Divinity

 

Maybe we are here to grow pieces of god 

Torn off from the bottomless, star-studded loaf. 

Logan Trail

 

 

I wish that I was a little smaller
With lighter feet
To leave the snails
And snowflakes intact

A long time ago

 
You are void
And what am I
I am cicada katydid lacewing
I pour the waterfall
But it all disappears without
A burp
Not even a fingertip
Touched to the back of my hand

I rage
Again
Sleepless night
A dusting of snow
Falls without a sound
And the sky clears
Before I venture to
The bathroom in my loud house,
Covered over doorway yawning
Gaping soundless and hungry.

Inne Ute

He believes in nothing 

What a coincidence: 

I believe in everything. 

Ode to the callous on my finger

Oh protector of softer flesh,
Self-grown armor
Roughness in contrast to silk elsewhere
You remind me of time,
Repetition and work
The work of hands, eyes and heart together.
Coils of buttery linoleum
Battleship gray
And knotty wood

I make
This world of my own
On paper and fabric
You are subjected to forces
Of my, not your, choosing
And are wrought in the
friction of my hair-on-fire
Or even the leaden striking
of my brain against graphite and paper
Hoping for a spark
Just a spark.

The Birds Dreamed Black

All afternoon the birds dreamed they were a kaleidoscope of colors

The blue jay was a crow, iridescent in the right light
With an earthy
Caw caw caw.
He lived in October,
Among pumpkin orange, mauve and saturated yellow
All the absence of chlorophyll.

The robin was a starling
Glittering in the sun.
He lived in June
With a nest of crying babies.

The peacock was a raven,
Deep deep blue next to a geyser.
He lived in October too,
But one of soft snow
And pearl grey.
Warm steam turning to cool condensation.

Shapeshifter

 Shapeshifter
Wading with sieve-legs
Through the dark mire
Skin shrugging off
Star Stickers and steak knives alike
Nihilism but lighter
A mind of single unfocus
Hazy eyesight filtering
Restless scenery
Unbiased hands weighing
Viewpoints crystalline and static
Infusing internal illumination
In each glass bead
Dip toes in different waters
Dry off, repeat in various temperatures
All come from the same source.

Introspection

I feel on fire, my brain incapable of quieting in the dark, my body exhausted. 

I feel trapped, hurtling towards a middle, but at the same time in forced repose; nothing 

more to prepare.

I feel relieved, dismayed I have wasted much vitamin B on stress.

I feel empty, critique is over, but I am inert, a body at rest. I should be busying.

I feel procrastinatory, reading with fervor in order to forget my upcoming-now-past 

critique.

November

Dry grass sprinkled in
fresh snow elates the heart
Blue, tan and white, love.

Bull (A Cut-Up)

The summer solstice isn’t the only thing;
Intense, moody shoegaze
Not just a record of
    a thrashier sound.

Two-step shit
Develops
    for the love of litter
Leaves her children to
    Evaluate students who cannot take
    an assemblage of Random sheets

Looking at them in every situation,
Traditionally the benefits
    richly evocative of
    protected forest floors
Under the flames, someone is trimming a hedge
    the same as in previous years

An empty bull
Of leaves has
Impacted the system
To look at each student as a whole
In a time full of uncertainty

 

(From the October Slug Magazine and a USU campus newspaper)