Moonflower Medicine
There is nothing left of the nest
that snuck inside a birdhouse this spring.
July ends soon, the days grow shorter,
cicadas hatched now and brrruzz,
humid winds blow across open sunflowers,
drying monarda stalks, spent peonies.
Dill grows up taller than me, in an herb forest
with that familiar pickle smell drifting occasionally,
my back against the hammock. I swing gently, black and
yellow American goldfinch perches on the cyclone fence
across from me. I can see blue sky and white clouds,
the corner of the garage where the electric meters whirl,
cable TV lines stretched up and along the top of the wall
under the eaves. I swing gently, a cicada calls out summer.
Summer, summer. Bzzzzzzz. I watch clouds drift and turn
into shapes, a hawk flies overhead chaotically,
chased by squawking barn swallows. They peck
at the hawk and lunge, chase it to the back field,
into the trees and down they all swoop.
Next to me moonflower grows
in a large wooden box, from last year’s flowers seeds.
These shapes and others persist here,
the dill persists and thrives, daisy, goldenrod, thistle, chicory,
between the plantain, mullein, curly dock and bur’s.
The healing potential in their actions, this interface
of potion and tonic, earth brings us to her on our knees,
searching for the right root or leaf, something to boost
the heart, calm the mind, smooth out the nerves. A fullness
in these moments of recognition, my back
comfortably nestled in a green patterned hammock,
summer what is growing in between the cracks
in the patio, the way the sun moves across
the sky, and when birds no longer nest but chase
each other, defining their territorial wonder. I love the
shape that hangs suspended above me, deeply blue behind
white cloud, the sway of my mind, persistence
in the wind, a gentle knock knocking in the distance,
a car goes by. Buzz of airplane, streak of vapor trail,
splash of gravel under tires. Blithesome bouncy stagger,
enchantment, dither, parody. I cross my feet at my ankles,
my hands behind my head, wonder where the snake
has gone off to. Curse the bunnies that have eaten
my strawberry leaves down to stems. Close my eyes
to the brightness against the house’s windows, the
view over my right elbow. A view to a rooftop, lightning rods
poking into the sky, exhortation by yet more barn
swallows rustling against the electric lines, sequenced up
next to each other. The dispossessed rivals reweigh
their chances, chirrup their maneuvers.
The “Old Laughing Lady” by Neil Young
plays over and over in my head. The world comes to me
this way, in memory, I know beyond that rooftop,
over that fence, down that road, where that car
goes or the plane is headed, that world
out there looms just beyond my possible understanding.
Where the sun hangs just as congruent as “divine love,”
as disorienting as the terror of buildings falling down
and burning. Devotional abandon, doctrinal comfort and salve –
salvation conjures rescue, deliverance, emancipation.
But how? In conservation, preservation, sustentation.
None of it penetrates the heart the way a plain day
something ordinary and forgiving
settles into the bones, provokes satisfaction
in simply regarding casual relations
of cloud silhouette and shadow, hawk and barn swallow,
moonflower and medicine. Behold the coruscation
of shiny glass, spurious circumspection winds itself up,
a snake under a short piece of black plastic edging, asleep
where it is warm and safe. Aberrant visions
of danger, a dissimilitude of grief, weaves itself
through dim attention to anything that moves
too fast or squawks in warning. Leap, the
birds leap, or the snake jumps, or the bunny
dashes to the bramble of dark wilderness etching
its way into a larger corner of the yard.
There is nothing left of the nest
that snuck inside a birdhouse this spring.
July ends soon, the days grow shorter,
cicadas hatched now and brrruzz,
humid winds blow across open sunflowers,
drying monarda stalks, spent peonies.
Dill grows up taller than me, in an herb forest
with that familiar pickle smell drifting occasionally,
my back against the hammock. I swing gently, black and
yellow American goldfinch perches on the cyclone fence
across from me. I can see blue sky and white clouds,
the corner of the garage where the electric meters whirl,
cable TV lines stretched up and along the top of the wall
under the eaves. I swing gently, a cicada calls out summer.
Summer, summer. Bzzzzzzz. I watch clouds drift and turn
into shapes, a hawk flies overhead chaotically,
chased by squawking barn swallows. They peck
at the hawk and lunge, chase it to the back field,
into the trees and down they all swoop.
Next to me moonflower grows
in a large wooden box, from last year’s flowers seeds.
These shapes and others persist here,
the dill persists and thrives, daisy, goldenrod, thistle, chicory,
between the plantain, mullein, curly dock and bur’s.
The healing potential in their actions, this interface
of potion and tonic, earth brings us to her on our knees,
searching for the right root or leaf, something to boost
the heart, calm the mind, smooth out the nerves. A fullness
in these moments of recognition, my back
comfortably nestled in a green patterned hammock,
summer what is growing in between the cracks
in the patio, the way the sun moves across
the sky, and when birds no longer nest but chase
each other, defining their territorial wonder. I love the
shape that hangs suspended above me, deeply blue behind
white cloud, the sway of my mind, persistence
in the wind, a gentle knock knocking in the distance,
a car goes by. Buzz of airplane, streak of vapor trail,
splash of gravel under tires. Blithesome bouncy stagger,
enchantment, dither, parody. I cross my feet at my ankles,
my hands behind my head, wonder where the snake
has gone off to. Curse the bunnies that have eaten
my strawberry leaves down to stems. Close my eyes
to the brightness against the house’s windows, the
view over my right elbow. A view to a rooftop, lightning rods
poking into the sky, exhortation by yet more barn
swallows rustling against the electric lines, sequenced up
next to each other. The dispossessed rivals reweigh
their chances, chirrup their maneuvers.
The “Old Laughing Lady” by Neil Young
plays over and over in my head. The world comes to me
this way, in memory, I know beyond that rooftop,
over that fence, down that road, where that car
goes or the plane is headed, that world
out there looms just beyond my possible understanding.
Where the sun hangs just as congruent as “divine love,”
as disorienting as the terror of buildings falling down
and burning. Devotional abandon, doctrinal comfort and salve –
salvation conjures rescue, deliverance, emancipation.
But how? In conservation, preservation, sustentation.
None of it penetrates the heart the way a plain day
something ordinary and forgiving
settles into the bones, provokes satisfaction
in simply regarding casual relations
of cloud silhouette and shadow, hawk and barn swallow,
moonflower and medicine. Behold the coruscation
of shiny glass, spurious circumspection winds itself up,
a snake under a short piece of black plastic edging, asleep
where it is warm and safe. Aberrant visions
of danger, a dissimilitude of grief, weaves itself
through dim attention to anything that moves
too fast or squawks in warning. Leap, the
birds leap, or the snake jumps, or the bunny
dashes to the bramble of dark wilderness etching
its way into a larger corner of the yard.
And Also With You
In a way there is nothing
ever to talk about, to speak to
horizon or mass of cloud
cover making its way from
the northwest – hey you
Cloud!
Horizon!
I am with you, on your side.
Look up you see night
ungather itself, sun starts to break
up star party, itch, inch, dagger, crowd.
Look down you see writhing not
unlike connecting constellations
dot to dot in patterns, dosage, meter, line.
Look straight, see here, a trunk
of cottonwood obscures creek bank
bark rippled tree muscle stronger than eye.
For now. For now only voice –
voice of pasture, voice of prairie, song of
need. Song of alignment – battle cry –
remnant forests, glacial bosoms, cradle
centuries on the move not unlike vast
sheets of ice. My God. My God.
Who’s side are you on?
In a way there are no
questions, only voices. And in
reverberation drowned out blend
and cacophony and concordance and
songs emerge in waves, knock each other
around, come together again.
Look here now, it’s “peopling” and it’s “birding” and
it’s “mountaining” and “glaciering” and
“amoebaing”. Not unlike above, not incongruent
down below. Shift phase, reconstruct, break apart, shudder,
slough off and furrow, reach out and hold.
The point that is furthest – the overdose,
threshold,
altar –
the this is too much and it’s time to go back in,
fold up, kneel, collapse or disperse, make up
some alibi, scapegoat, excuse – a horned
cloven-hoofed bearded white robed multi-armed
fat bellied balded smiling legs spread wide open
womb? It kissed you awake and this
is what you do.
I prefer a little less – shave off a layer or
three or ten thousand, the part that is the
north face where you can find a tiny patch of snow.
The fallen birch where edible fungus is nourished.
The dark soil, “bacteriaing”, flotsam, detritus,
right here, where we live. Rain’s coming.
Morning hails along the edge of today.
Cloud!
Horizon!
You are with me, by my side.
In a way there is nothing
ever to talk about, to speak to
horizon or mass of cloud
cover making its way from
the northwest – hey you
Cloud!
Horizon!
I am with you, on your side.
Look up you see night
ungather itself, sun starts to break
up star party, itch, inch, dagger, crowd.
Look down you see writhing not
unlike connecting constellations
dot to dot in patterns, dosage, meter, line.
Look straight, see here, a trunk
of cottonwood obscures creek bank
bark rippled tree muscle stronger than eye.
For now. For now only voice –
voice of pasture, voice of prairie, song of
need. Song of alignment – battle cry –
remnant forests, glacial bosoms, cradle
centuries on the move not unlike vast
sheets of ice. My God. My God.
Who’s side are you on?
In a way there are no
questions, only voices. And in
reverberation drowned out blend
and cacophony and concordance and
songs emerge in waves, knock each other
around, come together again.
Look here now, it’s “peopling” and it’s “birding” and
it’s “mountaining” and “glaciering” and
“amoebaing”. Not unlike above, not incongruent
down below. Shift phase, reconstruct, break apart, shudder,
slough off and furrow, reach out and hold.
The point that is furthest – the overdose,
threshold,
altar –
the this is too much and it’s time to go back in,
fold up, kneel, collapse or disperse, make up
some alibi, scapegoat, excuse – a horned
cloven-hoofed bearded white robed multi-armed
fat bellied balded smiling legs spread wide open
womb? It kissed you awake and this
is what you do.
I prefer a little less – shave off a layer or
three or ten thousand, the part that is the
north face where you can find a tiny patch of snow.
The fallen birch where edible fungus is nourished.
The dark soil, “bacteriaing”, flotsam, detritus,
right here, where we live. Rain’s coming.
Morning hails along the edge of today.
Cloud!
Horizon!
You are with me, by my side.
Strange I’m Never Alone In My Dreams
That’s it.
I send my love shooting through the sky and up into the heavens for all to know.
When you shut down a little, quiet down, stay still, the world opens up more, your mind opens up more to things that move, or make noise, or smells you hadn’t noticed. Shut down, open up. A new mantra. Shut down. Open up. Shhhhh.
Another day, another black sky glazed with ice crystals, another sunrise about to emerge. Soft, lamp-lit, the living room etched with shadow. Striking angles, long legs of table, couch arm, my stretched out head along the ground and up the wall by the fireplace. My hand, this pen, project themselves across page and across the brick wall, dancing like puppets as I write. I like motion out of the corner of my eye, things that catch my attention. When the furnace blows so hard the plant leaves move and I turn my head to them. When the cat’s tail flicks, the snow drifts in the porch light, a piece of paper hanging at the edge of the table suddenly falls. I like these things. We are programmed to like these things. Shiny things, moving things, sudden sounds, feint rumbles, put your ear to the ground and listen things. Smells, whiff of rain or wet meadow or hot black tar in the sidewalk cracks. Sometimes it’s too beautiful it makes you cry. Maybe I like it too much. Or I pay too much attention. It’s where truth lives. Not the abstract world of perfect forms, but the gritty living breathing planet where reality takes place. Being and becoming the way Plotinus brought the mind of Plato and the body of Aristotle together as one. That’s what I’m after.
Sky could there ever be a proper tribute
to you who is always there above us
expansive and persistent, more so even
than the sun you hold in you. I can see
how the ancients might think a charioteer
were driving it, or some other force united
moon with earth, or yet another goddess
had to hold you up
to keep you from falling.
Streaks of cloud and color, we ascribe to you moods –
anger of stormy weather darkness, sometimes you cry,
sometimes you shine happily – you are too big to hold,
you are the one who does all the holding
around here. Birds fly through you, trees grow
tall into you, you establish Up, you accept fist
gestures equally with peace signs, you never crawl.
Apollo the abandoner, who left Heliotrope brokenhearted,
is a slave to you. Rain. And fog. And rain and fog and rain.
Five teenage girls sing in you, no umbrellas. Drink
stolen Mad Dog, drag the bottoms of their jeans
through the mud. 33 degrees. What a shitty temperature.
That’s it.
I send my love shooting through the sky and up into the heavens for all to know.
When you shut down a little, quiet down, stay still, the world opens up more, your mind opens up more to things that move, or make noise, or smells you hadn’t noticed. Shut down, open up. A new mantra. Shut down. Open up. Shhhhh.
Another day, another black sky glazed with ice crystals, another sunrise about to emerge. Soft, lamp-lit, the living room etched with shadow. Striking angles, long legs of table, couch arm, my stretched out head along the ground and up the wall by the fireplace. My hand, this pen, project themselves across page and across the brick wall, dancing like puppets as I write. I like motion out of the corner of my eye, things that catch my attention. When the furnace blows so hard the plant leaves move and I turn my head to them. When the cat’s tail flicks, the snow drifts in the porch light, a piece of paper hanging at the edge of the table suddenly falls. I like these things. We are programmed to like these things. Shiny things, moving things, sudden sounds, feint rumbles, put your ear to the ground and listen things. Smells, whiff of rain or wet meadow or hot black tar in the sidewalk cracks. Sometimes it’s too beautiful it makes you cry. Maybe I like it too much. Or I pay too much attention. It’s where truth lives. Not the abstract world of perfect forms, but the gritty living breathing planet where reality takes place. Being and becoming the way Plotinus brought the mind of Plato and the body of Aristotle together as one. That’s what I’m after.
Sky could there ever be a proper tribute
to you who is always there above us
expansive and persistent, more so even
than the sun you hold in you. I can see
how the ancients might think a charioteer
were driving it, or some other force united
moon with earth, or yet another goddess
had to hold you up
to keep you from falling.
Streaks of cloud and color, we ascribe to you moods –
anger of stormy weather darkness, sometimes you cry,
sometimes you shine happily – you are too big to hold,
you are the one who does all the holding
around here. Birds fly through you, trees grow
tall into you, you establish Up, you accept fist
gestures equally with peace signs, you never crawl.
Apollo the abandoner, who left Heliotrope brokenhearted,
is a slave to you. Rain. And fog. And rain and fog and rain.
Five teenage girls sing in you, no umbrellas. Drink
stolen Mad Dog, drag the bottoms of their jeans
through the mud. 33 degrees. What a shitty temperature.
On Derrida’s Centerless Center
Transcendental rebounded sunlight, the place
to look up to, sanctuary of mind, requiem
for requiem. Loving the cherry bird, apple fly, return
and leave, revolving wheel, no name, nothing
to speak “sorry to bring this burden upon you,”
nothing to carry desires back down into the earth
like prayer snakes. (If I were you, I’d get
the pink ones, the warm ones, the ones
that will last.) Signified transparence,
immanent mountain, fluctuating firmament,
how to choose? How to choose? Pale white
doubt, lacking discernment – so it takes faith
just to go to the bathroom much less
‘figure it ALL out, man.’ Voice, privileged
above feathers and fronds, an avalanche of
suffocation. Shadow and flame from the
first Yawn unleashed ALL this tomb talk,
these embroidered aprons, elaborate bowers,
itchy feet. (There’s no one else in the world
like you.) Common sense, hah, common non-
sense.
Transcendental rebounded sunlight, the place
to look up to, sanctuary of mind, requiem
for requiem. Loving the cherry bird, apple fly, return
and leave, revolving wheel, no name, nothing
to speak “sorry to bring this burden upon you,”
nothing to carry desires back down into the earth
like prayer snakes. (If I were you, I’d get
the pink ones, the warm ones, the ones
that will last.) Signified transparence,
immanent mountain, fluctuating firmament,
how to choose? How to choose? Pale white
doubt, lacking discernment – so it takes faith
just to go to the bathroom much less
‘figure it ALL out, man.’ Voice, privileged
above feathers and fronds, an avalanche of
suffocation. Shadow and flame from the
first Yawn unleashed ALL this tomb talk,
these embroidered aprons, elaborate bowers,
itchy feet. (There’s no one else in the world
like you.) Common sense, hah, common non-
sense.
