tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41804121226027062462012-02-23T22:43:38.574-06:00in search of white spaceerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.comBlogger4011100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-29580805996737349582012-02-23T16:43:00.000-06:002012-02-23T16:43:51.051-06:00
quickwith light feetduck beneath this umbrellathis shelter won't last forevertrue, there is a stormit won't last eitherkiss me quickthen the grief will comekiss me through the grief, as wellalthough a storm itself, even the grief is a shelterpuddles, dusks and dawnsour feet wet or wellwhatever happensnowalways nowkiss mequick
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-18598388324056397502012-02-23T05:30:00.004-06:002012-02-23T05:30:04.690-06:00in my throat there speaks an absencei can not get to it. that is what is so damned frustrating. i feel like a cow led to the trough but the trough is separated from me by a wall. i can not see the trough but my big dumb belly tells me it exists.
it is like this while loving him, i mean bodily loving him, the same foolish gesture, my arms open and encircling the real and sacred him that has no body, the very thing that i can noterinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-69237952125088614222012-02-21T07:20:00.000-06:002012-02-21T08:20:49.019-06:00done (with audio)
(forgive me my screw-ups in reading. nothing perfect here.)
archibald MacDuferin used to do it. little shit of a kid had a mighty fine arm. without a brake er a waver he'd basket to palm to arm cocked back to kick off the dog and whack! there! against my front door. old screened door. metal one that accumulated the cock and throw of that kid over years. nice dimple, it wore. warm in theerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-19422188618064428312012-02-20T11:17:00.002-06:002012-02-20T13:31:43.348-06:00language is like thismy heart lives a little to the left
so while i could say my heart yearns for love
it is neither my heart, nor love
it is instead a place in my center
which yearns for -
i don't know what
but when i stand outside on the open palm of the world
and a crow glides by overhead
he is calling to that elusive hub
and i feel that spot in me
rise like a whale's slow back
yet unseen, but pneumatic erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-26054728974193910302012-02-18T05:04:00.003-06:002012-02-18T05:04:00.042-06:00this, too, is a poem
there is a mole with thin pink feet like eyelids lying in the snowbankhis yet warm body creating a little bed around himan indentation like hands, consolation, prayersurely he is close to expiringperhaps of age perhaps illness perhaps poisoneach tiny breath against the snow imparting an almost imperceptible warmth
snow melts
he has affected the world
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-55644967625396064802012-02-17T05:04:00.001-06:002012-02-17T05:04:00.553-06:00waiting to be calledwe are all reduced to small patches of skin and bone, handfuls of flesh like sandthere are maxi pads in the bathroomsome marked women some marked menno one apologizes no one liesa nurse hurries by as someone's dying, as its lunch time, or as flowers arrive - it hardly mattersi sit in the waiting room in a thin blue gown, no underwear, all of my energy draining directly out of my cunt16 erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-32683668750960409992012-02-15T21:29:00.001-06:002012-02-15T21:31:18.730-06:00driving
we're driving down the highway fastthe cornfields behaving like cornfieldsyour silhouette against the pale blue nightand while this is normalit's astoundingyou still but movingand all those lines of corn zinging byas though they're shooting starsbut going nowhere in particularbut by the hand of manto the cupboard come falland i mean to askare we dying are we dyingi'm sure last i looked erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-12511250572010823102012-02-14T05:05:00.000-06:002012-02-14T05:37:12.862-06:00...as the day is.../...as the night is...we were searching for metaphors to find our way
like a scholar searches through tomes of frayed
almost discarded newspapers or letters once scented,
for a reason, the reason, any reason.
all we came up with was the transition
between day and night, night and day,
as if time itself had anything to say,
but it was exactly that,
the wheel that no one can ever see.
we pointed then as though to a erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-11594234108500465502012-02-13T09:08:00.005-06:002012-02-13T09:23:03.214-06:00on the back of his neck shone long hairs he didn't know ofhe was eighty
and smelled of sickly creases,
untouched folds rank,
scent become almost flavor of fish.
i let him kiss me -
you said, imagine
what you might have given him!
but i had extended my cold cheek like a please~
almost asking for fish
or to touch his rank folds,
to smell his sickly creases.
no matter the number, we are all lonely.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-37754080311399976652012-02-12T04:40:00.004-06:002012-02-12T20:53:36.684-06:00forgive me and god's pink cunt
forgive me
it might have been for shock then but it is not for shock now. it is, instead, because we are elemental. it is because we are nothing but common goods but our common goods are mirrors and our mirrors reflect the mysteries and so our common goods are really mysteries and our mysteries are as common as the day is long. so what i mean to tell you is that a word for this is an erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-35130910214767665172012-02-10T09:40:00.001-06:002012-02-10T10:26:17.926-06:00wheni can't tell you of the still grey morning that is like the soft soled shoe of death, a thin sneaker of a foot about to be laid down. i can't tell you because i do not understand beginnings. when did i begin? i hardly recall. was it when my head squeezed through the tunnel toward light, as i was being choked and throttled, spit and spat? was that love or was that only the body's urgency likeerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-38076430960424787512012-02-10T05:04:00.004-06:002012-02-10T09:14:19.514-06:00
each question is a button,or a small gate
which we lean upon.every time we ask a question
we are not living fully enough.
your fingers are for something.please, unbutton every question,open every gate, fall.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-92176596494926163932012-02-09T09:06:00.004-06:002012-02-10T07:31:10.128-06:00journal 58, my son's smart. he's nine. what about us?do you know what this life is? do you have any idea? this life is an opportunity.
funny story: driving through this very small town the other night, well less than 1000 people, only a couple stores, a post office, a funeral home, two schools, my son and i in the darkness passed by the local hardware. it was closing time and the lights were being turned off. in that instant of passing the erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-57378819561016283042012-02-07T19:35:00.001-06:002012-02-07T19:40:42.160-06:00
there is but one true poemthat exists on a pointit is smaller than this oneand has no words
without words it says something likethis small birdand then it is gonetaking the place of where the bird once was.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-69250936458163840362012-02-06T05:04:00.001-06:002012-02-06T05:04:00.278-06:00itness (with audio)
sometimes i can't get my mind around it.
sometimes it is too big.
sometimes it is too fucking small.
sometimes i am.
understand, understand, i just want to understand.
do you understand the wind? do you? really? when did it start? when was the original huff that bore gust that turned oceans that lifted cows that hurled houses that beats upon my chest right now? rip it from me. erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-64135271893358888682012-02-05T11:56:00.004-06:002012-02-05T12:03:00.412-06:00a few personal questions (a work in progress)my daughter, a perfect alabaster specimen, bucks her body;
i see my younger self reflected,
aghast that evolution has not taken care of monthly shedding,
pain in childbirth, the animal leak of breasts. how rude it all was/is!
what an abomination to our transport!
but where did i think we were all headed,
if not straight through life toward death?
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-75785771724263642982012-02-04T07:46:00.001-06:002012-02-04T07:47:32.700-06:00life moves from left to righti start the day hoping to be clean
hoping the day is new and naked
one crow makes a black sound
and lands on a wire
i remember six years ago
how we chased a row of ducklings
through the yard
while they chased their mother
is it all so impossible
one crow?
one line?
one sound?
i look out the window
in the glass, already, a reflectionerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-67301939053637206812012-02-02T06:50:00.001-06:002012-02-02T08:12:35.652-06:00i want to beaggressivelynonviolent
***
when the grasses bend perfectly acquiescentlywhen the blue sky is. simply. blue.when the raccoon handles its young so delicately and caressinglywhy do i, man, yearn so terribly aggressively? erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-47278980999480998332012-02-01T08:44:00.001-06:002012-02-01T08:51:00.470-06:00journal 57, the sun has come up againthese are truths:
a young girl, about 12 or so (near my daughter's age) just hanged herself in a neighboring town
a father killed himself in front of his son; his son was left alone in a still grey room
there are grave and unpardonable injustices in the world
people i know are in pain because of lost love
my children are in pain because their father lives so far away
people that i know are erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-42725933407644644682012-01-31T10:13:00.002-06:002012-01-31T11:52:12.207-06:00journal 56, pink (kind of journal) ie., i was trying to write something sweet and then this this happenedtoday we will talk about pink in a frame. are you relieved? squeaky clean and hands behind our backs, shoes polished, shall we consider this box of art upon the wall? shall we all be quite civilized? shall we package things? shall we wring them of their blood? (i have used the word shall four, five times already. we gleam.) is there enough antiseptic cream to cause the world cleanliness? erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-57020738939139946142012-01-30T05:04:00.003-06:002012-01-30T05:04:01.021-06:00the hymen self rendered (or, how genetically speaking we are constructed in such a way as to invite our own disaster) (with audio)
no one could understand unless they have stood inside the black storm calling it on, calling it in, with lust and love and mad eyes of a horse, no one could understand how to invite it in, to demand the boot, knowing the face is life, the eyes are life, but the head behind is death, no one could understand, and how you quiver paper thin, a hornet's nest upon the limb, calling it on, erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-50565104574729288172012-01-29T05:06:00.004-06:002012-01-29T08:11:40.290-06:00let there be stew, or notcan i elect to go to the place of significance? can i box it up, all of my plenty and turn my back on it, face want, no, need, and can i have the need be real? can i walk the dark wet streets and alleys? can i be truly cold? can i tremble? can i not know? can i try to avoid puddles on the grey ground until dampness invades me, until i slosh about as though i've two wet dead kittens for feet? erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-41343741388657498302012-01-27T06:31:00.002-06:002012-01-27T06:54:07.982-06:00when the body disappoints"i thought she would be prettier," his wife said dismissively, as though this were the medium through which i would drive off with her life, as though pretty were the pivot for action, as though this body/this face were anything to destroy old cities for, to create new modes of transportation from, as though he moved toward me because my nose was symmetrical, as though he desired only to be savederinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-67035276508975178212012-01-25T15:37:00.002-06:002012-01-25T15:39:58.698-06:00the sewing machine and my shamewhen my son was two i was my ugliest.
at the top of our stairs my grandmother's sewing machine,
the kind folded up and secret in its polished oak case,all potential and pretense, waited, not to be used, but to be whole for eternity.my son proudly showed me his ability to deface time.he plucked the needle off like a splinter of woodand gauged the top of the pristine case,beneath which and folded erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-86890778125619020872012-01-23T11:08:00.002-06:002012-01-23T12:05:42.447-06:00journal 55, it remains a mysteryit is late at night on the weekend. i am at my desk reading on the computer. my son comes downstairs after brushing his teeth. he wants me to leave what i am doing and go and tuck him in, as i do every night. he will jump into bed, pull his blankets up and then i will kiss him on the cheek, say, i love you and have good dreams. he will complain that i have bad breath. i will turn out his erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-61023398990025476672012-01-21T05:04:00.003-06:002012-01-21T15:17:26.405-06:00the way (with audio)
please, put it down. lay down your scissors shears scalpels staples pins pads probes and polyethylene dissecting pans. put down your weightless forceps beside the egg white vacuum and walk away from your sterile counter, which is less like an abacus and more like a mortician's table. you can cause no order. you can force no variation. you can know no outcome. walk away from erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-63023702248492904122012-01-20T05:28:00.002-06:002012-01-20T11:17:48.627-06:00being verb(you can't see me right now
and you are not reading me either.
i am outside of this,
outside of me even,
outside of everything.
i am busy doing something that is not spinning
but is close to spinning
and even though i ask you to see me,
it doesn't matter if you see me or not.
nothing matters,
not even my spinning.
can you understand this?
there is no purpose.
the word why, whicherinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-20179551052753013112012-01-19T05:25:00.002-06:002012-01-19T06:29:32.485-06:00the weight of thingsi, me, bones, turf, history, 125lbs of nothing.
you, much the same, plus some, minus more.
what is between us - nothing that's ever worn a suit,
sat in a chair, balanced against a stack of books,
mostly just belief held in thin air.
you will rot fast.
i will rot faster.
and our love?
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-90233414869349976012012-01-18T07:44:00.003-06:002012-01-23T18:58:54.639-06:00marriage, every two weeks on the dot (and mouse)do you remember how we used to manage time
there was a basket on the bottom stair
for things in need of their home
and whenever we would go up
we would take the basket up
and whenever we would go down
we would take the basket down
we were very good at what we did
the house was so well organized
and like clockwork i would lie on my side
and you would put your clock in and work the mechanism
and erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-89082590831969624412012-01-17T13:08:00.000-06:002012-01-17T13:08:15.459-06:00
i long for starvation and food in the same moment,two kinds of hunger with different names.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-70045627117632046012012-01-17T13:06:00.000-06:002012-01-17T13:06:19.096-06:00
who knewall we had to dowas nothing?
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-53664371118273099092012-01-17T09:29:00.000-06:002012-01-17T09:29:40.429-06:00
standing at the windowi have to correct myself.i am inside looking out.however, what i see outsideis the inside of an empty room.i lean that way.the room in which i stand is full.
inside, the weight of my full room keeps my feet.
i reach. i reach.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-52680308346781114562012-01-12T04:44:00.010-06:002012-01-27T16:30:04.490-06:00cedar kisses and necessary liesfor james~
it is impossible to think of death.
two months ago i cut a sprig of cedar.
i put it into a plastic bag with a sculpted
wad of tissue wetted at it base, like a boat,
or a sopping cairn.
i mailed it to you
and you put the sprig of cedar into a jar of water.
it still lives.
how can i think of death when your skin is so warm?
i touch you and i touch into the wound of loving someone.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-71484445358723356472012-01-11T08:59:00.002-06:002012-01-11T11:28:19.187-06:00
i was going to write, i have a bell,but this is not true,the bell has me.
the bell is cracked.
i do not try to mend the bell.
i try to listen harder.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-26317782103560977452012-01-10T05:37:00.001-06:002012-01-10T05:37:00.416-06:00gerta(with audio)
I was lonely.
I didn't even know it.
A dirty scrap of a whore
who didn't know the meaning of the word whore,
but who'd heard it plenty.
Gerta.
He'd say, Gerta,
Bring me my shoes.
Gerta, look at your face,
you filthy shit!
I lifted his feet,
tiny canaries,
and laid them deep inside his stink.
All the while he watched my breasts
and slapped some papers against his hand.
Gerta, how old areerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-18402872903415083792012-01-09T09:41:00.001-06:002012-01-09T09:55:09.525-06:00 journal 54, what do you want your life to look like?i tell my children to always ask themselves this question, what do you want your life to look like?
i wake into the new day and spread it out like pressing flat a balled up piece of paper. i consider it for a moment before i begin to walk over its quiet white face. erin, what do you want your life to look like? i imagine a fowl's small red heart sitting in the middle of this page, its blood erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-1352539910310679272012-01-08T06:01:00.001-06:002012-01-08T06:01:00.642-06:00not even the man who toilstoday i must make kindling again. do you think it is romantic? it is not romantic. dishes are not romantic, nor bay street, nor cholera. not even sunrises, unless you are in a certain state of mind. let's face it, we all swing our legs blindly out of bed. do you know what is wrong with canada? all five poets are dead. who the hell is driving this bus? where the fingers on the hand? how erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-8896057985387660442012-01-07T08:02:00.001-06:002012-01-07T11:11:28.752-06:00while passing the field
the bull's breath captioned, or in parentheses, speaks of creation
scores of blackbirds on a string pulled spontaneously from treesan infant spilled of me, pus built and released in a fetid hot spumea lump of thought upon the page, cabbage, turnip and gizzards turned
before the breath takes form as cloud, it dissolves.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-82372455778382058212012-01-06T06:06:00.001-06:002012-01-06T06:53:31.411-06:00in through the mouth/out through the - i practice death at least five times every daya kind of calisthenicserinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-85171222330052696642012-01-04T06:14:00.001-06:002012-01-04T06:14:00.803-06:00in this, my living life of nakedness(with audio)
in the forest i come upon a tree, a poplar, so common, but what has happened to it is not common, or perhaps it is. it has exploded upon itself, layers of its coarse flesh peeled back, opening its hollow core to nothing, like a cunt exposed before a mouth. when you are about to meet your day, when you are about to put your mouth to the cunt, what might you think you are putting your erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-88251959334843908892012-01-03T05:54:00.001-06:002012-01-03T05:54:00.733-06:00
life is not for the faint of heart.in fact, eventually it will kill you.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-50444048065429580852012-01-02T06:04:00.002-06:002012-01-02T06:04:00.227-06:00getting dressed this fine white morningthis cold white morning i awake and get out of bed, put my meaty feet to the floor,
feel the cow thickness of my thighs and the extended sinew of my calf
and wonder, what will i wear today?
how should i go out into this world?
i open my closet and all before me on hangers
are the torsos of many dead animals,
not leather exactly,
but the tousled grouse, the pelt of panther, the waddling cub erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-61246528369951387052012-01-01T08:04:00.000-06:002012-01-01T08:06:25.765-06:00somehow i now know
what i have always wanted to know
that i will not hold it in my hand
that i will not know it in my fingers
that this body will not touch it
that it will not receive the feeding knowledge
no matter, my body leans hungry
and i continue erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-61613916451440566612011-12-31T09:50:00.003-06:002011-12-31T14:55:21.749-06:00papier d'arméniei am tired with this regionalism. i yearn for a new life with a zipper that begs onward into scores of variable parchments and scents with names that suggest a different kind of skin, an au courant thumbprint, perhaps shiny shoes with straps and soles that are never worn, or perhaps bureaus with many neat drawers, and uncles with long and important names, wives who say, how do you do, and only erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-38918766597798313512011-12-30T21:41:00.006-06:002011-12-31T09:51:26.289-06:00is thread not thread?i am in his store considering a very pretty blouse sewn with gold thread.
he is telling me that i am pretty and asking why i am so happy
and i am laughing because, well, because. there doesn't need
to be a reason, does there? life pushes her thumb against our brow
sometimes even on the sunniest days and life blows gently up our skirts
on others. we do not own what life gives us. so when he erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-78439209084129260022011-12-29T12:29:00.001-06:002011-12-29T12:30:05.937-06:00
in response to an ongoing conversation with the artist Laura Tedeschi :
if we are comfortablewe have forgotten to be alive
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-71067720348286326012011-12-28T18:32:00.002-06:002011-12-28T21:43:51.546-06:00i float on, awakeit happened accidentally, how i have awoken
like a fat dumb bumblebee passing through a cold day
and then through the needle's eye of a warm one,
my body scruffed awake as though by a petted hand
and my mind set steer upon a path darting dangerously
aslant through torpid open spaces, over ragged jutted land.
no one knows how long the heat will last
and today that hardly matters. what matters is erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-15850484120503560842011-12-28T04:42:00.000-06:002011-12-28T04:42:00.657-06:00i am curious about you (with audio)
i am curious. are you you in your world? do you allow yourself youness? and how does this exhibit itself? what does this mean to where you put your keys, to how your feet move across the floor? where do you pause in the world? in lightness, in darkness, beneath the leaves that shift in a breeze? and when do you forge onward? and how are your shoulders? in this you do you meet the erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-6297020907349329712011-12-27T08:47:00.000-06:002011-12-27T08:47:52.435-06:00
tell me who is whipped by this life!
tell me and bring me to him!
drag me to him grinning and bleeding!
***
do we not want to be infected with the madness of living?
please, show me your madness.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-52118186873106761012011-12-26T20:06:00.001-06:002011-12-26T22:34:56.334-06:00the match
i feel time
like the valuable solitary match that i keep in my shirt pocketthere is but one strikei protect its future, its lifespan, its expirationtime is always like this for me no matter how large it might seemperhaps it might seem like a leviathan deep seabut it fits into my pocketand beats against my heartthreateningto at any timeend
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-83846526354987667242011-12-26T13:19:00.002-06:002011-12-26T20:03:12.656-06:00(why is no one two words and someone one?)because i am no one
you will never know –
***
someone, she leans over the fire
her hair the smell of woodsmoke and hot dogs
common
and yet in the way she puts the matches to her pocket
you know she knows everything there is to know about time
***
someone, he stops to consider
each piece of clementine
as he lays them to his tongue
a religious passage
a gateway to his body
***
noerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-54528462697755670392011-12-26T11:37:00.000-06:002011-12-26T11:37:23.554-06:00wetiny wingless creaturesintent upon flighterinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-55822133971882255912011-12-26T08:44:00.001-06:002011-12-26T11:00:04.330-06:00sing the brotherhood of crows and leaves
why do the crows save us? why the berry, why the tree, why the mountain, why the mirror? have you ever seen a solitary leaf on a tree shudder with the palsy of life while the rest of the leaves sit silent? this is us. this is me. this is you. the woman with the purple eyes and purple blouse. i see her method. the man with the dirty sodden face and eyes like an ice-deep question. the erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-20070101853837399402011-12-25T09:49:00.001-06:002011-12-25T10:14:49.997-06:00shirta woman gives her man a shirtit is no more, no less complicated
you want a forever storyi will not give you oneno one willa woman gives her man a shirt
there is ceremony in finding itthe man, the shirt
it could have been any manit could have been any shirtbut it wasn'ta woman gives her man a shirt
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-5305033439184815752011-12-23T20:46:00.003-06:002011-12-23T20:52:44.532-06:00toward the white landhome hums - a white land on the other side
my lover's skin is much too thick
or:
home hums - a white land on the other side
(my lover's skin is much too thick)
no amount of dancing or singing or praising or loving brings us there
the distance is but a membrane
the membrane, life
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-5657468150982160572011-12-22T22:25:00.000-06:002011-12-22T22:25:33.004-06:00
in the early morning light a quarter turn before all thought is formed through the hallways of the mindthe window unmadethe bed undoneus - slight glimmering fractionsbent lightyet more whole than ever erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-66895291432595311412011-12-21T10:54:00.007-06:002011-12-22T18:07:48.908-06:00
truth rises
on foal legs
trembles
stands
as real as meat
(or a table set for dinner)
becomes the plate
passes through us
we wake again
trembling
alone erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-55122369490884252332011-12-20T04:46:00.002-06:002011-12-21T06:45:47.431-06:00i know this is truemust i, every day,
have a reason for being here?
it seems so onerous.
we stand at the kitchen sink
in our droopy socks
slurping fresh coffee,
the grounds from yesterday
eviscerated
on top of the open trash.
but, but,
i think to tell you
as evidence,
think of the grey forest,
think of the flash of red berry,
there is no purpose - it simply is!
you look at me very seriously,
your socks erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-90591347259941451642011-12-14T21:00:00.001-06:002011-12-14T21:12:34.542-06:00an ordinary tragedyyou have your arm around me and you are about to tell me of precipices, beginnings and necessary next steps, and as the story goes, as it continues, it will reach fruition and then end. it is an ordinary tragedy. you tell me about love and how once it opened for you like a flower and how you opened for it. you tell me about how your breath was always fresh. you look toward me to kiss me.
ierinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-46066669928301635632011-12-13T20:59:00.004-06:002011-12-13T22:45:29.819-06:00 journal 53, necking with natureThere lives on a path in the woods, an animal friend of mine, a barrel chest of hollowed out birch bark. In size and shape it resembles a sixteen year old lover's first body. It is a holy cage, the holiest kind of cage that holds nothing at all. You can not break into or out of a cage like this! It rests beside a path not far from the river but I am never exactly sure where to find it, as erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-29266962270755177112011-12-12T09:31:00.005-06:002011-12-12T10:15:55.911-06:00 journal 52, what sits at the centreit is a desperate place
to be a dandelion in an ink blue bottle
but how temporarily beautifulupon the tablewith stuffed animals hungry, all around
when i was a child i played in the shed. it was the same shed my father, a trapper, would hang pelts in. he made me a cabinet for my small dishes. he painted it red. how red is life! how red is also blood, which is both life and death! it had erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-70430529835500454812011-12-12T08:16:00.004-06:002011-12-12T08:42:54.542-06:00free is the fern (and i'm certain it's here somewhere)the brown fern is beautiful. there is no sadness in it. in fact, there's a real vulgarity to spring. happy is the fern that is dying.
no, that is a lie. not happy, but free.
***
did i ask for this collision, for this usurpation, for this living? all of the tender work of combing thoughts and pulling feelings in seaweed lines - do you think it has been easy living a common cataclysm? don't erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-60131785602577983042011-12-11T04:45:00.005-06:002011-12-11T06:58:18.249-06:00please, don't ruin me with names
rather
let me think
heavy headed moptops in love with light
birds of various origins and destinations
asterisk holding thought
you me syntax error nullified
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-26296194834580046902011-12-10T05:31:00.010-06:002011-12-10T05:31:00.159-06:00when i stop shopping, talking, laughing, binging. when i stop gathering, reflecting, clucking. when i stop insulating my soul with trappings (with audio)
you all just want the happy body
the body that reflects that with which you carry
and so if i am naked and standing alone
quivering like a leaf
saying nothing
holding nothing
being nothing but this sack of skin
without even a tree to hold onto
your talking mind understands this as too little
when really, somewhere deep inside you
you know that i am saying too much
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-7270016668107419982011-12-08T22:15:00.004-06:002011-12-12T08:49:58.544-06:00a knowing symmetryit is not right that one body should be taken from another body.
we get accustomed to one another.
our bodies begin to anticipate the body of the other.
my son does not squirm when i put my hand on his back.
my hand belongs to his back.
my daughter does not squirm when i put my hand on her thigh.
my hand belongs to her thigh.
my lover's body is my teaspoon.
i eat poetry off him.
my body erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-25058642400828748462011-12-08T09:59:00.001-06:002011-12-08T21:22:48.572-06:00becoming hunger
i go to bed every night staring at the same point on the wallthe spot ebbing outward into a dissolution of green
i use it as a wheel against my shoulderto sharpen how i will go into the new daythat is about to be born
i tell myselfthe new day growing estrous about the wallsis a new opportunity to wake into real hunger
do not dull iti warn myselfdo not dull this real and holy state of beingerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-58483026595974431112011-12-08T09:38:00.002-06:002011-12-08T13:40:14.156-06:00i kiss you, ragged and open fetid wounds
kiss every wound ever befallenfor your woundsare the paththat has brought you hereto shine in this clearing
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-44084997571371108282011-12-07T04:47:00.007-06:002011-12-09T07:39:58.041-06:00how i am an imperfect/perfect tremor (with audio)
i do not know if i can bear it.have you ever carried a bucket too heavy?there is a measurement for load, you know,a tipping point.it sets into the arms like a fever causing shaking.my soul shakes all over the place.have you ever seen light on the walloff a metal watch while a man is writing?
the watch does not exist.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-30390348267204896792011-12-05T05:01:00.001-06:002011-12-05T05:01:00.315-06:00we're talking, you and ii am having a conversation with you. Mary Oliver sits on my lap and outside it snows only beneath the streetlamp. and i mean to tell you so that you understand, i feel myself slipping into my life as though it is water, and i love it, i rejoice in it, and i haven't the foggiest notion of how to swim. and i am ok with this. i do not fill my pockets like Virginia. i do not leave a note. i erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-41951074842790227402011-12-04T14:11:00.002-06:002011-12-04T14:14:03.741-06:00frieda watkins and her hamas i drive through rain,
as the horses lower their heads,
i notice one blackened tree,
snag (?)
against a backdrop, muted green.
it is leaning into the world in its balance.
one day, too far, it will topple.
i wonder, can it possibly possibly still be consuming?
can it possibly possibly
still be drawing nutrients with the wick of its mouth?
yesterday, an old woman opposite me in the grocery erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-28576123968234400442011-12-04T08:32:00.003-06:002011-12-04T14:14:19.426-06:00
i want psalms for breakfast, even if i have to make a song from my spoon, even if i have to make god from coffee grinds.
from a conversation with andreas
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-56659693046157467762011-12-03T07:37:00.000-06:002011-12-03T07:37:15.560-06:00
we must trust in being ourselvesthis is no shieldrather, it is the sword
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-13577372287515281472011-12-02T05:11:00.003-06:002011-12-09T07:40:19.711-06:00How To Live Without Violence, a poem to everyone i love: (with audio)
i will not straighten the books or clean the fridge.
i will not mention what you have forgotten, nor will i think it.
i will not pick crumbs from your shirt.
your hair is messy. i shall kiss it.
i shall write this poem about your messy hair:
your messy hair
tells me
your essence is busy being
i will become so infected with this poem, with your essence of being, that i will forget erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-37113294644742890392011-12-01T21:58:00.001-06:002011-12-01T22:13:57.059-06:00 journal 51, necessityi was thinking this earlier this week, there is something about the necessity of it. i was in need of kindling. i used my body and i hacked solid chunks of cedar apart with a serious heft of axe. just a month ago i could not. my body couldn't do it. my axe couldn't do it. i did not need it then. now i needed it and i was successful. do you have any idea how delicious it is to have erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-22520994150999281332011-11-30T21:49:00.002-06:002011-11-30T22:17:26.506-06:00i am almost on my kneesit could be joy
or it could be sadness
and absolutely,
i know, the losses will come,
but my daughter's tiny fist
clawed the nighttime
as i paced with her
in my able doughy arms.
it was an ordinary occurrence,
she had clothes on,
i had clothes on,
the moon hung in the sky,
but you can not tell me otherwise,
it was an unusual grace.
my son around my kneecaps
believing in the fortress of my legs
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-33835892000475417402011-11-30T04:23:00.001-06:002011-11-30T04:23:00.347-06:00the stain of being
i mean to tell you everything there is to know about me and not one word more.
one year there was an especially hard winter. it snowed so much there was only field. there was a solitary tree which stood squat and black against the landscape like a sentence with stubborn arms, but this already says too much. this story is already overwritten.
let me start again.
my mother was in love like a erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-79591353124998317242011-11-29T05:34:00.002-06:002011-11-29T05:34:00.250-06:00breaking through
once i got past the wordit all rushed through like the torrent of an orgasm.everyone knows that point we passwhen the orgasm will come,when it has a body and spirit of its own, a life's course,regardless of us or our choices.the word was small but held back
black backed rivers,god.well, once i was past thateverything flowed.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-51849599627894158432011-11-28T06:55:00.001-06:002011-11-28T07:00:41.876-06:00the lessonhe meant to teach me something and so he took all of happiness and poured it into a small copper pail, walked to the edge of the property and flung it like soiled dishwater into the bushes. he knew the smell would draw the creatures through the night; he knew i'd listen for hoofprints on stone, tiny fingered scramblings through leaves and pushing past branches; he knew as i raised my pale faceerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-52096395698593522082011-11-27T08:44:00.003-06:002011-11-27T08:48:31.521-06:00while, the union of body and birdWe are ordinary outside in the cold looking in.
Inside there are two people with eyes like excited wings
reading poetry with tongues,
grinding psalms between them like leaves of mint.
We were only walking by, but there are profound moments
to look up into, if only we find the when.
They are lost, found, timeless in the gauze of one another.
We are captured, breathing.
And then perhaps like erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-14613325161779536552011-11-24T15:48:00.000-06:002011-11-24T15:48:28.526-06:00
is there a name for desirable wound,a word for, please, upon my side,into the tender lamb organ that whispers my name,so that i might always know gratitude?
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-21994327867127574142011-11-22T20:14:00.001-06:002011-11-28T08:30:17.961-06:00even mary oliver
there is no hermetically sealed bag,
no beat in time that is not affected
by the leaf that fluttered yesterday
or the one that will flutter tomorrow.
in this moment there might be love,
yes, love, my heart full and eyes leaking
for what they can not contain,
my ruby smile polished and naive
despite all its years,
the lines of my face spillage of my soul,
but somewhere children simply erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-30174656733537401932011-11-19T07:11:00.000-06:002011-11-19T07:11:51.906-06:00
there is a long beam that runs betweenbirth and deathfoolishly we name it ironbut its true name holds no strikefor there is nothing to strike against
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-778133153871062102011-11-18T10:34:00.001-06:002011-11-18T21:24:29.157-06:00love's like that
i am a pale white slabyou are a pale white slabtogether we are two pale white slabsthis is hardly formidableyet it feels so
***
it is the coldest day of the year.when my breath leaves my mouthit freezes in the air,creates a white theatre curtain around my face,ice encrusted hair.you are the coldest day of the year.you do this for my words, my ideas, my female form, my essence.you create me out erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-82596663297167128622011-11-18T06:40:00.002-06:002012-01-04T16:20:52.083-06:00i think this story is very truei think of two times in my life. my body lies exactly at the center of each of these stories and in between each of these stories, too, as though my body is the narrator and my body is the book's binding, as well.
i am 23 and alive in exactly the proportions i wore then, my arms thin, my face small, my legs so and so. i am touching one door handle of two at a quarter of five in the afternoon erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-73046767335489802742011-11-16T20:23:00.005-06:002011-11-17T07:25:20.802-06:00i am interrupted while at work singing ave maria badly (well, mostly just making sounds):
over counter tops and clothing racks a familiar voice cuts through my singing, an accusation, hey, you're an atheist, aren't you?
um, no, i tumble back over the winter hats and gloves, the rabbit fur collars and wolf caps.
well then, what is it that you don't believe in?
incredulously, i answer, (and erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-15172977983856969202011-11-15T20:48:00.001-06:002011-11-16T06:00:07.585-06:00
when we are on the arch of the ocean
we crave the line of the earth.
when we are on the line of the earth
we crave the arch of the ocean.
we will always be searching
for the valley that bulges,
for the mountain that lies flat,
for the truth that shouts straight into silence.
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-79648352438440233762011-11-15T04:14:00.000-06:002011-11-15T04:14:00.514-06:00the poem (with audio)
i read a poem once that knew my name.i have been searching for it ever since.it knew all of my secret parts like hope and joy and shame.do you remember the first day at schoolwhen you realized you were growing breastsand the blush of pink showed to the world and there was not a thing you could do but keep your arms closeor bare it all,for in the early morning when you dressed in the crib erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-68421967413597587542011-11-14T04:59:00.005-06:002011-11-14T07:56:49.214-06:00all of my loversbetween me and each of you, one ember.
i draw closer, all days taking the log.
my legs feel the work all the way from
the tree growing, to felling the tree
and narrowly escaping to deeper snow,
to pulling it through the winters of crows.
it burns all of us now, warming no one,
but for the days we know forgiveness.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-66541428375288051052011-11-13T07:00:00.000-06:002011-11-13T07:00:22.390-06:00it comes scratching
i am laying on my pillow taking an inventory of all my parts.
are my fingers moving? are my feet still? my heart, where's my heart?
are my eyelids fluttering? are my eyelashes scratching at the door trying to get in?
this is what has awoken me, a sound upon my pillow; closer still, inside my skull.
i try to stop breathing. i hold my breath and lay like a corpse, but then think, if you stop
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-77460026617493308522011-11-12T06:11:00.001-06:002011-11-12T06:12:50.341-06:00little berry, while you have the body, be, so be!the other day from out of muted grey trunks,
the salacious ping of the autumn red berry told me boldly,
you are here.
yet this morning an ancient fog erased all colour;
in my body language was hushed
and then my body disappeared.
somewhere red berries...
or not.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-16215887276485652442011-11-10T18:55:00.002-06:002011-11-11T16:38:26.593-06:00a little journey
my eyes are half closed, half open. my belly rides like a bowl of fruit in jelly. we are going somewhere through the darkness, all around me the seats laying out like careful origami. there is a mother and a father, gentle fibs that distract me. not fibs because they are not here, but fibs because they will not always be. i think of the birch bark once on the tree. then i think of a lash erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-68700892814007355402011-11-09T04:18:00.002-06:002011-11-09T04:18:00.739-06:00body (with audio)
there are sad bodies. there are crying bodies. there are desperate bodies, hungry bodies, lonely bodies. there are bodies with mute fingers. bodies with dead hair. is the hair still growing? no one to measure the hair on those bodies. bodies like dandelions pushing. bodies waiting for dandelions to be pushing. bamboo will grow through bodies. there are bodies waiting for bamboo.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-51693423195378795912011-11-08T08:21:00.002-06:002011-11-08T08:50:19.016-06:00one day, the skeleton of this lifelike a conductor with a lowly baton i lay out these few notes:
appearing through a keyhole in the foliage, a tree stripped bare in the river like a naked swimmer
an empty barrel of birch bark on its side like a breath labored animal
a woman speaking out from the bowl of her mandible, each word a wisp of incense
light off moving water
two tiers of water and mist rising
a blue/black erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-90292559062673628172011-11-07T22:17:00.001-06:002011-11-08T06:44:11.239-06:00 journal 50, and yet there was a flamei spoke with a woman today at the grocery store. crazy as a loon, this one. i know it and she probably knows it, too. (but what am i?) i was disarmed. usually she is well done up, attractive. today she worked hard on her cane, i'm sure only a couple years older than i. not a dot of makeup on and her hair stringy and oiled about her face. i think she had forgotten how she looked, after erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-89483324698985559872011-11-07T06:23:00.006-06:002011-12-04T22:02:18.433-06:00101 (*this i being every i, meaning you)it is with my own brand of vulgar human that i slap through this world
everything receiving the christening of my thighs and underarms
the silt of my vulva (the slag of my morning hard)
everything touching the absurdity of my small chin
it is not that everything is not sacred
it is that i am not pure, but human
in other words, i am pure human
the communion between me and the day is a fucking
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-56045474070898344202011-11-06T08:22:00.002-06:002011-11-06T09:23:21.056-06:00with the trill in my chestone never knows how fire will behave
this is love!
this is life!
a whip conducts nothing
on a dangerous hill of dried grass, i singerinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-20979695081176268282011-11-05T23:24:00.000-05:002011-11-05T23:24:51.433-05:00reading runesi wanted to say something real
and so i rolled them out like tongues on a tablethe runes which were the bones of my mother and grandmotherand a man once found beneath a bridge, his shoes stolen
they said:
from flesh grows all things as you grew from your mother and she from hers
stay away from bridges
and while it has taken a long, long timeand we no longer have flesh on our boneswe still know erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-12561457525070073282011-11-05T04:02:00.000-05:002011-11-05T07:14:21.312-05:00a moment's specificity going nowhere, reallyi want to be very specific with you so that you understand this need:
there were wet footprints up the stairs, over the porch, and into the house
the toes of the footprints were separated to suggest she wore no shoes
there were paper like purple cuttings littering the counter and the floor like confetti
the scissors were left on the table open about a quarter inch
if you were to measure at the erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-81117326658300488702011-11-04T04:53:00.002-05:002011-11-04T07:32:46.946-05:00
we pull out of the driveway and into the day,
my son revealing his shock. just on the other side
of the bones of the lilac bushes there is one green leaf.
fresh and green, he tells me, as though this might be an untruth,
fresh and green! and there will always be one dandelion dead
long before all of the others. how do i tell him that this is the same thing?erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4180412122602706246.post-14128763975193312742011-11-03T06:53:00.009-05:002011-11-03T22:19:49.654-05:00a winter's night, a love poemwe're doing it again, opening the door and going out into the night that bites.
we will not see anything. the snow is picked up in laces and sheered to frenzied wisps
like a woman madly curling ribbon over leaning scissors. the horses must be staid,
the hinges must be latched, the chickens will become dumbly quiet as though tucked to a pocket.
it will sound hollow inside the barn except for erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16636371927224076866noreply@blogger.com9