Friday, October 29, 2010

Up

It has been a long time since I've looked at the stars. I'm looking up and there are more now than there were before.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

dream

do some dreaming. even if you cannot sleep.

gifts

Florists send the best apologies. Orphans bring the best winter squash.


Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Ruth

This Is How It Is--Ruth Stone

I look at the gene bank,
examples by the millions,
and they won't do.
On this planet, for me,
there was only one impetuous specimen.
How angry I become
when I walk through the corridors of my dreams.
On all the beaches of the living world,
the shadows of where you were
are washed away by the tides.
Only in my skull,
night after night,
I wrestle with your obstinate ghost.
But even that is better
than this three-dimensional life
that is so boring without you.

Ruth Stone, is this ancient saint of a woman. in her nineties now I bet. blind. lost her sights decades ago. decades before that, her husband, the father of her young children killed himself. almost all her poetry is for him. or for her kids about their dad.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Fly-fishing for girls: expectations

Fly-fishing for girls: expectations
The 'flies' in fly-fishing are not reel.

I imagine, regular fishing--the expected
piercing of an animal smaller than the one you wish
to hook dangling from a line,
bait soaking in the water long enough to elicit a bite,
the bite that snags the barbed-hook,
giving a quick puncture, a tear in the lip,
and, perhaps, a slight snack swallowed
by the large animal
before being dragged
against the current
and into the air.

"It's not like that, Hun."

Imagine
securing a bait-fly to a barbed hook:
the silky wings, now crunchy in death and dehydration,
turn to falling confetti
towards the bottom of the boat
the very moment pinched by fingers
to lift him from the container;
his tiny body shreds
as the tip of the hook begins to pierce the abdomen,
and long before it ever reaches the thorax,
the shape is mangled
and becomes thick goo between the angler's fingers.

"No, Babe, we 'tie flies.'"

Imagine
tying knots in line
in ways clever enough to create loops
in which to place a fly,
and pull with such skill, ever so slightly,
to fasten that fly to the end of the line.
Instead, his fly-head is decapitated as the line cinches tight.

"Aw Darlin', there ain't no flies in fly-fishing!"

My Angler,
he hooks
pompoms, feathers and fuzzy things
in the line
with knots and bows
only to look like flies.

The fish are impressed.


Thursday, October 14, 2010

journal updates: Summer 2010.

Recent updates to my hand-written journal contain only this: scraps of papers, notes, post-its, business cards, wristbands, leaves. The only written words are those enough to identify the objects, the places they were collected, cryptic explanation, and the names of the people I was with. All dates are approximate.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

hole

maybe you're one of those people with a little hole in your heart, and it has always been there. and your whole life you search. and then one day, when you die, they say: "[ ] had a hole in his heart his whole life. But no one loved love like he did. Isn't it ironic?"


and of course, it won't be ironic at all.