Here, I’m walking through a garden. There, beyond this rough-leaved rose hedge, you cry. Lost child, I can hear you from the other side of the horizon, the other side of night. I call you lost even though you’re held, for who can say the man who holds you is your family? All I have to hear you with are these eyes, that photograph. The dark red petals at my feet have been blown down by a storm; the blood running into your eyes fills mine with tears. Who would gouge a small boy? Who would be glad his blood fell, spotted the street, scattered it with iron-scented petals?
Monday, April 13, 2015
The image is from a lovely article on the making of a new mosaic by Aidan Hart.
The alphabets we use are all broken, but you and I don't need them whole. Tesserae from our respective shard-hordes, rough against fingertips that fit them into place, speak for us, to each other, in a mosaic of un- voiced vowels: silent, layered, reflecting glints of light.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Once long ago, hot fluid rock irrupted, blistered up between and beneath dead oceans, then cooled into a hidden lens that capped deeper fire. Wind scoured it, rain wore it down, but it still grew until it blew itself up then collapsed. A pluton. A laccolith. A volcano. A caldera. These concentric baffles are the places where the whole story is laid out, but I can’t read it with any sure sense I know what happened and when. Some days I feel like that: like I’ve been taken apart, reshuffled, know there’s things missing and I’m still trying to make it make sense. This self, this Solitario; no quest, just a traveler’s field notes.
Friday, February 06, 2015
Laying the ground, let’s just say this isn’t really a loop:
the beginning and end meet, but the sky’s lighter, the
air drier on my skin, and the cormorant I saw with gulls
on a wet containment boom flew off as I looked its way.
scuffling in cypress needle duff. Or walking sans shadow,
not-loop again, recursive. Years ago these half-buried stones
sat atop the trail’s edge and I played patter-steps, hopping
stone to stone along the row. Today or later, another loop;
I’m sure to jump from rock to rock some more, wobbling,
awkward as that cormorant when it stepped into the sky.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
The trees are running with scissors, snipping off their motley: leaves, spiraling down around ghost maypoles, a centripetal dance. I kick them up and back into the sharp wind. You may think it’s gusts that make these dry palmate mudras fall, but they grow to break—abscission in their cells, and mine.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
I toss, roll over, sit up, and find the gifts I’ve been given even more inexplicable than what’s usual for me: the dog-whistle of tinnitus, a dream in which I was generous with a stranger and still afraid, a chaotic origami made of candy wrappers.
My ears are full of distant crickets chirring as I think about that dream, its almost-familiar highways ending in run-down neighborhoods. It’s as if Kurt Schwitters was Mr. Sandman, snipping bits from every place I’ve ever been and pasting them
together catawampus across my forehead as I slept so they’d infuse my dreaming soul. There’s a rustle at the edge of the bed. The wrapper from a hard candy I sucked on overnight has become wedged under my hip, crumpling nothing like a folded crane.