Talk

Who has
not yearned
that way?

I had a friend
who often said
he preferred

the company
of strangers
walking about,

hatless and
anonymous
like him

in the cold
and windy city;
or the sounds

made by his own
bathroom commode
to the thin

discourses
leaking out
of mouths

no longer
on fire—
Give me

the garrulous
voices of all
kinds of rain,

crickets, frogs:
their naked words,
their saying.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Gunfire.

Interdiction

Dearest, I drove through the streets without recalling if I had observed traffic signals correctly. Also, I’ve grown weary from so much irony these days. It seems there isn’t any conversation that doesn’t use it, no space in the public sphere that doesn’t flaunt its shadow. It rained slightly— less than the weather forecasts predicted— but the chill cut through my boot-soles because I had not remembered to pull on socks in the morning. I was thinking of other things: like my regret at never having learned to use a sewing machine or make a dress from a pattern. And I want a pair of loose fisherman pants to tie with a long double loop around my waist, and I want to rig up a vertical garden planter on the deck where I might plant cinnamon basil and sage, dill, mint, mizuna lettuce… Maybe nasturtiums, edible gold and orange to lay on my tongue when I am feeling poorly. I am tired, so tired tonight. But whatever it is that exacts the daily tribute is such a hungry nag— and I have very little left to give. Go away, leave me a moment’s peace where I have no need to add or subtract from the silence, no need to grieve yet for what has not passed away.

 

In response to thus: tithe.

Excuse Slip

It will not always wait for you,
it will not always seem
inexhaustible—

It will not, for it cannot,
offer only oranges and wine,
mutton or sweets from the depths
of its frayed gunny sack—

It will not always countenance
retreat, deferment, time-outs, pleas
for one more, refusal to engage—

And it will not grow
any leaner, any fatter, any
kinder, any darker from the tithe
of your particular suffering—

For what is the nature of life
but this grand indifference which all
are equally apportioned—

And what is the nature of becoming
if not the always-coming-back
into the body and what
it must finally learn—

For why should the road be
half-trodden, why should the song
be partially unbreathed—

Even the half-ruined
barrels by the wayside
can open their mouths
to collect the rain—

 

In response to Via Negativa: Burden.

Postcard: Elephant Breeding Show, Thailand

“…That Beloved has gone completely Wild— He has poured Himself into me!” ~ Hafiz

From four months of travel in southeast Asia
with her boyfriend, one of my daughters
has brought back beads and woven scarves;

books, a granary god hewn from a small block
of darkened wood; and a few postcards from Thailand—
One shows gold-filigreed Wat Phra Singh temple

in Chiang Mai, ancient capital of the northern kingdom,
where they’d gone to see thousands of glowing lanterns
bobbing like celestial jellyfish in the sky during Loi

Krathong; the second, two little boys in saffron robes
adorning a buddha’s image with flower garlands; and last,
two elephants in an elephant breeding show, their rippling

flanks painted with scarlet, gold, and green scrolls,
red-pantalooned handler crouched underneath the canvas tent
formed by the female’s outspread body, another handler

holding her lowered head… I’ve read somewhere
that the elephant is among only six or seven
animals the world over, holding the distinction

of having the largest genitals (surprisingly,
the barnacle tops the list, with penis length
the equivalent of 240 feet in human measurement).

The postcard has no other caption or explanation,
no notes, no narrative, not even names for the two
at the center of this larger-than-life display

of heated encounter. I wonder about the sounds
they make, the length of his and her arousal, the smell
and quickness of release, and whether or not they

mind the ring of voyeurs gathered around:
snapping Instagrams as the slick grey muscle
stiffens and thrusts, recording videos to upload

on YouTube even before they’ve returned
to their hotels— Our youngest girl, pre-teen,
budding feminist schooled in cell division

and meiosis, thinks this picture is practically rape
(three males— elephant, two native handlers, who knows
how many spectators), and depicts the female’s abuse.

She cannot wrap her mind around this evidence
there are apparently carnivals built around the fact
of large animal coitus; but sees, intuitively,

the connection to shows like “The Bachelor”…
As for me, it is the chalked scrolls of heraldic
gold and red that fix my eye: how the female’s,

in the picture, hold their color and bold shape, while
the male’s are already a muddy run of dirty green
where the forefeet rasp across her rendered back.

 

In response to thus: come and drink your fill.

A very hagfishy Valentine’s Day

hagfish 1

For Valentine’s Day, my love designed and knitted me an Atlantic hagfish, A.K.A. slime eel — Myxine glutinosa. Apparently, she was the first on Ravelry to do so. While to the uninitiated this might seem like a less than subtle suggestion that I am a slime-ball and a bottom-feeder, in fact it was a highly romantic gesture, a response to my “Ten Simple Songs” (8-9, if you’re in a hurry). I was initially going to hold off posting that poem until Valentine’s Day, but then I thought, what if she doesn’t like it? Perhaps slime eel references don’t belong in a serious love poem. I guess I needn’t have worried.

hagfish 2

Hagfish purposely tie themselves in knots to remove excess mucus. Thankfully, this plush, knitted hagfish is not mucilaginous in the slightest. (See additional photos on the project page at Ravelry.)

I don’t own many works of art, and none that please me quite so much as this. Folks, don’t ever let anyone tell you that poetry doesn’t pay! Also, heed the wise words of Robert Fulghum (often wrongfully attributed to Dr. Seuss):

We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.
Robert Fulghum, True Love