out of the ground
i steal a bucket of soil
from a previously dug hole
a now healed over wound
in the loamy earth
my theft is to make
a small amount of clay
not even a handful
an artistic experiment
(this is science)
extraction
solution
excitation
suspension
filtration
refinement
(this is magic)
ritual
burial
inspiration
reformation
resurrection
my breath is the breath
of my ancestors
and yours
my hands dig and mix and form
this clay
this body of our ancestors
what whitman has assumed
i have assumed
Tag: creativity
diary (20210410)
last night was windy
not so windy that any trees
came down
not near our house anyway
and there wasn’t much
to move out of the road
a few sticks
a few small branches
pine cones
today the sea was dark
not wine dark
and while there are whales
near
it did not bring to mind
the whale-path or swan-road
instead the water looked
dirty from a distance
churning up whatever
blew into her all-accepting embrace
tonight the sky is dark
time for a new moon
(as if the old one
isn’t good enough
or worn out–look at the holes!)
and even the stars seem
buried in that darkness
rather than shining through it
now
not much to clear from my mind
a few creaking trees
a little foam
starlight
someone’s at the door (20210408)
deer scratches the front of his narrow face
with a dirty hoof– (do they
have hooves)–leaving a smear of mud
on the bridge on that long
long nose
–what you need, he says,
is a set of antlers
i’d lend you mine but i’m
using them right now
he shrugs, or tries to
his shoulder blades aren’t made
for fake apologies
i toss him an apple anyway
he catches it out of the air
the way my dog might
and bounces away like his legs
are made of pogo sticks
wolf has not let go of my wrist
and leers up at me
smile frothy with his saliva
my blood
–personally, he says
i would have waited
until he helped you out
before wasting that apple
but wolf would not have
exchanged my hand
for the apple
and deer has got his own thing
going on
and as wolf’s teeth sink deeper
i shrug, or try to
it seems my shoulder blades aren’t made
for fake apologies
either
around the clock (20210407)
while the rain falls
i wait for each drop
to ascend
i wait for the bark to grow
in the center of the trees
pith and heartwood tangling
like strand of hair
hiding the truth about growth
about the scab of time
about the lie of it
i wait for the clock
not to rewind
not to stand still
but to ring its alarm bell
to show that every
second of every minute
of every day happens
here and now
i wait and single drop
reverses course
singing as it rises
in the shadow of the tree (20210405)
you are an egg
in shape and substance
a potentiality
attached to the earth
stretching heavenwards
though you need
no sun
never breathing with
those gills
the moss remains a memory
green taste in your mouth
the muddy footstep fills with rain
religious experience on easter (20210404)
the forest god
makes an appearance
this time triumvirate
an earth mother
flanked by muscle
that always accompanies
true sacredness
the grass bends under her step
did you think she
would leave no trace
no evidence
she asks no questions
gives no answers
not even hints
only long meaningless stares
she is gone
the ground thumping
like the hollow log
that it is
sea legs (20210403)
at low tide
we walk the shore
i stop
the sand
tries to pull me in
you have twice as many feet
twice as many chances to
free yourself
you yearn toward the sea
while i hesitate
we return from the salt
to higher and drier ground
spring (20210402)
young deer forage for apples
nessun dorma plays on the radio
my neck bones dry-leaf crackle
open handed (20210401)
separate neatly skin from muscle
more finesse required than i offer
with a single hand
the second an object of dissection
inspection perhaps retaliation
are these bones robot parts
unfinished machines sensitive to
heat pain inflammation
infection inflection
the dictionary squeezed
until only ashes drift down
ashes like snow
ashes like dehydrated tears
ashes like ashes
potential (20200409)
hold the flashlight up
under my chin
like a suicidal jedi knight
breathe out
empty those lungs yogi-style
in the light a vapor forms
the amorphous shape
undulates away
disappears as water droplets
spread and the temperature
between them and the adjacent air
becomes insignificant
exhale again
step into
the little cloud of myself
feel nothing
neither the sudden cooling
of nighttime sea spray
nor the volcanic steam
of the just finished running dishwasher
just nothing
and is this
–i wonder aloud to the dog–
what ghosts don’t feel
when they pass through
one another?
