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“The color of gratitude is the sound of understanding”

“The color of gratitude is the sound of understanding”

Lay it down, this one time. What has beaten you
will one day be some new strange food. Will be
like nothing you are after in this moment.
Go another hour if you can,
lay pit against palm,
call your mother’s name-
give permission to nothing greater
than the smallest memory.
Stretch it until the finest lines
grow on their own.

Light in the room
you had been left to fend for yourself in,
going dim.
We have no winter grounds,
no favorite stores, best dishes,
here. So lift only voice
which comes when it comes, so unwilling,
broken by need, plant and row
in the hydra, say a few kind hello’s.
Believe that there might be something underneath,
a small town you can remember, forget,
remember, forget.

This one time,
it will be in you-
(enough strength)
to walk steadily, full bodied, away-
and toward lasting rest.

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“The days in which I never even bothered to change clothes”

“The days in which I never even bothered to change clothes”

I am far between the good rain.
At night I store gifts inside the houses
of other peoples lives,
mixing colors into a distance of time,
or a watched passing bright
near the foot of the tree,
its stamina, like a scar of summer
running toward the notion of food-
(is) sensed.

Tell me what I missed
while I was busy being important?
Did the firmament rename itself?
Has the landlord become bitter,
feeling outside her world?
Very often the walls too
repeat the sounds they hear
in the claw of out yonder-
oblivious people bound to each other
but blind to the kernel of the real thing
inside each of them.

I have missed, something, you-
its not important.
The ecology of the world
understands its loss,
many of us wanting to learn
what we already know-
it is called a ‘defunct event’.

Over and over the no light
absent pushing into the unfinished home,
the fatigue one feels
from having to constantly match
the right memories.
A blue and ruin until the whole facade
experiences static- counting,
not counting stones,
a little self awareness.
A figure who will tend to it’s landscape.

For me speaking isn’t easy.
There are so many arrangements
to make beforehand,
preparing ground to play it safe,
to move close up, actually.

“I came close to enjoying the world today”

“I came close to enjoying the world today”

Experience? Asks the panorama,
what type of earth have you known?
Were you attentive? Attendant?
Did you know much in that place?
Or were you only admiring the visibility-
the double ground, where world
might or might not crack open
and give that shell a river
from which your place could pulse,
owning outcome, good intentions?

I am very tired with grievance,
the blame game that disconnects human fabric,
our experiences, our extending,
kindness, yes, perhaps,
but be there in person this time to deliver,
hand it over with the heat of your loss
pressed into the fold of your unspecified ‘safe place’.

‘I am no one’, no one says,
great portions of the world still suffer, are you counting?
Keeping up?
Toward the living you will invade,
doubt certain appearances, commonalities-
just where is it, you think you have come from?

I am not total,
coming the front fruit of the senses
bruised, am I happy?
‘No one has to be’, thinks decency.
Off this boundary some rove, disappear,
own their mental impossibility.
This world is shoveling nothing into itself,
whatever could be called a reasonable expectation
must be readjusted to evaluate someone else’s hunger
by much more then one’s own theoretical type of hunger.

“Only family members are allowed to ride in the ambulance”

“Only family members are allowed to ride in the ambulance”

Listen into me for a moment.
Now extend that and look.
That is where
the instant, year, is marked.

I count three.
Three different versions of enunciation,
childhood, as it were,
and also something, it is said, great.

Composure weakening until there is no ‘was’
left in it.
Who it happened to,
they feel it acutely not a story,
a real moment
with no source for clearing.

And further, the inside,
how it weighs, (what?)
The utmost of everything.
The break with the people of one’s entire life-
both hands in their universe,
cleaning shop, looking for the next day,
and the next, you see?

“Otherwise than I remember, still the same as I had forgotten”

“Otherwise than I remember, still the same as I had forgotten”

Ourselves still intact,
contriving story,
help me, please, every syllable
side parched, the sets to the window,
and an afterward no world reads.

Our hand (our own)
was the war.
The so called loss
(not called loss).
A quip about mercy,
of sleep in the brim of it’s veil-
whose cure, beyond it,
lyric-living-relentless, hum-bum
in the inner fine net,
language enclosed at the bottom of our keepings,
where we are, or were, then different.

To move out past the declaration:
‘that is your fucked state.’
In the world we have been impossible,
that experience too, impossible.

Down wind where light curves,
thinking: ‘I am bringing everything into this,’
there is more,
circling right through the palm,
soil and largest part.
Isn’t it, our largest part?
To lend the burning its virtue-
our us, (one) virtue burning in total resolve
after awhile.

“A poster from a childhood bedroom wall”

“A poster from a childhood bedroom wall”

If there is room anywhere else,
I will go there
and with a straight face say, ‘I sent myself.’
The fault line that you created for me
by my lack of navigation- I feel,
desperate, blind, an unending need
to witness more than I can handle,
walk away from.

If this isn’t true, then give me the counter argument,
the counter measure.
More simply, give me that look
that says, ‘You are far too hard on yourself’,
‘rest now, for a bit, and I will keep watch,
it is not as if you are alone in this’.

What beekeeper says this?
Near that underneath
the whole season and sky
pulls itself into, with a pace
only memory can make.

Someone else’s forgotten touch,
and touched until the body
is near its bursting,
packing each one to the brim,
the thread of all that happened
mended into stronger stuff- into human coil,
into beekeeper and heart torn navigation,
my hand to your hand-
I might have missed ‘living’ but not ‘life’.

“Being less noble, I became less of a being, at times”

“Being less noble, I became less of a being, at times”

Shell songs and the randomness,
what is food, and how do I get it?
A long time, then shorter time,
maybe no time, agonized over the aphasia,
the obstinacy of the flower,
open window
and fleeting smell,
how the rain gets in us,
materializing itself.

Ready for this actual entering
of the voice,
it’s exact surface-
style looming like a hand made grace,
then vague in the truth we had opened up.

The river in it’s drawer
listening to the oak
bend into two parts-
that deep look into the arrival,
speak, what words,
Come then out of earlier winters weeping?
The sound forced up,
paint pinned (unequal) onto the wall.

How old were we here,
in this copy,
with a look beyond the anecdotal?
Observing the ridges of the bread,
in light- look closer,
the thing is pierced with faith.
Look again- why is there no bottom?