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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Wait/Rest, the Wisdom of Smoke,
and the Oddity of Taking Orders
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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