mind-time-travel

i used to want to try to write
now i think it is a waste of time
who cares about my mind
my thoughts, myself
it does not matter
i try to push away anything creative
i have no time for it
it benefits no one and nothing
i'm too dumb for stories
it's true i'm a waste of space
without being told
a terrible thing
that will be glad to be gone
some day

Soul House

Do I give this attention?
Try to assign some meaning of feelings
written on a rock
on lines older than words

Pizza Woman

The sleeping heart moves through its layers of consciousness. There will be citrus later, and gruesome pizza. The news told us about a missing man. We knew the man. He had been friends with my husband when they were small. The news also told us of a woman found dead on top of a car.

It was a clear night and the front door was open. My husband was outside smoking. Everything was still until we saw the man wandering up the street. It was the missing man. He said he had a big pizza cooking and that we should go with him. He said he could go anywhere. I said I needed to use the bathroom first. I locked the door behind me. I called the police and told them the missing man was with us. I didn't want to leave the bathroom but I had to.

Time and tricks and buffalo sticks. Lots of cheese, so much cheese, and the car was red. Going back to the crime scene--they can arrest him there. His pizza woman and my dreams.

****************************

I was alone in the house, scrolling the 'net with my back to everything. I noticed someone moving around behind me, but my husband had left for work already. I turned around and saw a stranger.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi," he said back.
"Do you need something?"
"I just came in."
"This is my house." I stood up. I was wearing sweatpants and a sweater. He had a backpack, piercing blue eyes, dark blue clothing.
"Well the door was open."
I went to the kitchen. I hadn't cleaned up from breakfast yet. There were some tangerines and blood oranges on the counter. I started cleaning up peels and ran the tap.
"Do you want some citrus?" I said. I put some in a plastic produce bag for the man. "You should get out of here." I handed him the bag.
"The door was unlocked."
"There's a witch," I said. "This house is bad. Filled with her bad energy. You don't want to stay." He did not seem scared but I knew better. The witch had been protecting me since I was small. I pulled a knife out of a drawer.
"You don't want to stay here. Go outside and go for a walk. And don't come back." I held my breath until he walked out the door. Then I locked it and watched him go. I asked the witch to bless him so he would wander no more, and I breathed to his steps.

the smiles

blood on the moon
party brain
let's spread ourselves thin
over the moon

steal the eyes underground
and re-form where you are not wanted
or much seen
but by some

moonguts
and moonbrains
leave the darkness aside
and the heavenly body a machine i do not want to see

the coils uncoil
the ridges unridge
giving emotion to air
the locks unlock
i have your air
when you're not there

fit with a star
turn into water
return 

Starry nights

We went outside to meet the stars
I said I wondered what they were trying to say
You said they wanted to show us they were there
To share existence
I drank some of your wine
And we stood, and stared
I looked for the three blue stars I had seen the night before
Stacked up in a row, blinking out of turn
They weren't there
There was a big bright star, or maybe it was a planet
Smiling at me
I pulled myself up into the stars
Or maybe they came down to me
We wondered at each other
I drank more of your wine
And we spun around in time
And I said I would never leave you
Not even if I died

NHM

As I walk through the hall of minerals and gemstones,
I find inspiration in the naturally formed;
the pink prisms of rhodochrosite,
the blue and opaque pale green cliff of azurite and malachite, bonded together.

Uninspired human craft uninspires;
Uninspired nature inspires to the highest degree of art;
White marble from a mountain carved into larger-than-life Zeus,
And the miniscule, chalky white blades of gypsum rectangled together;
They are the same.

As I bend over a crystal ball, my chest tightens.
The rock is quartz; the sphere, perfect.
My eyes strain to look through it, to penetrate the light on the surface
And make sense of the black inside.
But I cannot look through to three dimensions.
I can only look at the two-dimensional image on the surface,
At the three hundred and sixty degree mini Cinerama screen that bends concavely.
I hover over, wanting to be immured in the center.

The crystal would be a marble for a giant to play with,
Or a hole,
Except it has a heavy weight and reflects the world.
It reflects and turns upside down not what is behind me, like a spoon would, but what is in front of me,
What I would see if I could look through the ball.

The minerals do not struggle with creation as humans do with art;
The minerals form through inertia, molecules reacting to each other, sliding and connecting over the millenia,
A never-ending work that continues even when human hands find them, carve them out, and put them under glass display cases;
Thin strands of a spider’s thread bridge the red peaks of a monazite.

The symmetrical epitaxy of silver rutile on blue hematite,
The mystery of a ball of quartz,
Are what we seek to achieve;
Or triphylite: LiFePO4.






The abbreviated shorthand makes the minerals a part of the big table;
The equation gets at the underlying structure and leaves the wonder leftover.

Manifesto

I am already telling you the story. Her name is Estuve and she drives around in an old converted mail truck. She knocks on people’s doors and says, “I was wondering if I could interest you in publishing your manifesto. I have a portable print shop,” and she points to the truck. The two most common reactions she gets are: “No, no, no. It’s not ready yet” and “How did you know about my manifesto?” Her responses to these are: “Oh, I’m sure it’s more ready than you think it is. Let me have a look at it. I’m an expert” and “I don’t mean to put you down in any way at all, but everybody has a manifesto, a memoir, a story. Everybody has one, but everyone’s is different. Everyone is different, and everybody has a story.” Then she enters the house or apartment or trailer or tree and collects all the various scraps of paper, electronic files, and scrolls. She locks herself in the back of her truck and types, scans, scratches, smells, stretches, rubs, and cracks until the manifesto is whole. She saves it to her hard drive, makes four hard copies—two for the owner, two for her archives—drops off the owner’s copies in the mail slot and drives off to the next house.

Land of Stripes Farewell

If you need to recognize where this comes from, it is not so complicated as all that. It comes from the same place that everyone has inside.
I rolled my armchair into the center of the room and sat, drunk on words. I rubbed my eyes, thought, What was it exactly that you were trying to turn off? Your tickle-response? Me? Because I cannot be turned off, no matter how hard you try. Not a switch, nothing is on-off, no binaries exist. Magnets, sure, repulsion, sure. Explosions, sure. Trembling knees. Now I am in the calm place. I have brought you here with me. Here we are, in this lower, green, mellow place. Here we can shake hands, but I am telling you, behind my calm expression there is passion. I don’t know what you can see. But I will shake your hand, I will grip your palm because in my mind we have come to an agreement. We agree that this was a fluke, that whatever brought us together (us) was simply acting out of some primal brain error that takes us to the exact person and place we should avoid, that we are adults who fully perceive this brain flaw of ours and will refrain from talking to each other because it will just remind us of what we did, and what we did was recognize something in each other, some tiny pink zebra that we both wanted to poke and prod. It was really not so bad, what we did, but there is no reason to talk about it. So I will shake your hand and put you on this raft on this nice green river. But don’t think I am going to turn the lights off, that I will stop moving once it is dark. There are all sorts of movements you cannot perceive from the raft, and you don’t know where the river is going. It is going to bend a lot. You will feel like you are going in circles. The current will be pleasant, the water smooth, so there is no reason to worry. I will stand here at the banks, trimming plants and cleaning cobwebs, taking care not to step on any minnows. The river will take you to the land of stripes, where you can exist between the colors, roll into their borders, make out a desk, an iguana, a night club of the abstract shapes. Don’t worry, I cannot reach you there.

Water Rot

The long long rut
The deep deep cut
rocked in blue green water heart
blood in the water
remembering who it spilled
are you under my spell
are we each other's skin
I buried in the Earth those parts that were rising
rotting flesh
bones that needed quieting
the water runs through it that knows us all
ancient more ancient
the water's song filled my boots
warmed my feet
the tiny wave needed to be
rusting, wood
Your last view - sparkling water
no faces, no voices but rainbow
eye
a miracle, a touch
a finger to purify
remember its birth - the water
and now its decay

old decay of scribes dyeing inks
must i write all day?
the water on the page (now earth, blue earth)
red water for the earth
bled into the air
let's float there
some of us will go to the sun, some to the earth
some to water
the new scribes wear their inks on their skin
the water must stay in
the hard part isn't the doing but the in-between
new flower, it's okay for it to leave
see through hear through speak through air

I've been writing music http://spacewaves.bandcamp.com