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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Will and the Top Rung ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ These days I think of you there is silver in the sky and planes I know you watch as something in you dances. I don't even think I knew what trampolines meant to a midnight mind afraid of what would echo through that hallway and if anyone else was alive to hear it. I don't think I knew the power of digging a hole with a single friend of biking to Ace and using our $40.00 on a pulley to run our rope through so there was no more friction and our system for floating worked. But mostly I think now about how excited you were not about yourself flying, but watching me- yours, the pulling arms, the vein that bulged on your smiling red face and I got to feel what it was like to be weightless even as the harness dug into my thighs, burning you were amazed I was so high my body hugged in a Cherry tree being up there just being up there. There was no fear in just wanting to feel what it was like to hang, to be breathless, hoisted in Heaven- a place no amount of church could make only houses in the trees and jumping the boat and tying up to the highest branch.
Most days we are standing in that hole grass is the horizon we never found the dungeon but hell did we learn that seeing has levels. Today I sit in a hotel chair and stare into a hotel mirror thinking about what we would do here in order to fly but remember that the pain in my throat and the frequency of my tears is the hardening of feathers that lets the infant Eagle soar.
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Smriti
~*~*~*~
There is no time
like this when you are
the river too
mirrored, shattered consistent
you see your edges bend
you see your head collapse
you see yourself rapidly going nowhere
you laugh as a fish jumps out of your chest
then become stern about symbolism
Nothing breaks you
the way the river breaks you
integrate, scatter, integrate
like music, whose source and destination
cannot be found,
still
moves you.
Life has no shore
even upon death you slide
through a narrowed tributary
salt your fresh blood
and though no one has been waiting
you flood in, again, with abandon
to move and never arrive.
Photo by Bryanna Kotkins, edited by Molly Ponkevitch
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Gap Lonely // Only Mantra Knows Me // Un- _._._._._._. _._._._._._. _._._._._._. _._._._
Underneath a cloud of pink cacti shred ankles In soft, amniotic desert rain jack rabbits crushed beneath the wheel Dropped in centrifuge, a sudden Dirvish A spinning top, but also the field Chandra, the deer’s head but also absolutely nothing absolutely nothing the unmanifest which embodies all nakshatras (Noone to be  Nowhere to go) All movement is sound All sound is symbolic All humans are passing deities we spit on Gods and bow to a plastic Ganesh Irony is laughing somewhere and the ecliptic is unchanged.
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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SPELL[ING] // KALI // EVERYTHING IS MANIFEST, NOTHING EXISTS °•∆_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_∆•° My words brim at the lip of the mountain, effervescent eager to rise as the sun suspended at high noon a porcelain pot full of blood dripping itself upon a feathered skein. My words make cities of homeless letters classless cities, so if a person looks always at the ground all persons bend to their knees to remind the sad of which miracles are made at eye-level. My word vessel has been done to, undone and abused but my words cannot be touched only felt As July wind heaves, the desert in labor chollas pink lobes, plums dropping This Ecstatic Breath This Pipe of Divination I cast a wor(l)d between us spell/ing beauty out of now(here) beauty from no-thing beauty needing no-one a cordless chant at high noon I am the witch in the middle of the sun.
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Waiting by the Willamette for Dad
“Imagining I am someone who has lost a child Seeing other people’s children play, I stand in the garden, shedding bottomless tears.”
-Ryokan
Portland is hot the heat transfers from asphalt to metallic building and back the smell of fried doughnuts travels swift and somehow makes the air heavier I see my reflection in cafe windows older now but I always feel the same especially approaching the Saturday market enveloped in its swarm of booths and people in between booths a formless mass wandering a maze. As I search for dad one air becomes many pad thai to bum piss to funnel cakes to arriving at the river where we will meet. This part could be clear and sacred but it is trashed with ratty sleeping bags stolen carts, empty Olde English bottles, soiled khakis and people so caked in the streets they are more streets than people. These scattered piles of detritus encroach on me, but there is nowhere to go where they are not. I inhale over the river desperate to pull its fresh movement up and through this lingering moment, or perhaps to permeate my hatred. Twenty minutes have never felt so stuck. Another homeless man comes over the grass with his house on his bike wearing a wife beater and blue jeans that appear beige and I cannot feel myself I cannot hear the geese screaming the amplified blues singer, screaming I cannot hear my heart in my chest This moment is entirely made of seeing my dad come towards his daughter and come towards his people. Suddenly hugged and held in his chest his tears reach a patch of my exposed skin I do not look up I stay embraced I see the homeless looking over and normal is no longer my hierarchy my eyes cease darting, soften and let down the whole river I held in here, this hug remembers that nobody desires to hurt and that because I am my father’s daughter these are my people too.
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Watering the Peach Trees in Cerrillos
Like clockwork, I break from incubation around 3 pm when the casita walls sweat and home becomes a contracting womb I didn’t know sound could physically bathe you until I heard desert cicadas in the middle of June Something about this oppressive heat calls me to wear no thing do nothing except release catchment water feel it flood into the hose and give it to the peach trees. The floor of the earth is splintered dried flumes meander around chollas and mountain stones and in between momentary shades I think about the water I’ve caught in subtle, passing showers in sudden minutes when the entire sky fell through I’m sure I have water within me but it only comes through when I remember where I put the hose. Summer is like this pink cactus flowers opening clay ground, dry and opening bodies, with no other choice, emitting the steam of cells opening I am bewitched by the process of rinsing the glaze the branches assume the winged bugs that escape as water smacks their napping leaf the sisterhood, the symbiosis,  the remembered connection between equal parts matter and numinous. I see my shins are spattered in a paste of dirt and dry grass continuing on, the tree at the edge of the yard is younger  and her leaves are wilting I water her more, she needs it, while the thought creeps “She is too far gone, passed the line between alive and dying, there is no coming back” The hose is swelling, and distant Piñons hiss, everything in this moment is louder. “Is this me?” One of those questions that scald you from inside out that rush adrenaline through and out of your body that make you less human and more hose pumping the substance of your existence to where, and for what? “My water is coming”
bursting as a kid in the alley who makes worlds with chalk flexible as the woman who is knocked twisted and beaten, for she is the river  and does not scorn the river bed infinite, a well tapped straight between beaming stars known in the difference between  “me” and “through me” visualized in a bold returning from  “the point of no return.” This tree and I collected and quenched drinking the quantum potential  of hose water. 
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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L'enseignant sans nom ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tu avais raison à propos du soleil pendant qu’il a rampé à travers la fenêtre de ta voiture et peint Marley avec sa lumière.
Qui est le peintre à part ce moment et nos cœurs qui battent...
Je pense au fond de moi, «J’aime le silence de ton chien et ce rêve indicible qui t’imagine éveillé et endormi.
J'ai la mer, la plage, le vent dans mes veines où le papillon est libéré de son corps comme le pétale qui a quitté la fleur.
Toi et moi Les traces de nos âmes fredonnant les mélodies de la Nouvelle-Orléans le ciel avale nos pensées
jusqu'au moment que je vois,
“La sagesse est fille de l'expérience”
J’ai perdu mes mots afin de voir
L'enseignant au soleil reflétant ses leçons sur la mer.
Magnifique Photo par Max Nouet et édité par Birgitta Johannah Allen, Merci mes amis!
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Wait/Rest, the Wisdom of Smoke, and the Oddity of Taking Orders ----------------------------------------------
Behind brown waves, shots of whiskey, customers talking in the back parking lot
something silent in you knowing it all
the chatter of stars and your post-shift cigarette blending the chaos of days past in the diamond black smoke of a single moment
lessons in pain nothing to chase with just You and your self and the silence of cement 
(Photo of Jamie McDonald, edited by me)
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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It’s only a matter of minutes  until the sun rises San Mateo sounds like morning finches and nothing else I open the front door for the house to absorb  any remaining cold before the sun lay its sweaty palm over the city I like this hour for the smell of cool, damp cottonwoods  cool and damp only for now or perhaps because sleep makes everybody no one our robes and lack of words our new and voided mind, we are steeped in natural law, without trying, almost awake only to sleep again as daylight comes sleep with autopilot flicked on asleep in our agenda, our daydream, unbeknownst we are not lucid Black coffee coats my tongue and absorbs quickly burnt cacao, autumn smoke “Does anyone really know themselves or just assume?”
Beside the taste, I’m also drinking speed less substance more pace thoughts unchain and run naked I extract the coffee and coffee extracts me. The impending swarm of morning shifters  is gradual, then sudden cars missing their light and going anyway so hurried to own this life finance it, commune with it, die for it. Grammatically life is a noun yet life is never had nor kept. The dog is antsy to leave, howling and mesmerized by the ongoings through the screen door 
it’s odd that I dictate his life like this and stranger that he obeys he is so enthusiastic  bound by the neck, controlled by my choice of directions, happy he does not see me lost in what’s forward immersed in his senses distracted, constantly, by the moving world I stop us at the red light this one always feels like waiting so time asks,
“Am I the hurried dreamer now?” Green. “Who is holding your leash?”
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Not Upon a Breast She Feeds
It is April in Cerrillos the sun is making its way home to scorch all impurities the desert has collected over winter, so those belonging have more room to thrive.
I feel this in my womb expanding heat, downward rays of scarlet leave me. My blood is bled just as spring shakes residue from Pinon limbs
I am not exempt from cleansing or cycles.
Pink blossoms of this mountain orchard have morphed into rubber leaves upon which bees left their kiss
Trees are so striking needing only themselves to conceive to drop their sweet litter through the ethers gap, the canal between branch and ground
and once nestled in the earth, their kin are violently torn and swallowed by us, by deer, by scrubjays and packrats, exposing the seed to its highest potential of becoming a tree. Somehow, destruction will always beget life.
Blood flows stronger now, it is a medium for eggs to flee for could-haves to dilute in toilet water for no-longer-me to drain through the trap.
My April child is nourished by heart milk She is made of words, sacred visions, succulent embryonic craving. She has fallen upon paper Our cord left uncut as an inner sun purges and empties me, and Earth sounds its deepest bass, shaking
We renew in tandem all planes destroyed, ruptured, bled out, anew, voided and fertile
suspended in “the absolute silence between planets” in pure, ravenous bliss,
We sit, close our eyes,
open our eyes and eat the placenta raw.
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Nan Facing the Washington Monument // Where Beauty Is
July in DC, there are so many people Tourist buses unload like tributaries rush into rivers but somehow, there is silence between you and I as the streets swarm and phones flash our gaze is still upon Lincoln’s chair and then names of Vietnam heroes and dimly lit Native quilts
Everything is so much bigger with you
As we traipse the Smithsonian every single detail is considered this whole entire place is intention- What I did not know was that you were teaching me to linger where beauty is.
As dusk approaches we stretch our journey West, to the Washington Monument
The sun is leaving the sky with remnants of pink, amber and scarlet hues it’s absence more a marvelous transforming than a disappearance
We are here now enrapt in the monument, its towering presence but more so its essence given to the Reflecting Pool beneath
something so solid, at once a fluid mirage.
I see you your body draped in Parisian clothes, neck wrapped in a silken shawl, and topped with an elegant, fuchsia sun hat
but in the water of your life I see your children, discerning and cultured unwavering amongst reality’s turbulence,
and their children, supported in your reflection inspired to wander the world as you have I see hydrangeas, and Japanese maples,  and garden goddesses making welcome the birds
Art of several shapes circulating through your house, like cellular regeneration, nothing is stale
I see memories made because of you which reverberate through our lives memories which permeate the substance of who we are
and when I see myself in the water I see you two life times composed entirely of moments moments like these unplanned, and simple yet resounding.
Our eyes are still fixed upon the rippling pool as city noise dwindles into twilight,
and I quietly say to you,
“Thank you for bringing me here, Nan,”
“It is beautiful.”
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Cosmic Inflation // You Are
Like late morning sun on freshly bathed skin or shrubs shivering against ankles like floating, suspended in the sea just past where sand meets feet like lying in savasana “I could stay here forever” like standing on a cliff with eyes closed grinning or purposefully getting lost in these woods Our trail We blaze not for the senses isn’t marked, secure but perhaps guided or else arriving home with you is both miracle and accident. Like knowing the answer before being asked --- life so often depicted outside right here yet beyond reach but between you and me hearts that swim helices that bind
our greatest knowing endlessly within. Like days which feel as minutes flying time as the setting sun will have it we too ripen but no mark of skin or silvering hair quiets laughter or dims vision or arrests our love Time is our counsel lending wisdom of pace we notice far more when walking than running. Like sips of desert air and reading Neruda,
“You are like nobody since I love you” Like night drives stepping out from the car stretching my neck, suddenly
stars
dead and undead but beaming still
“Where does time begin?”
sudden, amazed and confused noticing
you are also space
atomic,
             love,
                       infinite---
Like this. This is who you are.
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Echoes Unencumbered
On some unsuspecting day when my eyes only knew the ground you were the sky at once a short glance suddenly infinity
and since I may only recognize what I already know
and since love is also like this boundless
my gaze is no longer in hiding my fists no longer clenched
that you are here and I am unwound
and when you laugh everything is new
and when you cry a whole world is healed
I will stand in your rain and sun in your rising and setting hues but knowing you are not that
you are the vastness from which all becomes where I have felt your heart beat out of unimaginable silence
to me, you are like no one instead you are the sky and love can echo forever in unconceivable endlessness
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Parallel Universe
You are not there but here in my heart I think back to when but you are not there, either only as now you are here Because I touched you once you've become always I have heard your speech though love you as undone as silence as unborn worlds before anything can happen I love you here When action lands misplaced it is done, but you are not you will shake the field, still you are here in my heart Even away, home some glimpses I fear you foreign but beneath my skin moves the immense swallow of an old growth forest here, I find you native hugged into impossible realness because you are intangible Love manifest as absence as breath unseen continually in moments makes us the film reel is so rapid and past re-members itself so solid but you are not that You are the common denominator needlessly infinite and even more so because now you are here in my heart.
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mollyponkevitch · 6 years
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Somehow
The city glistens the hanging fern drips above me How can it be, becoming so far from everything  at once so close to one that matters Perhaps it is true that fear’s impulse is a siren’s call but beauty still paints terror children laugh though scared mothers bleed in silence even flowers lost beneath the crush of sleeping drivers know, again and again, to find soil through cement to know, not just to believe, home is dendritic, engorged home is infinite, the pink womb and Love lives there sweeping leaves off the porch noticing you, somehow knowing you were on your way. 
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mollyponkevitch · 7 years
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The August Presence
It’s Friday and the sidewalk is blanched by the sun, truly so hot I feel my calves crisping from below and in the radiation cars pull the scent of freshly baked waffle cones through the musky breath of Willamette --- summer, if nothing else, is simply the smell of the air. I could stay infinitely suspended here but I am on a park bench waiting for dad, or mom really. Whoever comes first, these days. I can see the oaks here are already starting to fall apart it’s only August. Are the infant others yet safe from their dying mother whose leaves are tinged yellow whose flowers go limp whose sound is swallowed in overwhelm and decay? Not that it matters yet but the reminder is strong. I feel absorbed by the sky it is so gentle, day dissipating into lavender grey but the pitch from twilight on is jolting and sudden --- breathless, almost. Any pleasant remnants of ice cream parlor smells are infused with open dumpsters the clanking end of work days cement cooling beneath still hot air traffic lights flashing on empty streets the silent acceptance that no one is coming. I miss today like tomorrow never comes I miss today so completely that she has become myself
and only now in a wandering collapse of being I don’t miss at all.
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