Water Falling (Version 2)

Tender New Fragile Feeling
Of a hollow bone
Broken
But belonging to
The vessel a few weeks
downstream from
the sudden
Shocking impact,
Waterfall itself.

We Were Water
falling
Failed flying lessons
Forced to be birds
Sin wings.

No warning,
And the surprise
Uncalled for.

Why expect a warning?

Afterwards we searched
For the warning,
The visions sent back,
Upstream,
An impossibility. 

See what good

I pour myself into the maw
Presented, dark and gaping,
By the circumstances
Surrounding my family


I give to them one quarter of the
Bandaids I bought at our
graham-cracker rural Walmart

I bring to them the friends I made in
Colombia, and the Chilean teachers too
We feed them Dutch-oven meat and potatoes

I drive the canyon, inventing errands for myself so I can
Fill a cart at Costco
And buy my parents a month or two


Family, see what good I have brought you
Enjoy this quality I have dragged back
Like a sack of golden potatoes
Marking a trail in the dust behind me.

 

 

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.