backwash of rumor

[Let the bears devour our enemies]. We have no obligation
To open // ourselves // for those who do us harm.

last stanza of “[SOMEWHERE IN LOS ANGELES] THIS POEM IS NEEDED” by Christopher Soto

SHOW UP, Oakland, November 2017

Recede
like waves—
a motion,
refract.

When speculation
is commercialized
what power is ceded
by paying attention?

On distracted authority,
faith becomes the plan.
Repress judgment.
Feel your immediacy.

__________
title borrowed from Funny Weather: Art in an Emergency by Olivia Laing

apophenia

“Sensuality. Our basis of being concrete about the world. It is lustful relationship to things that exist.” — Mark Rothko, from Mark Rothko From the Inside Out

Fruit postcard, Paul Huf, 1983

Not quite epiphany
more
   false positive
associations of pink
or orange to flesh
as displacement
or tender resignations
   an unqueering
a gamble.

Such inconvenience filters the odds
into other’s perceptions, luck, or madness.
When our fists equal the size of our hearts
there’s recognition in that sovereign drama.
Beginnings blindspot endings.
All rhetorical approximations
become redundant.
Transitions, as in not yet.

Our histories are programmed errors
    marked like rings inside trees
plastic as the immediate future.
Mystery strikes then bends
absorbing the unrecognizable
when opposites compliment
more than divide
  potentially godwinked
impossibly divine.

optics of grief

In ways both unique and entirely common, being alive during this pandemic is re-iterating me.
— TC Tolbert, Also, I’ve Slept in the Backyard for the Last Five Weeks

I’ve been here before.
I am sure of it.
A year-day that has
no beginning, no middle
and no benevolent end.
Some argue this absence
must be lived, that it
is more of a felt sense,
similar to elaborate escape
routes dreamed nightly
and soft as bodies
left untouched.
You’ve been here before.
You are sure of it.

mute all

By bending, the grass develops a surface. — William Stafford

Mandana Boulevard, (Oakland, California), 30 April 2020

How I show up today, here, and the muted space in between is a search for synergy.

Growing up epistolary warnings were all around me, and the strongest broadcast signals were dedicated to reactionary talk radio or static aesthetics. I heard language through the filter of parables, manipulation, and transience. The voices that carried are a study of displaced metaphors.

Averse to specifics, maybe this is the best I can do.

I moved the tangerines into their own space, letting the lemons spread out.