what we talk about in your made up room

tight

it's harder to

cross-country-ski

more so than run

single

knee over

single

knee over

knee

draped in

say, I adore,

say, Easy,

fishing hooks

thumb tacks

clothes pins

say isn't this

these easy steps

this fast pace out

onto the yard

of visual pieces

say, you say,

here, eat this,

it's mere skis,

meager shuffle

when I look down

the plane of snow is

all white, all over,

without

the image

of blades (grass)

I try rather triangles

rather cross hill

drag snow

over snow

I make no more nor less nothing

tree you

1.

he a tree
worn green
to be cut
i'll use him
like logs
fragrant
sound
of wet fir
fire

he asks
if he falls
will i
hear
and i say
yes
yes
with
excitement
i'll hear
the fall
of future
heat for
the house

2.

but
i too
now
a tree
besides
also now
wet behind
ears,
green,
now on
knee
of branches
kneeling
now
lacing, lancing
depending
on
the day
time of
tree
and trestles
leaning

I, too.

joan dear

If I were Joan Didion,

I would construct

rectangular thoughts

of substance and story.

I would smooth over my eyes

large black sunglasses

type obstinately at prose

tidily fit five feet tall

between hard covers.

Bravely, I would create

the heat and draft of sorrow

and macrobiotic birthings

in nouns, verbs, commas,

periods.

I would disappear beneath

the skin of strangers

tape lives like collagework

in straight and long lines.

Sure I'd swing my arm up,

but I would never slouch.

If I were Joan Didion

I'd be a paragraph

blink blankly at the thrown

together notion of the stanza

skirt the issue altogether

return to my following chapter.

he wondered all winter, and so did i

He wondered

all winter

what her hair

must look like

underneath

the fake fur cap

she wore tight

over her ears

from September on,

when he first arrived,

with the red

and yellow branches.

Taking

handfuls of hay

for the animals,

was it also so dry,

also this thick,

yellow, fermented,

drowsy.

could he, too,

chew as a cow,

on its edges?

Or pulling up

palmfuls

of the dead weeds

beside the deer fence

post, was it wet

and circular,

tight, rooted

into her head

like long, brown veins?

Would it circle

his thumbs,

up his forearms?

Could he band

his elbows with it?

The March day

gave

an infant sun.

He sported

thin shoes,

feeling this warmth,

he sought her.

She filled jars

with water,

outside the house,

her ankles bare

so her shoulders

her neck, there,

solid, skinny.

He hid

behind her

hat, just as

stubbornly pushed

on to her temples

as during

the early snows.

He saw her

otherwise naked,

no matter:

not the water

at her ankles

not the eyes

of animals

and other hands,

only the motion

of his wrist

towards her

head, as he tore

the hat

from it.

at the laundromat on a Saturday Night

I love the Baby Giant Panda

I'd welcome one to my veranda.

I never worry, wondering maybe

Whether it isn't Giant Baby;

I leave such matters to the scientists-

The Giant Baby- and Baby Giantists.

I simply want a veranda, and a

Giant Baby Giant Panda.

-ogden nash-

Lassa, the prodigal ram

I've been eaten by sows, one boar.

I've scratched their thighs too often.

I've knocked the trees and loosened the bark.

I've turned on you, haven't I.

I've laid down in circles of straw.

I've constructed the circles myself.

I've arced them with my hooves.

I've tasted bread, which differs from grass.

I've sweated smells more so than most.

I've allowed you to touch my painful forehead.

I've turned on you for doing so, haven't I.

You've sold the sows, one boar.

You shook when they found me.

You've pruned those trees with saws.

You've turned from me, haven't you.

You've thought to lay in circles of straw.

Like a mouse, like me, nest.

You've felt your fingernails with the pad of your thumb.

You've tasted grass, but prefer bread.

You've gotten my scent for days in your nose, your hands.

You've satisfied the painful desire to touch between my eyes.

You've turned away from me, haven't you.

Let's return.

Let's try this again:

I will fully my name, and ram.

You fully yours, keep being.

events

This twig and I meet across

the top of my head

It looks down and taps

the regality of sap

onto the soft spot of my crown

I'm so busy thinking

it's my need to imbue

these creatures with spirit

that I miss their chattered

whistled blessing

The water washes my hands.

The squash feeds me.

I meet the twig,

but it prepared the ceremony.

Virginia comes over the country

First,

I'm half way up Green Mountain when I see her leaning off her hip,

drinking from an old mug some water she collected of the rock.

Virginia, what a surprise, what is she doing here?

Virginia, I say, What a surprise. What are you doing here?

She doesn't answer because she's got her head facing West and

I'm speaking up from the East.

But I reckon it has something to do with the different between

hills and mighty elevation .

Then,

I'm driving like I will on Friday Mornings to work on the farm.

The land is regal with the hue of morning and

I'm just sucking and sucking and sucking it in through my eyes

as much as I can, when she's there, then, too,

Virginia's right hand disappeared into the matted fur of a buffalo's back.

Virginia! I shout, my car idling on the dirt path with the urban title of 59th street.

Virginia, I shout, what are you doing over there?

She answers this time, but with a clippness as to indicate I've got one

question, and I've asked it.

"Getting bits of whatnot off the Buffalo! Cleaning him up, really!"

I call out "Oh"

but realize she won't answer any others,

she's back to the animals, grass up to her hips.

I want to ask her how Jackie is,

how's the smell on the little road near Charlottesville.

What boxes have been brought in to the bookshop,

how many shark teeth have washed up on the Potomac.

But I'll just have to trust my intuitive answers:

twofeetwell, thus better, crisp, civilwar and popup books,

and too many to count, too many to ever fully collect.

It's nice to know, now, that the states visit one another sometimes on the weekend.

Next time Colorado goes calling, I'll ask if I, too, can go.

animal body

The hairs on my body form circles.

Light curls make shapes, ovals, opals.

I find hours to touch them gingerly,

above from the reflection of a pot,

or while standing on an elevator,

I look up, then touch the side of my

ear, where hair forms, returns, pets

and pats itself, like that on my upper

arm, see here now, my cheek, the down.

I’m comforted by my animal being,

who asks for no more ambition than

the breath and a good stretch occasionally.

I’m thrilled with the way it moves, not

through time, not out and long and firm,

but rather into itself, like sleep,

like how I find my form, at dawn.

evening, 1940

words from mister francis ponge:

What is it made of, this pleasure?- Principally of this: the pine woods is a piece of nature, made of trees all of a clearly defined species; a well delimited piece, generally quite deserted, where one finds shelter from the sun, from wind, from visibility; but no absolute shelter, not one completely isolated. No! It is a relative shelter. Not a sneaky shelter, nor a measly one, but a noble shelter.

It's a place too...where development is gradual, natural, without coppicing, without man-high branches, where sprawling out simply occurs, without slackness, but quite comfortably.

Each pine wood is like a natural sanatorium, as well as a music hall...a chamber, a vast cathedral of meditation (a cathedral without pulpit, fortunately) open to all the winds, but through so many doors that it's as if they were closed. For they hesitate there.

...

No laughter, but what salubrious comfort, what a temperateness of elements, what a soberly scented hall of music, soberly adorned, well made for serious walks and meditation.

-francis ponge-

He wiped chalk from his palms and twiddled his fingers and told me to be concerned

with my spleen and the footwear. He arranged his two arms like a cross and said

that I was all funny and off, and did I know what he was saying, yeah? and I looked at

the hills and said I could see them, and he said I couldn't, and I said it's Eve's fault and

he told me I'm her. His eyes seemed translucent and if he were blind I wouldn't be shocked.

Again, with space, he shook his arms in front of me and said to stop using the future,

and stop, knock it off with seeing the idea of mountains, and for seeing the idea as

grand, and what's more, quit it with seeing the idea of grass, and seeing the grass as grand.

two creatures of substance more than us

We often won't stop for pennies, storm clouds, or bags needled on trees,

needing to be collected and recycled.

We won't pull over to pee, sneeze,

or have a good think about what was the name of that singer anyway.

But yesterday, all cars of varying colors stopped

mid mountains, not to observe the historic growth and destruction of rock,

or the pale, small yellow flowers of elevation,

but for the elk.

And not only the elk!

with his heavy antlers which i only know

in the form of low lying branches on old oaks,

with his thick and must be fragrant mane of matted fur,

but also the coyote!

Who jaunted up and past him!

to all of our horror and expectations of disaster!

Cameras were confused, where to shoot!

and the animals apathetically ignored one another

as we jumbled, unevolved in our emotions,

through every possible reaction.

We all stopped,

but the elk never started,

and the coyote continued.

the dog farmer

The leather farmer buried the dog several hours

before I saw it underneath the belly of a car,

running its paws sideways into the air,

calling out like a coyote or a kettle.

The mountains were continuous but for one line

of sweat, beads of automobiles on route 36 streaming,

and I ran towards the thin pearls from the east,

interrupting grasshoppers, also gleaming, shining wet.

It was morning and he was mourning, out there with a golden shovel,

his truck parked asleep on the side of the road,

his forearms capable of transcending time and place,

burying the dog slowly that wasn't yet dead, in his or someone's corn field.

He buried the dog that hadn't yet even gone out for his walk.

He buried the dog that napped,

in morning sun, sleeping, east,

somewhere, on the other side of the city.

floaty me

found this, labelled 4 1/2 on the back by mom

it seems as if i knew

i'd be floating a bit to one side,

looking a little tired, but more so intent

ending in words that only make sense in context

folks like beans here are, for me, favorites.

those that are honest and sneaky, honestly sneaky,

stealing glances yet giving away emotional alms almost daily.

true boned and solid folks, with big strong heads

and crafting hands,

diving through the trees of various cities to find words

for what should be, because that's the concern.

what should be, to benefit the all.

matt wrote me today to say that all men are brothers,

and that's true, though i'd like to take it a step further

and say the photograph above is a family portrait, with

beans, the bushes, boots, red, two.

here at home

I'm waiting for the feeling of being home,

here on the porch,

with my wagon of worthwhile possessions

animals offer their advice

Yesterday, after the rain, came the animals.

Fish and cardinals, wet raccoons

and ginger cats, toads, canaries, opossums,

brown bears, and black ones, newts,

skinks, turtles, ewes and lambs,

horses, voles, fox, bucks, balboas,

seals, skunks, miniature, standard sized poodles.

Everyone was wet, skirting off drops,

with expressions of absolutely apathy.

I, a handful of calendula, asked for advice.

'animals,' i asked, 'how should this be?'

i didn't even know myself if i was referring to

my life, my actions, this life, other's emotions,

the way to live daily, the way to pray, the

overarching atmosphere, or to what degree

i should recycle, floss, dust, or prostrate in gratitude.

The question put forward, the pavement steaming

from a few hours of rain after three weeks of heat,

I stood expectant of an answer and received a groundhog

who took the bouquet from my fist, rearranged the yellow,

the salmon, the orange, the brown, and replied

'it should be like this' and looking up from the circle of petals

found the panther and the parrot in agreement.

mimosa

she tells me my unsatisfied yearning might not belong rightfully to me.

maybe it's the neighbor, across the creek, shoving twigs and newspaper,

attempting to start the fire, flinging on more gasoline from a small red tank,

cursing and hoping that the flames sustain themselves this time.

I'm breathing in last sunday's silk mimosa tree.

I'm not crossing my fingers, but I am rubbing my own neck,

leaving traces of pink, yellow, green.

I choose this world, thank you

My hands full, I left the fields

with the stem of a four-leaf clover

between my top and bottom teeth.

This is how to carry luck.

Don't fill buckets full,

boxes, pockets, your palms.

Rather, fill your bags with

zucchinis, raspberries, beetles

and birds. Collect leaves and

histories in your turned over hat.

Suck on the delicate branches of fate.

Chew, methodically, expectation, like

bubble gum, with bubble gum.

Open your arms, here, some matter.

Put ideals and ideas in the spaces between

the woven wood of your basket full of pears

nonsense, no

This time, I stay close to what I find standing.

I identify the fireflies, but admire more the cereal.

After the soil, the roots,

intricate strings

pulling through and collecting.

Once upon a year ago or so, I thought of writing candidly about my experiences,

so that those I barely speak to could have a sense of what I'm doing.

The terribly habit of ambiguity is at home in my poetry, and sometimes

I don't even know where these bags of images come from, that show

up on my mind's front porch.

I wrestle my weak descriptions so often, down in the grass,

all of us wet with rain or dew.

The verbs on top, than I am, till an adjective kicks me in the back

of my knee, and the adverbs all snicker.

Nouns crowd me all day long:

cows, cups, fissures and flowers.

So, apologies for the river water I've offered

in lieu of lemonade.

I'll go back to school soon and try to do better.

a question for ya'll

how will i transport my goat cross country?

my uncle peanut's picture

ben and his long face

Ben has been weeding for days now,

one long strip of land that may,

or may not, be used for our lettuce.

He's been out there, crouched in steel

tip boots, armed with a spade,

since last monday, when he heard

how his grandfather had died.

Now he speaks lowly to the wheelbarrow,

to the stubborn dandelion, the nettle.

No matter of rain,

let rivers form beneath him.

He quits only when you

kneel and take his clumsy hands,

rub the soil into your palms as well,

eat at his alter and lead him back,

by evening, to the supper table.

mostly for mom

once on an evening, she blew tree bark up my nose

and my head fell out my ears, while my mind sunk into my ribs.

i jumped into the ocean and swallowed breathes of salt water,

then lost my green shorts in the surf.

as i grow older, i find the first sighting of fireflies fuller,

thicker, more significant, more dense.

they flicker over the fields and i take them in,

replace my thoughts with insects,

replace my objects with actions,

my life with hers, yours, his.

i go home and sleep, listening to the scuffles,

just sounding like raccoons,

really being feelings.

i'd like to

slouch as the cats do, lean one eye into the other.

find segments of wool and wall to rely on,

pull muscle from muscle out into whiskered fur,

keep your sense of scent wet,

sleep, then sleep more.

`Well!' thought Alice to herself, `after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely true.)

i'm wondering whether i should

grow pies or turn into a magpie

or reincarnate

now

and see if there is a difference later.

should i sleep in shorts, or slips, or socks?

shouldn't i be ready, now, for bed?

what are we doing then

I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

-wislawa szymborska-

it's a

it's a goal to be as a goat:

possess hooves,

ears, even without horns,

sound somewhere between

a bray and a bah

star yellow

So, I can not name them.

They need, I know, some water.

I dig my knees deep,

return them prematurely back to dust,

to pray and pick these flowers.

consider yourself surrounded

i'll opt to consider myself surrounded,

rather than lonely and amid quiet,

weil there's a whole circus of friends

pulling out a whole nonsense on stops

in the green house, which is toppling over

in not only green but purple and blue and

stars, ribbons, sticks, and soil.

every morning, this lupine surprises me with another tassle.

every morning, it greets me with a trick or two.

something's now on fire, unfolded,

waving greetings, waving dew.

mad tom

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

edna st. vincent millay

thanks

All things are full of gods, eh thales?

Does this include us and our filthy thumbs?

It is not a problem of perception for me now,

but rather how to react to continual deities.

I'm beginning to understand why some live perpetually

on their knees.

We'll never be able to say thanks enough.

I pass on my gratitude to the birds,

so that they may pass theirs on to the berries,

so that they can nod cheers to the sugar,

which, when warm, will make them into jam,

which I'll take and coat on the wafer.

Drink the cordial too.

Then kneel and harvest more.

stronger language

The saliva left from the mouths of grazing cows

aid in the regrowth of grass,

and so honor your spit as a bandage,

cooing and nursing your tongue and palate,

so that the words you may speak today replace

the weaker ones of yesterday, your language

rolled in the salve, in the tincture.

Know it will be said even better tomorrow!

rain day muddled

I have a mind to confuse things,

unite them, bring them to birth,

mix them up, undress them,

until the light of the world

has the oneness of the ocean,

a generous, vast wholeness,

a crepitant fragrance.

-pablo neruda

arugula

Let's bless the green bits, and the sink that cleans them.

Eating these, our atoms wear sweaters of chlorophyll

and cozy up to one another, making messages pass faster,

as green woolen atom elbow nudges green woolen atom side.

Let's go ahead now and acknowledge that emphasized in winter

is the oneness of objects, so that our green mixes are comprised

not only of arugula and mustard greens, but are made also of

towel, cat, birch, telephone, right arms, left feet, chagrin and glee.

Let's not forget what these greens mean!

Let's improve our memory by cramming

our heads with the stuff, fit like cotton balls,

dyed, extended, covered in leaves and gleaming,

around our silly sleepy hemispheres.

Take in everything, weeds and nets included,

and digest yourself into them.

gabriel oaks, again.

alice, he says, I'll hold this for you.

Look, I rest beauty on my shoulders,

so that you do not feel the burden of the flower.

You can fight battles of impulse,

scowl at your own knees,

and only later, return to me.

-clogged yet unalloyed man of the goodwill treasure shelf-

part one

hold out your fists as if holding a steering wheel,

that's habit.

now turn over your hands, open your palms,

as if receiving a pile of linens for the bed you'll sleep in,

that's nirvana.

that's what the straight spined woman said,

and if I trust her calm smile, I'll believe it.

If breath constructs balanced awareness,

why is beauty all muddled and skipping, both

during the inhale and the out?

I singe the leaves when I enlighten the plant.

I wrestle with the same problem of the silly apple,

over and over and over again, until I find myself

eating the concept.

the woodlanders

with gratitude, we get through

in response to jackie's double rainbow

there are days, midwinter, when the sun is strong enough to warm the outer skin of things, including us, even beneath our jackets and felted woolen sweaters, the sun hits our skin and our freckles shiver in excitement. the egyptian, the german, and i lay down mid-field, amongst

the frozen carrots. our digging forks, defeated, lay beside us, all of us a fallen army with

red flags waving to the cold, 'that's it,' we say, 'that's it.' we are in the shape of cookies,

really, funny lumps of layers, arms oozed out over someone else's ankles. and then, there comes, the sun. and we all are momentarily warm.

i don't remember what we speak of, language,

most likely, as the egyptian, the german and i usually find ourselves discussing words,

their variety, their inclinations towards emotions, their origin and their children. then, plotzlich, suddenly, the german points up and on the cirrus cloud above appears a rainbow, fantastic, concentrated, lighting up the whole mare's mane, so that it morphs into a feather of some tropical bird we've never bothered to learn the name of. i think i began the laugh. the handsomeness of the colors, the shape of the feather, the placement of it right above us, right at that time, right between heaven and the carrots, us and this art.

once faded and finished, we three stood back up and rearranged our bodies into neatness.

i said a prayer in english. the german spoke in hebrew. the egyptian, arabic.

it didn't matter, the language: the sentiment, the event, the same.

language

let's raise our glasses,

so that we can not see.

let's toast,

with yoghurt and marmalade.

let's wave,

then straighten out.

let us love language in its inability

to agree, in its downright shakiness.

let's love the tongue that says it wrong

and all the heads that nod and hum

without getting the drift,

meaning the wood,

found oceanside,

meaning

softened, salted, sandy.