21 December 2011

Queen of our Long Night


Our Night Queen is rich and unattached
The seed pearls that she grows in her throat
and her diamond sweat drops
roll down her dark neck, her dusky arms, and off her fingers
onto the velvet sky of winternight
there to radiate an unconfused light
of that which we don’t yet know
because we’re just not ready
However one night very soon,
as her sickle moon cuts through the cobweb clouds 
that we trust
to keep us from seeing as high and clear as we must,
ready we will be

15 December 2011

Lawful


I am a Law Man
I am the Outlaw
I draw the line
so I can see it

I walk the line
and I cross it
I tour my walls every hour with my torch held high
and I slip like a night whisper under barbed fences
I wear black all over
I am masked most of the time
I am silent and sudden and my walk seems threatening, weightless
I cover my prints to find that
I’ve lost my own trail
I swim naked through white-water rivers 
and I track my scent anyway
I track myself down
I throw firecrackers under your chair
I shoot silver into the air
I am dangerous
I am not deadly
I build a bridge 
I defend it
I hold it for you
I burn it to ashes
and then
I do it all again
Arsonist and warden
I am sooty
from being on fire for so damn long
My helmet gleams in a way you don’t like,
and yet my baton only swings in my fingers 
It hammers the shield I have yet to put down
in a drumbeat chant
for streets of dust and grease
Dance on my beat if you will,
it will be under you as long as I’m around
When I am trapped 
I pepper spray my own feet
until they’re burning so fast 
they will lead me the way I need to go
I am the Good Guy
My brutality has awoken to its options
and is looking in its own smoking mirror
I am gut-shot
Bleeding onto the floor is no problem for me
I have this shining star on my chest
I have miles to ride
Through me blasts
the panic of a million desperate boys
fundamentally abandoned by the world 
yet charged to carry its weight
Through me rolls 
the uncontrolled thunder rage
of their two million desperate fathers and mothers
Through me the desperation cry becomes
a gesture worthy of Athena the Just
and Zeus the Wrathful, both together
Through me the self-cutting rebel yell
becomes a really really really GOOD talking-to 
from one with kind hands to match his eyes of mercy
What it comes down to is this
My discipline is self
My aim is wild

I contain a lost commandment
and I am open to suggestions



13 December 2011

Drop of Blood Speaks to You


There is no doubt 
that I am a heated drop 
of Goddess blood
From my small point of view I have noticed that 
some of her thoughts travel as foaming ocean rollers 
pulverizing themselves on all shores
roaring her devotion to abandonment
her strength to surrender
her ability to let it be
Yes, I am negligible drop of blood
and I am also one of those:
a fearsome, obedient wave of the One
a fearless shore-meeter and self-giver
that has learned to walk and dress herself and shake people’s hands
I am a messy collection of her cast-off fragments
My intentions are vast
My acts are immense
I know how to look
And I even know 
why to care what I see 
with eyes of Oneness
Sometimes I wonder why every person I meet
doesn’t recognize her awesome face as my simple one
But I already know the why
I already know the why
You know it too:
Whispers of the One must be listened for
and the heart-beating love-wringing Oneness of the world -
once it’s half-forgotten -
it must be sought
and so we are busy
busy very busy
In the midst of your busyness, still you know that you are her
You are the Her the Him and the It
The Oneness that crawls in your veins
the Oneness that shelters in the shining bowl of your belly
and threads between your teeth
and sleeps in your ears,
that Oneness
lays its Mother-Father-Friend hand on your tired brow
and you feel it 
even when you don’t
But today it’s easy to see that
your chest holds the cries of each babe born
And I see without looking 
that each wee seed 
each mote of soil
each dusty speck our effort to be godly
fits into the soft heavy sack of your heart
and therefore your heart is nothing other than
Hers, and His,
and Mine

12 December 2011

You are the Breath of the Wheel


You know that 
wheels are in you
And I see you 
feel them
turn
You know that
galaxies wheel in you
Galaxies sweep with arms longer than imagination
arms strung with beads of worlds and worlds and worlds
and yet you contain them
Arms with universal hands
wave in the midst of you 
open and closed and halfway
Their finger bones are raucous living stars 
They have fingernails of planets and planets
Fingernail dirt: entire and whole envelopes of sacred life
Many-armed world wheels turn in you 
and their fingertips of new constellations
write on the insides of your eyes
Like child-fingers drawing squishy hearts
drawing speeding ships and
lasers and arrows
in the car-window steam
made of your own
universal breath
Breath of suns 
Breath of skies anchored by heavy whitestone moons
Breath of night sewn together with mighty star thread

Breath of seas rains rivers always trying to become each other
Breath of rumbling tangled bed of rock
Breath of all soils under foot, paw, hoof or root

Breath of the wheel
turns in your skin
in your intent
in your word
Your hands do the work of the wheel
and your eye sees the spinning
of each thing doing
of each thing done

6 December 2011

The Using

Just let me move I will untie this cord.
Just let me move I will pick apart this tangle.
Just let me move I will loosen it, and

sever this tie which is my own.

I cut
and cut.

Eye eye eye
undo my
not.

And so, then,
I sew I sew I sew.

Always sewing,
never mending,
never mind.

I shall not be fixed.
Not be fixed.
Yeah.

It so happens
I like cracks.

Dents
Chips

Stretched, shrunken
pitted, pilled, pulled

Stained

Used

Life uses me
just like it does

EVERY
OTHER
THING.

I offer me.
To the using.

I walk to meet
the using of me
with my hand outstretched.

And I can already taste it.

Yes, I can taste it again.

The flavour we always want to taste
but never want to hold in our mouths too long.

Because the using, it's
bittersweet.

Lotus-flavoured,
the using will lie on my tongue
for just a moment or two after I've moved on.
Long, long gone.
Long, long gone.

My non-existent, used suitcases
dangerously
recklessly
left unattended.


Project Projectile

See here?
See this animal skin
       strung between the riverbanks of my ribs?

It's pulled tight
       so tight

over the breathing well
       over the oasis the deep river

Drum it drum it drum it
       make it pound

Drum it drum it drum it
make it
       make its sound

Drum it drum it drum it
Let the lights shine
into this tight-capped valley sealed under lock-lid sky
       between rising hills of rib bone

Drum it
Let the light shine
into this thick dark wook
with its no-trail, no-breeze back
       turned on me

Let the sound shine out here
Here
       HERE

Let the work be taken in hand
And let the hand drum it
into here
Here
        HERE

While the heart rests
Heart, beat if you must
       but beat barely

Project Projectile
       YOU ARE OUTTA HERE

Because here
Here
       HERE

Because
       I AM IN HERE


Imaginary Interview: Kathe Kollwitz (1867-1945)


Chantell: Ms. Kollwitz, how can as visionary an artist as you be so neglected?  Except perhaps in parts of Germany...

Kathe: Do things make sense to you in this world, Chantell?

Chantell: Ah.  Okay, moving on.  I notice that hugging features prominently in your oeuvre.  Would you give me a free hug if you were alive?

Kathe: Hmm.  How good are you?

Chantell: Today my sons said my hugs are rare.  They meant good.  I think.

Kathe: Well then, provisionally, yes.  

Chantell:  How did you bear your apparently fully-realized human capacity to love in a time of total intent to annihilate?

Kathe: The children.  Their parents' hands.  But why are you asking me, do you think things are better in your 'now'?

Chantell: You got me...

Kathe: You still there?

Chantell: Right, sorry, um.  But the Great War took your child.  How could your love prevail?

Kathe: I was out of options.

Chantell: Why do so many people think of mothering as boring, a non-job, and apolitical?

Kathe:  You got me.

Chantell: I guess it's the money thing?

Kathe: Are you kidding me?

Chantell: Um.

Kathe: Okay, dear.  Gotta go.  Good luck.

Chantell: Hang on, one more thing.  Please.  What's the remedy for fear of destruction, violence, apathy?

Kathe: Fear wants to control.  Courage guards willingness.  To love.  To try.  To open.  Just... remain willing.