Tunnel Vision

Hey there you

In the hole

At the long spotlight end

Of the tunnel vision

You're feeling abandoned, aren't you?

You are frozen

Feet, knees, legs

Locked to the ground

Can't even feel the frostbite of

empty air

0 Kelvin

You are trapped in the moment

between when you realized the fall -

wind knocked out of your heart,

arms outstretched - 

 the moment between that, and

the in-breath you never took,

lips parted with the words you kept inside

Swallowed

Was it that? Which knocked your heart into your gut?

The words that you saw would not be heard,

and so you made sure of it?

I can almost see a snowflake drifting

past your face

Surprised by the sudden cold

You are alone and frozen

not in that time or place

But in that feeling

Choosing to stay silent and frozen

and to keep your hope

like a grip on a last coin you'll never spend 

 know you can't move.

But what if I told you: I'm you?

And right now, you are not in a hole.

We are in a warm couch in a house in the future

Where kitchens have music

There's a broad table where the sun shines in

And people who care

You live here and you're happy

Even if you're still in the hole,

you live here now.

You made it.

We all make it.

In a desert far away at night

There is a dark and empty pit

in the desert sand

with whom I spoke

for an evening when

it held my voice.

It understands

loss.

Once upon a time, it held an ocean.

That dark and starless night,

I knelt beside the block-wide empty pit -

slated for construction - trapped between traffic.

Like a hollow ear still turned to open sky

it received, like a broken offering,

a shared, full-shouldered sob,   

the salty heave of a distant wave, 

and could not see the tiny oceans in my eyes; 

Nor could I hear its oceans past.

There was time, and room, there in the night, in the desert, in the empty pit that no more held an ocean,

with even the sand dug out of it;

there was room in that container

to hold the kind of howl 

that unwraps itself around someone bereft.

Verses

I think perhaps there is a time when we've grown enough of an inner world

To trade the physics of the universe

For 

Inner

and Outer

Multitudes

Where is the big bang of introspection?

Does humanity fade in and out?

When does the song we all sing in different voices begin and end?

These are questions for another realm of physics.

The night sky from far away

adapted from a found post-it note



In the darkest hours of nearly morning
at the end of a yearlong day
they said good night
from different oceans
closing the yearlong conversation
that had started under the same sky
a yearlong evening before

& hung up their phones
inevitably dreading wondering
what the dawn would bring
& what kind of day would come next.

The Earth had gone 'round the sun and nearly back again.
But first,
it is dark.

The prison and the door

We are all trapped
inside our own mirrors

Alphabet letters for adults

Did you know there is one letter that
no matter what
how many times you recite the alphabet
no one else can teach you
until you learn it yourself?


All my life, I remember hearing "don't slouch"
"don't slouch"
So what else could I do?

Without any of us knowing, I'd studied the grown-ups
and the invisible burdens that sank their shoulders
and rounded their backs with the weight.

I tucked my own shoulders in my chest
tried not to stand out
so they wouldn't notice
and slink onto my shoulders, too

But now, for inspiration standing straight and tall

I contemplate the letter I between my shoulderblades:

I
I can
I will
I want
I hope
I did
I am

And not the letter Y
which is the only letter
others can give you, leaning over
so you must to crouch to fit:

You
You think
You should
You won't
You don't
You aren't

It is not easy to practice one
after becoming so familiar with the other;

to relearn my grown-up alphabet
in a taller body.

But what could they do?
The letter that we all need
is the one we must grow on our own.

The Body

For those who do not constrain
language
to only spoken or recorded words,

the body

in every moment

is a prayer
a poem
a wish

a collection of all the stories over

years
decades
generations

of material experience

wrapped around a heart
that is every now
and has a name
and beats
and hopes to beat
and is
and hopes to be
at least
once
more.

What is my petition?
I am the prayer and the message and the messenger.
And I should listen.

A Chemistry of Emotions: Sadness

Sadness is something soluble

It has a heaviness, a pull, a force, a weight,
a gravity towards that which will dissolve it;

a deep and hollow longing
for home in a greater container, a larger flask, an ocean;
embraced into solution
in the vast and empty bosom of a solvent.

Never to erase it, no.
But, as though the hot and blinding sorrow of a single sun
could, within the dark forgiving rim of sky,
relax into a million tiny stars.

And, what started as a room empty without you
dissolves into
a room
with only
me.

Constellations

(discovered Jun 16, 2018 in a notebook ... probably originally from ~ Sept 2012)



Sometimes I'm Abraham,
sometimes the Calm Potato.
Sometimes, I'm the wailing woman,
sometimes, the stars that set.

day 2

As if a constant scream was not the only way to remember who you are.

--

a tender compassion

tears somewhat exhausted
the past is never coming back for us

a tender compassion
arms reaching up

sand gone
hair washed
all else is "normal" again

when we wake up tomorrow,
what is the difference between our time together
and a vivid dream that fades within the hour?

what was it that we felt so strongly
that we almost peeled ourselves in 2?

Resistance subsiding
memories fading
inevitably

all eroding into now
with what's left of our identity
myself and I
no longer on opposite sides
we finally grieve together

In custody of reality: Day 0

I didn't want to wake up in this grayness
And yet time still marches on
Waking up in a familiar place was surprisingly easy
Getting up, surprisingly hard

I drag my body
like a screaming baby
through our usual day

crying NO to showers
washing feet
washing hair
getting dressed

Patiently, I will myself through time and space

NO NO NO NO
I carry myself under my arm through this friction of protest

NO because it's not the right shower
NO because the sand on the feet is the last of what's left of the beach
NO because we won't wash your hands out of our hair
NO because if we get rid of that top, you can never like it again.

And yet these rooms are the same as before
old habits churn along familiarly
eerily comforting

NO to accepting the now as the future
NO NO to the dying of last night
NO NO NO NO to the custody of present reality

I stumble blindly through time with a crying child
following only the well-worn patterns of habit.
compassionately leading myself along
until the new real world inevitably embraces us.
until bereft shrieking fades into sobs.

We all know how the future will go
The reality of now will move in to occupy, displace, reanimate as its own

With time,
the sand of the beach will fall through my mind
washing my brain
like an hourglass
until clear of the past

mindwash
sandwash
brainwash

It's just a matter of time

Time is more patient than a howling child.
The latter eventually exhausts.

Now? The passing of time itself
like an hourglass
made of sandpaper
under my skin
a horrible cleansing

I am exhausted.

The screaming child inside
resists bitterly
retaliating against
perceived complacency
clinging desperately to identity through fading memory

retaliating at every moment the outside world moves along invitingly as if to say that nothing's any different. That nothing's wrong.

As if everything was fine and is and will be fine.
as if there were no need for a child to cry so bitterly
no need for a child to cry
no need for a child
no need to cry
no need

as if you were still there

Ferryman

Charon the boatman has a very defined task.

Newly lost souls
One side of one river to another.
Deposit.
I recall him depicted as callous, cold, darkly-clad bones, perhaps emaciated. Indifferent and uncaring.
All those things we, still round and warm and breathing, might associate with the shore of the stony waters at the end of life.

After all, by that point, anything that can be carried must be left behind.

This business of living though
makes me wonder.

Because I've also sent so many on.
Not to death, I hope, of course.
But, to their other lives. The person they'll be tomorrow. The place they'll be next year.
The soul the universe is helping them become.

And I did it, never in callousness,
sometimes in confusion or conflict
sometimes with fear
sometimes in ignorance
often in sorrow,
even when with gratitude,
always with love
always with love

And many have also sent me on before.
Guided me patiently over my own rivers, to my other side,
where they set me down
and I go on
alone
but hopefully not without memories

I've crossed many rivers,
oceans even
at the patient hands of those who
whether in ignorance or wisdom
waited, led, or advised
until I climbed out onto my own path
extending from the other side
and began my journey
away from them
toward another river.

It makes me wonder:

If perhaps this business of living
might be a sort of many-transfer shuttle.

We humans live many lives in one lifetime.

It makes me wonder if this might be life:

A series of drawing near enough to see others closely enough
To love them enough
to

guard them when they can barely stand,
witness them through their valleys,
wait with them across their rivers
send them on when they reach their shores,

To love a pilgrim soul
is to journey with it
and then send it on to become itself.

It's an uncomfortable love
that stays with me like a companion,
consoles me,
as they go.

Instead of coins
I hope they keep my memory behind their eyes
I hope they don't forget the me that was.
As I turn and step uncertainly
into my next boat

looking up and being recognized
by a loving
sorrowful
peerless
Charon

After Easter

I suppose the trick to things that come back to life
is perhaps they
haven't died

Just,
it was cold.
And so they hid themselves.

We all do what we can
and when.

This .... Dream

I think there are dreams we can wake ourselves up from.


When you learn lucid dreaming, the first step is to observe.
Observe because your dreams give away patterns, cues.
You try to notice when a pattern is happening, and this is your trigger
Your trigger to ask yourself: is it real?

I always fail this question.
I convince myself that it is, even when it isn't.
I still can't lucid dream.

But I noticed that being awake,  the same things happen.
There are patterns, cues; I find myself making the same assumptions about people, about myself
When I know my patterns, I can ask: is it real?

Maybe it's also a dream. The kind you can wake up from or choose to steer differently.
I suppose much of life is a layering of these dreams that recur until we can observe them.
Even if you don't know how to wake up, the next question can be: is this the dream I want to have?

The Ancient Greek Δ is our capital D

In geography,

they taught us that a river delta is named for its yawning shape.

In science,

we learned it as change.

How fitting
that every drop meeting stream meeting river
all pass through the final transition
just before dissolution
to Ocean.

Linguistics of a temporal language family

The languages of Waiting and Longing are similar in that their only word is time.

The difference is that waiting uses stress and tense;

but longing,

only tone.


One is a standard language of science,
the other is common to poets.

living stories

We are stories.

We live within a world of narratives.
Those that cannot find or make a place for themselves in the human arc of memory,
wander forlorn ghosts.
They are lost. And, we are haunted. Until we find a fit.

Storytelling is survival.

To become a storyteller
is to make for yourself, and for others, a home in the imagined palace.
Our bodies may one day rest in the earth,
but only when settled in stories do we all rest in peace.

Eulogy for a Language - Epilogue: Faithful Companions (or Sky 外有 Sky)

The special thing about planets aligning 


is they don't stay that way for long.

The night I gave up my placelessness, was also the night that the sky started falling.

You'd told me a secret;
said you were wearing my shirt
turns out it was a little too tight.
I had no idea.

The stars turn to water on my face under a gray evening sky
There are many ways that stars can go down
Stubbornly, we love the darkness they leave; the star we can't see.
As if we had authority to house-arrest a memory.

It's good
that tonight there are clouds, or perhaps I'd stubbornly love the empty dark behind them.

You thanked me for walking you home.

I wasn't expecting your hand on my back, as though gently sending me off
I wish I'd taken your hand while departing; a picture of faithful companions to stars.

Even if stars could stay put, the sky is still constantly changing.
I walked home alone to my own kingdom through fields in muddy shoes 
amid cold, falling stars coming down in tiny multitudes.

The frozen earth is gently cradled in white blankets.

Lost in the silent din of a widening gyre outside,
I think of my shirt tight around you,
holding you together where I failed.

I tell myself that even when it falls,

behind the sky,
there is still more sky.

identity

Sometimes you're Theseus

Sometimes, his ship.

Sometimes you're Magellan,

and sometimes, the Victoria.

Learning to walk

In the beginning
The land fell away on both sides

I walked a tightrope
I watched a horizon

This is the only way not to fall:
to put each step exactly where it goes and nowhere else.

The waves rose up. The air stormed.
Still,
only one put to place each foot.

The stars did not waver
Then, all was calm around me
The storm was yet outside
just distracting: a horizontal pillar of cloud and of fire
I walked through the Eye
until placing one foot in front of the next was second nature.

Then the rope became an open field
After all, with practice, what's the difference when regardless of terrain, you have only two feet and one path?

Speed skaters know the only place for each narrow blade is beneath the center of gravity.
We balance on an intersection with reality.
This walking is a meditation.
It no longer matters whether I follow the thread or it follows me.
From outside, it looks precarious.

I remember a chess player stating that he thinks only one move ahead - the best move.
The field may be wide.
The path is narrow.
And in each moment, only one step.
I find this comforting.
Even liberating.