ok, don’t panic

“I pray in words. I pray in poems. I want to learn to pray through breathing, through dreams and sleeplessness, through love and renunciation.” — Anna Kamienska, from “In That Great River: A Notebook” (tr. Clare Cavanagh)

artist: Josh Courlas

It is a fear of waste.
There is anger, again.
Misfortune. Unfairness.
There is nothing left
to do but wake up,
make coffee, write.

Held up to the light,
memories weigh more with
accumulated time.
Hummingbirds flirt.
Salt, a mineral.
There are edges to knowing one’s truth.

We lived in temporary houses.
No one was home so we self-supervised.
Neglect and despair kept us full.
Competition thrived. Like ocean waves,
we conformed to the landscape
beneath the water’s surface.

I remember when the air smelled like summer,
longing and loss. Trees were shaped
by ocean breezes, bald on the west side.
Country twang bled past bar doors opened early.
That moment, the energy, left an imprint.

Liminal space
shifting,
like sand,
like breath.

tender violence

Yet listen well. Not to my words,
but to the tumult that rages in
your body when you listen to yourself.

—René Daumal

Berlin, September 2014

If it is true we are floating through space
& each of us contain the stardust of a million galaxies
then our sun glittering receptive becomes asylum.
Exuberant in signification, one way to be eulogized,
we propel beyond daydream nations.
Expressive attraction becoming its own tender gravity.
Let us close our eyes as change is
accelerating is feedback looping.

What do you believe in: violence & power?

It is our right as poets to be suggestive
to value a secure spirit & apply logic of affect.
We know why the grace of a curve invites.

revelations

“I wish the idea of time would drain out of my cells and leave me quiet even on this shore.”
—Agnes Martin, Writings

artist: Shu Takahashi

We had so much nothing,
it was taken for granted.
Believing nothing would always be there
absence became comfort.

Not unlike early morning prayers
spirals of grand scale idolizing
the ego erases wants into ecstasy
feral as our collective waking dreams.

This gap — promised conjecture —
as yet unproven and deep as the ocean
is sensory. A modern perception.
Time expresses both light and shadow.

Take this faithful repeated effort
to disrupt, relate, or to create.
Apocalypses, primitive reveals,
have nothing left to give.

Release remaining regrets, a familiar form.
After all, we are in process
shaping the near future like it’s a bad thing.
Maybe there’s nothing but good in this.