untitled

a souvenir.
this loss of a dream, leaving membranes
of ice
dropped like coins in a tin plate
thanks

small impression on the grass
backward holes
of displaced winters and
confused geese, who chew
the crunchy pellets of snow:
leftovers

new song for second eve

you can spot her by the yellow umbrella that shields
against the elements
upright held in her hands that have known
faces visited by tears

equanimity spread in her hair
joy ...

that the earthy scent of spring will remind you of her strength,
she dreams of soaring with the white-breast swallow returning from exile

she wears no silk sash but waters your lawn; shovels your driveway when you aren't looking

her daffodil shoots run deep from the
wellspring of Ephesians
where she traces her name over and over
again,
comforted by the permanence of the etching in the wood

Eve, looking toward Eden restored



vl, england

streaming consciousness, 22.01.08

cyclists
spin threads of truth
you are. the wheel's spoke, You Are
(dis)coursing through and through to you and you and me and you and back and forth and up and down
cycling. toward You
please God,
hold us near to You.
please God,
keep us fastened
because
it's pain enough to stick it out alone,
broken-winged,
roofless and wet.
please God,
You Are

draft

behaving like winter has come

all i can see is red,
lined with the trim of envy


love, dont you see that the pond is dark today
today
when all of yesterdays
the grass glowed green with health and breath

today, love
the wind blows grey sheets into our vision,
like blinders that make us see
where we cannot be weak

and you, behaving like winter has dawned,
when i just said that january is green
Our january was green
but when you act
unseasonably cold

this dark pond expands to endless ocean.
and love,
do you see today
that the white gulls fly apart from black geese

because they heard it, like me,
that you declared the time to be winter
in a january that Once
was green


vl, england

the smell of spring

the smell of spring
in the closure of death
threatens change.
re:

charge and re:
assemble, such that the walls i've laboured to build for so long are put down

gently.
destruction so kind i thought it was misleading

cruelty
that did me a favour in the name of Saul

he probably saw what i smell now
gentle (re: construction

we haste to say that
in the springtime you will see all things are made new

when all this time
it was you with me in summer:autumn:winter: still

stay with me

Such Trepidation

A room of loose cords
frayed
knotted
large
burned
entangle me so that all I can think of is this false security

of being bound tightly
but having nothing to hold on to

Tell Me A Story

Tell Me A Story
of Love and Toil
While I'm Here Sitting on this Bench
With Jane Austin;
Tell Me A Story

part deux

What's there is this
map

You can read it this way up
_____________________________________or this side way
_____________________________________But the thing is

A map can be read in many ways
When it means to say one thing

Press your ear against March--
It's trying to tell you something [one thing]

about December to May
about solids to liquids
about the life of melting point.

Come and look at my veins,
translucent in the mockery of ice
Flush
in the lifeblood of my churning waves.

___A map can be read in many ways
___When it means to say one thing

web

like the open curtain falling in and out and in to the room, the smell of the painted walls linger. painted orange walls. yesterday. without warning. they came home and there it was--orange on the walls. like how someone dyes their hair and you sense a change but can't quite place it. and then when you finally realize what has actually happen, it always becomes the first thing you notice. the room is orange.

grinning, she turns to the kitchen to make lunch. "hungry?" she'll ask and not expect a refusal. they say that paint fumes give some headaches, but the aroma of fried onions and beef mixed with paint is enough to make someone throw up. why are we eating onions and beef for lunch anyhow?

they all sit down and the Saturday afternoon glares into the white kitchen, watching the four heads bob up and down from chair to plate, winking on the silverware, and whining with the wind. looking up, she catches a neighbourhood cat in the yard, scurrying away after being seen. the cat is big and fat, but seems totally self-aware and confident. like her mother--only maybe arrogant than confident.

sometimes like her mother.

upstairs, she is no better. her room is like a sentence without skimp punctuation, whereas her mothers' house is like a freight train sentence, loaded with comas and cargo of words, boxed together with parenthesis and never-ending with trailing thoughts ... while her mother has plenty to protect her, her daughter has minimal to

her daughter has minimal to
to
?

she once heard about a girl on Oprah who was just under a hundred pounds but ate only waffles and Sugar Crisp. the girl was convinced she had to keep skinny, but couldn't bring herself to will a healthy diet. as usual on the Oprah Winfrey Show, the morale of the story is in a healthy attitude. believe in yourself. envision a better you.

in the ducts that connect the kitchen ventilation fans to the heating vents of her daughter's room, a spider has been spinning an undisturbed web. undisturbed because it is out of human reach--practically invisible. but in some lights, you can see it. in some lights, it gleams a rare shade of silver. in some lights.

Resistance

like desert

there are dunes and tracks in the powdery texture,
white___grain___mounts

breathing all over the horizon
in angry gusts,
burning on my ears
and stinging my face

(don't you know that wind is just a special effect?)

and Underneath this skin of desert
even further than the ceiling of ice
I'm still moving.

those ripples are mine
and the dimpled dents on the surface
are my causation

(the reason why she can't sleep when the pea
is under all hundred of those mattresses)

she can't sleep

won't rest
until she ceases,

yields to
the barricade that's embracing her.