Nothing lasts, nothing keeps its original form. In stories, a room full of wheat will make you want to think of gold filaments, wires curved cunningly into miniature trellises. A body covered with leaves could have been a windfall that floated out of the open sky. Doesn't it look familiar ? Across a quilt there are thousands of stitches. How can each one of them, that tiny, anchor the weight of so many nights of sleep?
A late summer of relentless sun: yet hard green figs hide in the foliage. Some leaves are yellow and falling; perhaps they think their season's done. The cheeks of some fruit never flushed as though from tinctures of mandrake, never turned purple as nightshade. No chalky crimson where the heart might be, just a mossy silence sifting from farther away or overhead.
~ after Karen An-hwei Lee Mystery is to waterdrop, as fractal is to skeleton. As honey thickens in the lung or in the hive. The rubber tree gives its sap, engloving the hand that adjusts a patient's lifeline. Loving is an act of many dimensions— As waters warm, corals bleach but they are not yet completely dead. What other things have given up their color for you?
~ in the manner of a Craig Santos Perez "recycling;" and after “Aristotle” by Billy Collins Almost everything has perhaps happened. This is where we’re stuck, searching for that original light, how it’s gone from the eye of the fish that wriggled onto land, the words from a lost eden indecipherable from textspeak on a screen. Think of Aristotle’s idea of beauty, his first principles of order and symmetry, a dancer dead center on a stage performing; multiplied as virtual, through millions of screens. Is this the beginning of the proverbial end? As first-person narrators introducing ourselves, sometimes we’ll talk of chosen rather than biological family. A child whistles an old movie tune in the alley, not knowing where he first heard it. Ultramarathoners are studying the terrain and weather, pulling long swigs from gallon-sized BPA-free water bottles. This is still early on, years before the very last final thunderclap; no rescue ship, no rosy-fingered dawn. Skateboarders congregate below the expressway to admire murals a la Banksy on gray concrete though they didn't learn figure drawing with charcoal sticks. They'll try a new flip, kickflip, impossible. This is an opening perhaps, a move: something that proceeds, refreshingly, without cold calculation? This is the part where the wheels of gas-guzzling vehicles begin to turn up in empty lots, where quiet electric cars and hybrid vans whiz through the streets before or after the bridges’ brittle collapse. This is the in-between. That thing once called complication is better addressed as liminal space. Not simple, but not untenable. Overnight, more new cities emerge out of the fog, populated by migrants from all of earth’s quarters— a billion visa stamps, a billion “real IDs.” Distrust still patrols the terminals in a nondescript uniform with sagging hems. He waves a metal detector. He opens knapsacks, turns luggage inside out, asks whether there’s curry or dried fish. This is the part where the plot could still be if not reversed, then jettisoned in some audacious, unexpected direction.
and the signals sent out from the lighthouse of the hypothalamus: of peptides and neurotransmitters that regulate and release. You repeat, pleasure—everything from the silver of paper- heart leaves to the wrought filigree surrounding a tamburin; skin-sheen after exercise or sex; the syllables mouths bubble to go with please or delicious. On craggy hillsides, even the goats nuzzle the grass they feed on: one thing is pleasure, the other is work or a wage. Of horsehair woven around bright beads, and at their ends a row of brass cast little bells. Putting a necklace back into its drawstring pouch, you stop, trying to remember what saint or scent used to lie inside its glass- walled reliquary.
as a tree that wildly grows and puts out bud after bud until ruddy fruit cluster upon each branch like light bulbs. Dark-suited birds eat freely from the higher branches, often leaving most of the fruit untouched. Where there isn't enough, low-hanging fruit belong to creatures without wings.
"Naming, however kind, is always an act of estrangement." ~ Aracelis Girmay brown the soil, brown the sand we call sable that water paints before it recedes into itself; brown the shutters of heaven from which the eyes of ancients regard the world they left with us. brown the sides of wooden ships swelled with elegies of blind ambition, so certain of following the fateful stars. brown the beautiful bark of cassia shavings, the dark- tipped nails of clove, the red-tinged roots of galangal. burnish the sides of brass hawk bells until you can no longer tell their gleam from gold. the reefs are lined with coral, the straits with subterranean eyes and mangrove roots. crack open a rock to learn of lineage— turn up the earth, run your brown fingers along the burns and fading scars.
Blood cells are born in the marrow. They flood the columns of the pelvis, the ladders of the spine, the bones armoring the breast and its collection of soft organs. Somewhere in the factory, a lever or switch flips the numbers, electrifies the circuitry, multiplies. One day you're born or wake with too many lunettes; unchecked, they'd proliferate so skin bruises easy, as if a crimson dew formed beneath its outer walls. I don't know how to keep you from this delirium that seethes within, mostly unseen. In early morning light, I scan your body for tell- tale marks, watch as breath curls around the curve of your throat: in the shape of a stone fruit, in the guise of a hive clotted thick with syrup. Aspirate, from aspiratio: an exhalation. How a mouth forms the sound of audible breath, the low hum of a quiet engine.
Spores that flower along the grassy edge: bread-like and brown, fruit of the lightning. I don't talk to God much these days except through words scratched on the sill. Of questions, of rants, and bottled pleas: more than enough to fill empires of pages. You think I play in the dirt when I keep to my silent labors —more than enough to fill empires of pages; of questions, of rants, and bottled pleas. Except through words scratched on the sill, I don't talk to God much these days. Bread-like and brown, fruit of the lightning: spores that flower along the grassy edge.
"...for the world is laboring to eclipse us" ~ D. Bonta As waterfall— rain of wings and bodies that did not perish, purling from the arms of pine: clouds that feed on milkweed and wildflowers, that filter light down to the forest floor. What bright-striped tribes, what vapory tapestries made to make themselves over every season. Who taught each one to bear one flimsy pane of light, one flap of sound through the bars? A maw opens at the top of the canopy, waiting for the unbearable cascade of beauty: for now, this certainty that they will come, until they don't.