Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
“Live, said the liver.
Hear, said the heart.”
Open wide, place your feet
in the stirrups
Say aaahh and nothing more
as your pockets are swabbed
for bits of loose change
Make a fist to prime the vein
Blow a little air through closed
lids and watch the needle skitter
Afterwards fold the robe into a paper
shade to hang above the table
In response to Via Negativa: Self-destruction.
What shall I make of myself?
A bell, said the belly.
A nave, said the navel.
A temple, said the temples.
A bra, said the brain.
Art, said the arteries.
A kid, said the kidney.
A fin, said the fingers.
A ski, said the skin.
A fee, said the feet.
A pen, said the penis.
A test, said the testicles.
A tong, said the tongue.
A cart, said the cartilage.
Are you kidding me?
No, said the nose.
Spin, said the spine.
Live, said the liver.
Hear, said the heart.
like a leaf sprung to life—
twang of a string, floater that asks
to be reeled in at the end of a line.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Overheard lunchtime conversation: Longing is a color, just as much as a state.
And as I turn to the window, goldfinches pass through the trees like a yellow wind.
Along the boardwalk, shops sell puka shell bracelets, batik sarongs, T-shirts silkscreened
Virginia is for Lovers. Skateboarders on the street, zipping by like day-glo wind.
See the parasailers aloft in their tethered vests. Waves roll in and crash, then roll out
again. The beach is dotted with collapsible tents, ochre-striped flaps open to the wind.
From someone’s radio, the dance theme from Slumdog Millionaire. I’m seized by
a craving for lemon rice, mango chutney, some hint of chillies and saffron in the wind.
Some days are impermeable, asbestos. Other days spontaneously combust. The thing is,
there’s no warning panel with lights flashing yellow, no siren blaring into the wind.
Amarillo‘s another name for the blossom of the Caraiba, Tabebuia, or Araguaney:
long-throated flowers emerge after leaves have shed, rustling like gold foil in the wind.
Dear sunflower, you are too faithful, following that scorcher all day— Has he ever
bent to kiss your hot golden head? No? But rain’s been kind; and the cool wind.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
To the thrush singing at the woods’ edge
it must look as if I’m hitting myself
but that’s only incidental.
I’m swatting mosquitoes.
*
To the cops at the stadium
it might appear that she’s praying
when she closes her eyes
to see the afterimages on her eyelids.
*
To friends & admirers of the legendary coach
it must’ve seemed so generous,
all the things he gave those boys,
all the places he took them.
*
To us it’s a mournful song
but to the wood thrush itself?
Perhaps just the sound of dusk
passing through its windpipe.
Inspired in part by the currently serializing Fragments issue at qarrtsiluni.
After a while, the shapes and colours that spring so strongly from the work seem to invade the spaces in between. The people looking at the paintings, their shapes and angles and outlines, appear more and more as if they’d stepped out of them. A painted shock of red hair, a purple dress, a pale, drooping, interesting face, take the eye straight to another that is not painted.
We’ll remember this as the summer when hail rained down as large as peaches, when whips of lightning tore through the humid air. We’ll remember this as the summer when we woke and looked up to see a sky filled with clouds in the shape of women’s pendulous breasts; when every day as we walked from one end of the field to the other, it seemed the cicadas’ agitated chirping might rival the noise of oncoming trains. And we’ll remember this as the summer of startling sightings: wild birds far from home, a man-of-war sailing into the harbor, cannons firing in salute; and a body washed up on the river’s edge. A cerulean warbler sang incessantly in the yard, and doctor’s reports recommended the cutting away of some parts. We’ll remember this as the summer of swiftest change: how we walked, mornings and evenings, past fences overgrown with wisteria— their opulent scent already balanced on the rim of decay.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Open Book Lab:
Location is almost the whole of meaning. Where you are pretty much defines what you are. This is not a new idea. Twitter and most mobile apps feature location data. There are limits to this feature. You can note the writer’s location if they have shared it, but you are remote. The Morning Porch improves on this by making location more than just metadata. The porch is literally the stage for the message. It adds a texture to the observations not found elsewhere. Each detail adds to the experience so you feel you know the porch and can see from it.
“Now learn this lesson from the fig tree: As soon as its twigs get tender and its leaves come out, you know that summer is near…” Matthew 24: 32
—and the clouds gather into scrolls over the foothills
—and the crepe myrtles fall on the pavements as if it were spring
—and meadow plants turn limp, while some stiffen as though they were bristles in winter
—and the river’s surface is flecked with bits of foam and plastic, and shadows of wading birds
—and passing trains pitch their whistle to the winds
—and afternoons are hardest, for their shore is the in-between
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.