A Womb-bomb Psalm

Blessed be the name of the Lord –

sweet carrier of the womb –

fiery cauldron,

cold and dark

within the pit.

.

Blessed womb-bomb,

threatening peril,

life-giving

horror of wonders –

inside

.

that terrible cave

in the belly

the heart, the brain

like a virus,

a cancer,

a seed –

.

herewith do we praise thee –

our lives

and surround –

impenetrable everywhere,

blessed immersion

and thundering calm

.

go forth

quiet conquer

of light

veiled in darkness –

a pit, a cave,

o glorious sky!

Quiet. Dampening.

so this is how you swim inward,

so this is how you flow outward,

so this is how you pray

Mary Oliver, Five A.M. Pinewoods

Rain, snow,

damper pedal.

softening…

slowing…

so that sound

may

rise –

Arise quiet sound –

its feel –

tonight, now,

then

a melancholy birth,

nostalgia and utopia

again, combined.

.

Sustain.

Cabin Reflections (July 2022)

Between

(sky and birds), between

(enclosed and contained),

between the not existing and the sleepless

there are no obstacles.

Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, Xenia

it’s hard to make sense

outside of the world

or in a larger world

things don’t register

in expected ways

.

the pace is all different

and nothing is counting

time, space, and motion

do their thing as one

the human happenings

.

don’t make sense

or seem separate, divorced,

a frantic scale

the earth holds quietly

.

even words dissolve

and transform

like breezes

and bird-calls,

not meaning the same

.

passing, passing, held

passing, passage, hold

i imagine at Heidegger’s hut

he was murmuring

these things, being

.

hard to make sense of it

with reason or belief

a stance

but easy sense

outside

.

Where do you listen?

What are you listening

with and for?

How do you listen?

Silently, with wing-beats

aflutter

water moves

.

i move

out of my head

into the rest

of me, my skin

an open passage

my organs trudging

patiently, waiting

blood moves

.

accordion chest

filling my limbs

hands holding

feet touching

grounded

.

lay back

all in

an other

with / in / of

this world,

here.

Today. Again. Almost.

[or, grass in pavement; beyond black holes?; “boundaries are made to pound against” (Hejinian); after Celan, after Knausgaard) “you have to dream new ways of thinking”]

.

We praise the dead (remember?)

and the Mother holds them,

in catacombs,

the earth…

…beyond the black hole,

again and again and again…

.

The world is radiant!

Feel that?!

Continuous fomentations out

of undifferentiable chaos –

muddy unsolvables

.

Look! Look again!

Quit speaking.

It is here. (mysteriously)

Redolence…

.

…beyond the black holes,

again and again, not yet…

Where are you, real-ly,

becoming and formative,

nearly gone. To where?

.

Look! Look again!

Call it listening,

attention. The smallest detail

comes infinite.

You are there, also!

But where? you ask –

and can’t be found…

.

…just there, now,

which is – where? –

No longer. Linger.

It occurs, what might

be else.

.

Cheers to the wonder,

unknown! – what

is. Like being

before there’s a there.

It happens…

.

…beyond the strange darkness –

horizon-event, that complains,

and becomes as it passes

in strife, in the Mother,

the dying, remembering

birth-like

November the 24th

Lydian

The summer

almost always,

so hard to endure –

warmth, light –

no solace

no protection –

only so much

undoing

is possible

in light…

heat

.

The autumn:

a young child

aging,

deteriorating,

dear demise,

desiccation,

something almost true

to fact

.

The spring –

its delusion,

deluge,

as if there were

a coming-to-be,

or fascist utopia –

with

all the bells

and whistles

.

Our winter:

discontented,

and good –

solidity

of presence,

sweet ache

of living,

being,

held,

in place

.

I love.

“Now” “again”: or, desire in times of control

The times are not easy.

Time never was.

Yet we insist

on enumerating

our lack of control,

unknowing…

.

“God,” we say, (in 3 digits)

“atom” at four, or the “facts” being five,

“knowledge” (as 9) over

“wisdom” – contrived in 6 letters

resembling “power” (which is slightly less-than) –

.

pretending we’re nearer

a “truth.”

Splintering this countless discourse

making babble –

pathways dividing again and again

.

Not to worry,

No-One,

least not here,

never there, nary hereing

we strive to forget –

.

the small fractions

we are,

even increments fail –

our instrumentation –

excrement turning to soil.

.

We say on,

calculating

in terms.

Splits on a dial

or bits switching voltage

to light

and/or sound –

inexplicably deafblind

we human – perceiving,

depleting, reduce.

.

The times never easy,

or real,

and all barely broken apart –

what we call the “fantastic”

(9 marks) nearly actual

.

what goes on

is a “now” and “again”

without ceasing…

a particle-waving

at sea

and to stars

.

an endlessness

born of its end.

On Thinking

jackrabbit mind, dashing –

here thick grass of nothingness

there a frenzied masturbation –

to and fro, quick left, jab right,

the daydreams, grief,

and absence fore and aft.

It’s a wonder, this pondering

machine, unhinged

of its bearings, moorings,

bodies baring everywhere

and not a drop to think.

What drives desire?

Seems pushed and pulled

and craven.  Erotically

erratic, playing at its gloom

“it’s nothing,” says the mouth,

always caught between

the breathing and the axons

blood swelling pounding through.

The feral hind leaps out,

ruminate sparkle, devious

flux of concept, fact, or notion,

swimming in emotion,

nothing known.