Oil in my tea today mimicking
yak–butter preparation of Tibetans not
petro spillage into streams
Awake at three—fascism nightmares, valerian
dose because I knew it'd be swirling and swirling no
I made a wise choice to sit up: shamatha beside sleeping
honey, putting mind and body into favorable position rather
than festering horizontal
Stanzas looking like pistols
Perhaps, bringing it
down a bit into a little
drip of tea become blood, my
blood is carrying objects of oolong
soon—I'll drink the pu' never
made it this way before:
stovetop, coconut oil, stir
Got a text message, preview
says: "Oh damn." Heather's first words
upon waking: "I dreamt I had a
dalmatian onesie. And pink sparkly
sunglasses for girl–scientists—they
Elbows everywhere—in the middle of the night like
being in the paint intent on putting it through
Bruised before dawn, contusion—sore, middle of the night:
elevator dropping, sprinklers came on and I knew something
Verdegris versus tang rank veneer
Kitchen catching fire, grab a baby and head out
in yer skivvies: then the neighbor turning you away 'cause you look
Back to this chrysanthemum on
my little desk, it's wilting, just about gone,
I picked up some perky new ones yesterday: $3.99
Timing is wrapping around my wrists—a boa
the more I try to grip, the more it
as I surrender more—it slips
I don't have time for it. The oil's dripping out of the plastic pan into the burner, fire alarm screams in defiance — pushing, pushing the buttons, pushing
and it acts as if I'm
not even there,
buttons to extinguish, buttons
flares in all directions. Tomato splat against the wall, the ketchup drowning a forgotten fry, the microphone is collecting toxic germs.
The song is coughing, the bread is crumbled, the omelet is vegan.
The cheese is unreliable, the comma stinks of muenster, mustard, mixed and blended, an old poem in the corner giving off aroma, rotten, mushrooms are sprouting in a moist forest elsewhere, unconcerned with alphabets, death, ideas and such.
full of phlegm, raindrops encompassing entire towns
on their way down.
Climbing rhymes, digging those rhizomes, protecting no–paragraphs in order to preserve a semblance of poesy.
tattoo of a description of "po' "
on my knee
I'm on my knees
throughout the morning
as I pour tea
execute calligraphy magik
Barbed Wire all around, gaseous fireball
flares upon the skin
tossed in, locked up
by a clown
Two bells, no, tones, notes
no, I meant to begin to say the elevator
must be operating again
until it fell off — the idea, that attempt at
Urine in a
bag in a
Urine Luck in
my sock in
high school in
case they were to drug test me in
sock so body temperature
Tilting to the left, imaginary dump
in luck, I've been thinking about keeping
house more casually so
spiders can unwind
and enjoy the space
Wilted afternoon has no
responsibility to blueness, my dentist is
going to be disappointed if my smile dies before my
gums. I'm jealous of you if you've got sturdy gums. I've
got scrappy gums, but a good smile anyhow — if there's a way to trade I'd
consider blinking twice to delight — if you'd
find it nourishing
To relieve pressure — gripping toes with toes as the sun rises
pulling 'till pop
Any bit is delicious. I'm
keeping house more casually now — bag on a hook
like feets in the sheets
Heavy, all this mucous up in my head. Sneezing for days, a
million tissues, a billion marching — so certain. Certain as a
sneeze. And I agree, and I was home on the sofa, sneezing. Hadn't
even planned on going — anyways, a head cold. And even hazier
the matter of engagement. Snot is so simple, and the tissue does its
thing. A sneeze ain't even impulsive, it is natural — which side are
you oooooon? A photo of pink this morning, which came into the grey sky while
I was looking down pouring tea: Grey / Pink — in a flash, a blink, and then came
gold, gold, hot
gone — pink
fading — gold
gone, now, illuminated grey again — first time today
a mix, maybe — activism / attention–seeking
always, maybe, and I agree, and yet
I'm shy to shout
and I wanna be above it, somehow, or
I want it to come naturally, and I know sometimes a leap
is needed, and I'm suspicious all around
Do not betray your bewilderment — even if being right is cool
That's a translation of a translation of something Rilke said. I said it to myself. I'm asking myself questions all the time about: how to be inchoate elegantly? Responsible to what? Resist what? What's the root?
Blessed are the bewildered. Blessed are the marchers, the article–sharers, the certain voices making enemies, the ones digging deep for "love your enemy," the ones I cannot fathom who I could if I gave it a minute —
Dim blue now peeks through
where pink arose before
What's the flavor of the day? How does the berry slice the tongue?
Climbed up a ladder onto
an icy rooftop, across the
Mountain. Rooftops of the town
lit softly by sun, obscured, some
hints of color, light, coming through in patches
Snapped a photo and thought about possible
accompanying verse — maybe an innoffensive and somehow sharp, somehow
something to prove I'm on the level,
in the know, and although oft silent — that is, not in a rhythm of buzzing --
part of the hive? — silent and therefore cooperative? Silence as part of the
problem? Or possibly as balm? Image may contain all the notes,
a complete offering. Put my hands on the cold metal
ladder and turned 180 with residue jumbles of potential
verse in mind. A clean haiku would've sprung. I'm fumblin'
around — a rubber lumpy wheel on ice, on a slope, a pristine
sentiment below — the firm soil.
On my way out of the downstairs bathroom
after flipping the switch I
paused in the threshold
My face felt alive like an amoeba
The aqua glow of the room across the way
was undemanding — a quiet companion
I heard my honey, in the kitchen, busy
putting our lunches together. And
she was unaware of my lil' moment.
The mirror to my right was dim and unaffected,
I assume. I don't remember feeling the floor — I
would've if it fell through. There were no rational
reasons to move or stay put, though
eventually I would've felt pressure to
explain myself — I wasn't hiding but
would've been discovered. Would've
had to pee at some point, and so forth,
and so stillness — I wasn't still anyway
— is fleeting if not impossible. Willie
sings a tune about that, and I share the
sentiment. Anyway, far more movement
seems to be happening in the way of
echo. (repeat) Echo, repeat. Silence
and stillness are echoes, high life and
primrose are echoes, etchings, invocat–
ions proud to be dim–lit imaginings only
embers echoing lumber — dreamers, be
too swift in forgetting to scribble in the
middle of the night, but notice an ember
out the window — moon — hit by distant
light. Yours. A bygone peculiar smile
invoked as reverberating memory — now
told, untarnished, untouched — a wink
An elusive rhythm uninvented, a pause,
a glow, a faucet running in the other room,
lunchtime soon so I moved, moved, moved
A bouquet of slight discomforts
within a space of relative ease
within a realm of subtle suffering
all ease may be illusory
except for true ease
in which too–tight jeans don't exist
there is no squeeze
because it is all fluid
Anyway, I left a pot on the stove.
I wonder if these jeans will break in.
There are no wheelbarrows around here--
shall I write about my desk?
It's all stained with sumi ink.
My brush rests on its dish, drying.
Meanwhile, I've got some back pain--
it's not too bad.
John is dead—five years now
and how about Emily D's description
of her own death? A zone to explore.
John is dead—have you heard the news?
The skin turned yellow and he said goodbye
many people don't get the chance
bombs dropping now, elsewhere
I learned about a theory that all those power–hungry folks
on TV are motivated by existential dread
They chew their food, and shit, and get cancer
just like the rest of us
Turn yellow and it all dissolves
and somehow it brings them comfort to
grasp after a sense of power over the universe
I enjoy a bit of validation now and again as well
I think they may be a bit indulgent
Bloated folks taking their seats,
farting into expensive leather
no one is bothered because the speech is
far more rank
the ozone is slowly rubbed thin
the wider cosmos is unbothered
a sun is swallowed
a galaxy swirls
a fly buzzes
I woke up before dawn and the moon was
hanging up there with Venus
it looked like a half–eaten piece
of cheese (I'm vegan)
I called my congressman yesterday, first time,
asked that he skip the inauguration
said it would be a gesture of courage and sanity
Mind ain't tidy like a wheelbarow perception
all the time and blabbering is no less sacred
The wheelbarrow is rusted and comes apart
as does the chicken and Emily D
John is dead—cares not about a wheelbarrow
Good to notice the glistening secret and absurd to
grasp after it
There's more power in candor—Allen, candor--
Cantos is a beast
a big achievement, I'm sure
a waste of time, maybe
the wheelbarrow is rusted
the dust is touched by dumbness
and within the exchange
splendor overwhelms entirely
the assumption of conquering anything
except resistance to the undertow
Gonna check on that pot.
Twelve birds flapping in formation
just barely visible above the rooftop out my window
A little consideration
tingling in my left arm and heart–space
thinking about the virtue of crafting something beautiful
Couldn't I say something sweeter about the birds?
I think the answer is to train, to become so steeped in poetic language
that it flows, is uncontrived
and then there's a bit of leaning in as well, I think
a bit of exertion
Travis: read more poetry
swim in poetry
Then you can say what you say more beautifully
and it won't be forced
ALL NATURAL POETRY
Poetries which are uncontrived, but beautiful because the mind has been conditioned to generate poetic language, and to perceive subtly. CTR: "Thoughts become more elegant."
So: One side of it is meditation / dharma. The other side is poetry — reading and writing.
Cultivating both of these areas is a good mix.
That's what I'm going for.
Grasping after elegance is clumsy
Somebody is buzzing my phone
My progress is being monitered by devices I can't perceive
the results are spit out in my dreams
I'm just — don't say that. Don't turn and yap at me.
Remember those dudes in Washington Square Park, nodding off, pretending to tie their shoe laces.
Phone buzzing and buzzing. Gotta remember to hit that crescent moon button: "Do not disturb."
And last night I thought:
Somewhere between mingling and manipulating.
That's the sweet spot.
Yes, I'm bringing my language into this, my history — where is my body? What does it mean to write about the body? Maybe I don't have to think about my body as much since I'm a white straight dude.
Body: how did Mendicant define it last night?
Body of work
Body of water
Body — as distinct from mind and speech
I am a rusting red wheelbarrow
my jeans are too tight
I've resued the brew from the stove and drank a cup
trying not to get sick:
garlic, ginger, lemon, red pepper, honey
Yesterday in dance class: feeling like I am making an effort
to enter the room
to be among others
to proclaim: I am here among you
panic — how clumsy am I?
At the Amodeos, always sneaking around to get what I need:
offer protector tea, a spoon of peanut butter, a banana,
When will I be able to exhale and say:
Here's what's happening with me. I like this and this, and I don't like that and this, and I just need a bit of this and that. I'm not out to hurt anyone. I feel anxious about my evolution
and I'm kinda doing what I can.
MLK was telling like it is.
My message is not so bold.
Torturous to have such expectations. Remember Phish in Mexico — so relaxed and just there to jam, to do their thing. And back on NYE so message–heavy.
Tight jeans. Do the work. Cultivate the mind. Cultivate the abilities. Show up.
Ain't that tidy?
Coming into view — a
While sounds of a
reggae record and
roommates chattering —
downstairs — the
aromatic hum of
our shelter. Outside
winds thwap at the walls.