Tag: connection

echo map

report from a peripheral field

even in plaster
these fragments pulse
into cracked surface

where something answers
dendrite of a distant star
light
on metal shard
to flicker

paired
neurons
deciding whether to fire
or fall

apart it remembers
two hands:
one small
one trembling

a torn scrap of paper lists
three fears, stalls before
the fourth, its wall
an open synapse

during solar storms,
a choral hum
rises

two heartbeats caught
between collision,
orbit

before an empty case
where vision loosens
arriving in periphery

into the nearest
next
away

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––

true confessions

at the killing hour

  1.  Hello. I am this being before you, embodied.
  2. I am made of flesh. I am being enfleshed.
  3. Which by extension makes me not quite up to muster &  by definition a slow being. 
  4. A fact that forces an admission: how flesh is a slow, as far as substances go. Yesterday, driving home in traffic, I listened to a story (in real time) about the development of data transfer methods via photon. It was old news by the time I heard it. And yet.
  5. My flesh, such as it is, will never travel at the speed of light. And yet, being human, I am one part body and the rest of me is story.
  6. In one of these, I dream of a constant beginning at first light.
  7. In another, I fly.
  8. In another, I am the dead, returned. Sometimes winged. With a choral entourage.
  9. I suspect you are, too. 
  10. So listen. To this question, please.  If I sing to you from the dark place where we hide, waiting, will you please shine me home?
  1.  [and beyond]  for once you surpass ten steps you are surely beyond the beyonds

and yet

I know you are a stranger here, too, so by the light of you I become friend. 

Come, friend. We have places to go. 

They are dark now, until we arrive. 

We may not travel at the speed of light, but this love is a shining thing. 

What if now is time to bring it out? 

I have no answers, only this slow form.

Take it now and let us go.

i dream of possibilities

in atmosphere

if cessation of air then
if balloon i can hold it maybe
if i can carry it over
if you catch (if you see me)
if in what happens after that i may remember (that point)
if what pierced was the inlet of air (and not skin)
if remember
if i ask you will you (try please)
if to prevent this you may (show me)
if i am breaking and fear (to remember how)
if whether an alternative (or what?) ever was
if can be helped
if this breaks everything open in the end
if asking you where does that leave me or us standing
if to this question one answer is back to the floating again
if dizzy just remembering that vertigo and
if terrified to go so far and high so fast
if needing help at altitude will there be any or only the snipers again
if alone losing air at that distance will there be others
if so and we burst at those heights will it matter
if skins gone
if breathing
if not something
if i knew i could explain at lower elevations
if i go i need to tell you i have tried before
if i go i need to tell you i am scared
if i go listen i could not speak before of this fright it had more dimensions but
if language would allow i would have shared with others i saw shaking too but
if this is time for turning to another, calling hold
if i or you should try
if what is here
if when is now
if_____then, how?
if i am running out of pen

at first light

this dark glass

turning a page from the volume at my side & long unopened i saw the book of love come after the book of annihilation where to everything there is a season and all seasons point to their eventual end & so now here i am, casting bread over waters to find it later where rose of sharon & lily among thorns & i remember looking how i could not find my love so now i call open, dove when i come to your door this is the strange soul begging for its only work

Space lets go

they love their lines, don’t they, love?

they love their lines,
don’t they, love?

like, here body,
there mind &
soul on another
level still but
here’s what i
know, even the
space of no matter
has substance &
pretending some
other way is a runaway
cart horseless after
its fool self while
i the once upon a
river here been
wet and heavy
until a green
scar in scorched
earth & once
no longer moving
find cause
to remember
to weep for
what
mass was
once in me
for carrying
only
to find its
waters
gone come
back to me
Time i am
calling you
now
cross them

celestial bodies

uncertain orbit

Given enough practice, a body
will adapt to almost anything.

What follows adaptation are
impressions filtered through
tether by which body learns
to disconnect.

Notice the intensity & velocity
of spin, point being to propel
other bodies into orbit around
that central heat.

The quiet was brief
&
when done, she thought:

Here come lamentations,
returning.

leaking cup

and cracks between worlds

There is a leak in these cups. For three mornings in a row now, my coffee is gone before I am anywhere near ready to begin anything. And the compass must have fallen into a crevice––or crevasse, somewhere in the storm of this mess. I like the dreaming better when I am not pulled from it so soon, and when I can see the distinctions between to and from. Writing that sentence sounds like an admission of having lost essential bearings, of not knowing whether this is coming or going, which is more than I meant to unpack so early. 

I rehearse the choreography of resolve: I will sort this out. Here, like this. This is a bed. This is a room. The alarm, Monday. The empty cup where the coffee should still be. In the kitchen, the knife beside the bread until the moment comes to cut, to feed. And I balk before reading the news again, not ready yet for the next installment of who is eating whom; it seems that we have yet to admit something to ourselves, about our tastes.

In the last dream, there were a number of us in need of carrying, away from some alarm. I was among these, but in the last scene a carrier, taking whomever I could fit in my arms. The carried were weakened, ill, and although larger than me in normal times, presented themselves small enough to fit under an arm.

Here we are, the I of my dream was saying to these, here we are and checking as I hurried, are you okay, saying as I hurried, here we are and we are almost. Saying, we are almost here. And now, time to go to some other where, more familiar in setting and somehow much less clear.

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