It's not like I promised you a poem

November 30, 2005 on 10:55 pm | In photo | 1 Comment

But I did, and I did not keep it, because I put the poem into pictures. Here you have it before you and beneath “ME.”

for Amy!

this is the last week of our lives…

November 29, 2005 on 12:38 pm | In poem | No Comments

…in two thousand and five. no it’s not. stop universalizing your suffering, you silly rabbit.

it is the first week of my lives, in two thousand and five, in which my camera is two hundred and fifty miles away from me.

so images will be made with words, have you not heard?

[Upon the Museum for the American Indian]

There is a hole at the top, a Sacred
for dreams to jump through, or more likely
the light of Sun and Men that washes out
humanity’s world like an oyster. It cries out
that it was ours before it was yours or mine,
and this is the form of the dome, the cupola
that molds roundly the noises that reach it.
It is a perfect nave of wooden tone, being carved
by children spinning happily on the stairs, or
by the footsteps of people sanding the grain
of its heart into smoothness. It is like a film,
a gritty dust falling into eyes, and it is always
in the air, between the words and the smells
that inhabit their cathedral.
From the balconies above one can
imagine a great toss of their own bodies
like great smiling gargoyles
thrown from the dizzying heights into
the life of falling, which glows
like a fire. It is amber, a warm interior, and
it is inviting. It is the children who are
laughing, while behind them the hands of
experience are ready to catch them,
hands that are dirtied with silence.

trouble on the turkey trail

November 26, 2005 on 11:25 pm | In photo | No Comments

Triple, double, turkey trouble. A day condensed into some htmldrops. Dripping from the ceiling of containment. Trickling down to the road to encounter, far from perdition. In the morning they shall be frost and we shall shiver, happily, at the memory they suggest.

Little River Haircutters, Barbershop of Barbers
a stern portrait of brothers

ironic icon of trash

the reclusive, elusive Rosie

welcome, human, to the chipmunk's lair

November 25, 2005 on 11:31 pm | In photo, poem | 1 Comment

For some reason this website captivated my attention. As my “sister” says, I can have so many cups of coffee and still fall asleep.

And now, some spontaneous [w]o[rds]n[pictur]es!

[Upon the absence of Rosie in my pictures]

Rosie cannot be photographed for as a pup
she had a buzzing burden strung ‘round her neck,
a shock-charged collar to keep her in her place.
Now she lives with us in a big backyard and
basement, a life free of invisible fences,
but she hides from all reminders of her suffering,
and she wisely fears my camera and hides.

arriva d -o avia, n-a natureza

a luz en baixo

a camara no ar

o eu na escuridade

thanks be given

November 25, 2005 on 12:46 pm | In photo | No Comments

thanks, given!

tiny verses

November 24, 2005 on 8:37 pm | In poem | 1 Comment

[here there]

Here we were there
where we was at
war with words.

[moving along]

Traveling narcissism always
embarks upon its own journey
towards another.

[snow is gone]

Why, it melted when
the world was free
from freezing.

for the first snow, some visions of the fall

November 23, 2005 on 8:46 pm | In photo | 1 Comment

for Amy

and now, the first snow captured in a moment of narcissism:

For all who are traveling

November 23, 2005 on 2:45 am | In poem | No Comments

[Driving home]

for Amy

Here we are somewhere,
the streetlights seem.
They are planted in a row
firmly on the pavement.
From one end of the road
to the ending far-off lights,
the antipodes of moving stars
are one-by-one and are
going and going.
In a car like a
where from time to time
the windows fog with sighs,
somewhere is somewhere. Gone.
The streets are tied in knots
overhead as if to catch
the world in its web or
more likely ask perhaps:
have the highways fallen
from the sky?
Let us then speak of the
future but please let’s
forget the past.
It is behind this behind that
and above below and
beyond us.
Like the highways to heaven
that fall and become the
demon road, the route of silver.
We shall forget them. Why,
we can run our fingernails across
the blacktop all along the
way out of this little town.
Maybe hope to dig some words
out of the ground or
scrape up hope at a time.
It’s been paved by man but
the winter is a-coming and
soon it shall fill with drops of water
so it may freeze then crack,
loudly as no one listens.
It leads to truth and this it
promises in the dim horizon.

I went for a walk tonight

November 22, 2005 on 2:22 am | In poem | No Comments

Hello, migratory winged word listener! You’ve followed your nose, which always knows where to find these little stories like mousetraps!

I went for a walk tonight, for a second time this day, in the rain again. I became wet a second time, willingly, as I walked again this night, and I will again. And again. And it rained well and I wandered into circles. The leaves were slapped all around me by drops of rain, sharply against their skins. Some raindrops came down upon me, and my hood grew their echo into a thump in my ears. Up and down the Chapel Hill, until in the end I ended up at home again. I found upon a cat, a fat black and white cat. He saw my light and thought it was the light of his holy cat-god. The poor kitty leapt out of his soul! The poor cat jumped right back into his bones! There, there, kitty, kitty! The white speck at the tip of his tail followed his flight into the bushes. I never saw him again tonight. I may never will see him yesterday. I could always see him never. Fat cat, with the black and the white! What would nature say about your fur, dragging so close to the earth, your belly? I could not see you, for you left not a trace, and my memory you held in your mouth like a spent and tired little mouse.

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