becoming Archives

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.

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.

child

before him

There is a way to abide,
knowing this is all there is:
to protect, understanding
that one of us needs to be
the adult in the room.

versions

of vegetal being

I still know nothing
but consider the heart
as flower, as door;
flower as carrier
from earth to sky;
each stem a work
in translation,
rooted in an original
story, evolving, the
heart of which,
branching into
constant revision,
continues to echo:
this is how,
becoming.

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.

Day One

On any beginning

It’s like this with any beginning, isn’t it? This sick-sweet anticipatory dread. Sure, yes, I can. But really, can I? Show me. It is possible. Show me. Even now. Show me. An opening. Show me. Here? Yes, this bloom. Here? Almost.

Trance

Translation

Once when I was a mouth burned from the effort it took not to scream, something not me rose to walk that mouth to this stream where something not yet was beginning.

Allowances

For breadth

I am sometimes permitted to return as a single filament of root hair on an ancient tree, and stretch toward the hair of another nearby, who is not yet tree and not yet anything visible because all its life, for now, is happening underground.

Cloudfaces

Metamorphoses

It may have been that fearful hope, moved by agony, that caused a slippage of the faces we had taken for protection, flimsy as they were. Then we became something cloudlike, breathing, and the sound of us was music. The music of us was made of what we had known in the time before we knew faces. We could hear much when we were nothing and no one.

Tag: becoming