fate or concertinas – does it matter?
god or neurological – the miracle remains
can you hold the deep stillness
that observes and opens its heart
even as you return to the dance?
in praise of the still, small voice
that does not speak but grasps
you at the crux of your bones
and moves you into the day
when moments ago you thought you’d
spend all day afloat
on the ocean-bob of the couch
in praise of cupcakes and clarinets
in praise of the white pines
looming curved and sap-dripping
pinned by the wings of Aphrodite
to the world
for Lee Ann
clothed in ink and wreathed in shadow
alien life pushing through the thread of your own
offer up a cup of parcels: poems, carrots, shrimp heads
— chomp! — it accepts
or expresses displeasure in endless nausea,
jolting you through the interior as you travel
the two worlds, inside and out
what witch’s power lets you let it pass through you
without death but transformation?
Yes, I know I’m late. All I have to say about that is “fuck you, November.” Although October was more of a bitch this year than November so far.
I’m more of a poet than a novelist, so I’m doing what some poets have started to do, which is write a poem a day in November instead of the insane marathon of a 10,000 word sustained narrative.
I fully expect this month’s poems to be mediocre in quality. As Julia Cameron said, “rest on the page.” A single haiku is better than silence — at least in this scenario. If you want the good stuff, buy the chapbook. Assuming it’s ever actually published. [Update: It WAS published!]
still waters of the pond
turn the eye inward
leaves a carpet of yellow–
sun on the ground
turn the eye outward