, lung, womb, milk,
to inner ear but not to hearing,
to mouth but never song,
to heart & longing
without capacity to beat
& then cease beating.

The living make of me a reef
& come. They flower on me,
then go.

Pulled from our long burial
we are deep time made impatient,
forever arriving
at new shores
as ourselves
unable to become
anything
else.

hello, stranger

on skinks, swans and other guides

I like the creatures no one chooses as a spirit animal. Skinks. Ice worms. The little dog whose back legs are supported by wheels and who is walked faithfully around the block by a small old woman. If approached from the opposite direction, there comes a moment when she looks up, surprised, with a wide mouth and kind eyes.

The bowhead whale, Balaena mysticetus, may live over one hundred years in the cool depths near Greenland. Or the shark of the same region arriving at reproductive age no sooner than the end of the first century alive. 

Also swamp sparrows.

Cephalopods. 

Bagged goldfish.

The as-yet-unnamed ones, still undiscovered.

The swan of Hans Christian Anderson’s Ugly Duckling, who does her best to fit in with the duck family she meets upon hatching, having no way to know that the egg she came from had only rolled away from its proper nest. Whose attempts at doing duck things fail the more she becomes her swan self. 

At a formative age, I decided to be done with the person I seemed to be, and so I set about making a new self. I went about this the way a young, old-feeling person might: by cobbling together suggestions from available sources. Having decided I was missing something vital to the project of becoming, I occasionally took seasonal employment in places I had yet to visit. In the Sierra Mountains, I found unexpected teachers and learned to sing while walking so the black bears would know I was coming.

I also tried smoking while writing, like Joan Didion or Tom Waits. The experiment failed almost immediately. And yet. If I vomit, will that be the old self leaving? I persisted.

On New Year’s Eve, outside a restaurant, the old self remained.

Later that week, I left the just-opened pack of cloves on a wall at the edge of a Vons parking lot, hoping that whoever found it would take it as the kind of serendipitous surprise that announces fortune taking a turn toward some unexpected wonder. That they might pause to enjoy their find and feel themselves understanding that this place, routinely referred to as the Vons parking lot on Tamarack, is so much more.

That they might see it suddenly: an ancient geography of unknown forces.

And be moved to some greeting, however hushed.

Hello, powerful stranger.

That this discovery might nudge into being the possibility of an astonishing response from this sudden sanctuary. Which, while wordless, would sound the body like an urgent whisper. 

Come here.

volver

a mis notas

A wish. To return. To possibilities
for becoming.

The problem: these accommodations of
familiarity, adapting

To dysfunction & symptoms include:
incessant sighs, bone-weary

Fatigue & fantasies of escape.
Treatment: accommodation.

Of this need to escape,
what’s turned unbearable.

Temporarily, at least.
& then return.

To observe how it got this way
& intend.

To steer differently, soon as enough
rest comes to clear bleary fogs

From weary eyes long trained
toward casting nets

Across these dreary
& abundant bogs

Where the lost remain
preserved & waiting,
still.

what even is

this place at this time

maybe it’s a story about being a body in this world
in an age of destruction on the verge of
remembering her collective life
despite the current bluster
i cannot be alone
in having have felt it creeping all of mine
while regularly and inexplicably injured
by the force worked so aggressively to stifle
that still, small voice that has always been
all i ever wanted to hear until nodding
in response to this thing
David Wagoner wrote, which I paraphrase
regularly in my thoughts
as Here is the place where you are,
and you must treat it like
a powerful stranger
.
so here we go again––


Hello, strange stranger, you are
all of us now, and i can’t keep from
dreaming some possible arrival
even here
even now

one beginning

an original affirmation

Take it, I said again, and gave
this body to mirror you an origin
in chorus of looping yessss, as
susurrations waving shores
to where they waited, wanting
words to answer but I had only
one. It was yes and child
yes again, and there they
were yes child and here,
meaning all of it.

muse on fire

in the age of combustion

Nomos, look. Piles of human meat in the shadow of constant hunt. Camps across the landscape. Who is there? Strangers, while every other seeming friend is more estranged by the hour.

Killing is clean now. See its mechanical precision. How ignorance becomes power, bestowing freedom from the burden of care to anyone ready to get drunk on controlling the flow.

Truth becomes a willingness to collapse against the heat of the furnace from the Cyclops’ workshop where the official language is money, and it means to excise other tongues, as souvenirs.

Absence of connection now connective tissue. O body, hold me to remember against the age of endless exhibition––the face, how it felt before you saw it as looping mirrors screening its self-portrait funhouse for forgetting all form where the matter at hand is content and the hand need not apply. 

What speaks is by number now but my beginning was the word and I mean to live inside that womb, becoming.

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