This minute, I mean right now, whenever your now becomes: take
this off my hands. The vastness of the golden field extends,
outbound. Keep to the age that we first met. We—all of us read
them. Eyes indecipherable handwritten letters in unknown
emergent expression. Your bird had died, speaking of apathy and
alteration. The nearly unthinkable thoughts, unspoken. The many
lives spied with sighs and silent alarm. The last thing looked
upon will become the first. Strangers. The newspaper print
floor. Labors and lapses. Is it so? It was Peter on the bus that
told me that Greg died, our computer teacher —in my first Apple
class years ago where I’d free write keyboarding until the lab
closed, gave me credit for Independent Study. He said, See you,
pulling away in his car. Surprisingly enough, I was driving his
canary yellow Jag vaguely smiling. I remember the dream
complaining about my parking too close the curb. Consider the
least your very max, ever desiring X-ray vision, access to
what’s beneath, the other side unvexed, carried on the
wings of that bright bird.
All the Wind in the World
Nothing can prevent it or notice. How our cups clink. Oh! Not to
be excluded. We span out as far as we might. A kind of outrage
never minds the broom. Imagine petals as kind of wings, which
will struggle up out of the ground. The bulbs are children tied
down. If I buried them by turning on a single bulb or granted
admission — did I rent something? What else did I receive, as if
there was a breakthrough, a free for all offer or I suppose,
there may have been an effort to erase those tracks. Entwined
with a cobbled street and some repetitious idea. Only all the
wind in the world. Go back to sleep, that’s why; so many have
already left, gone, good gone. Bare limbs. It was some time
after not reading tea leaves. Not knowing what belongs,
blessings or redeeming tremors. Creaking bedsprings. Talk about
all the missing stanzas or blind snow needing shape or scent
needling the hot house rose. Dear old woman continues to wring
the last drop out of the squeegee in dire need of retirement.
Now, surrender us to the sun robbing the moon’s back. Frost on
tropical plants. Handsome shoulders. This thought takes place
—in place of rain. Someone I know reads between all the lines.
Between the rocks. Glint of rings shine even if we do not wear
them. When we come up on edge. Hedge our bets. Jump, as if, then
there it is hidden beneath the bench. Someone, a friend of mine,
recalls, it was a mummified rabbit. He just returned from Reno.
A journey to winter’s end perhaps, which is not done yet.
Calling an echo in front, and I walk, calling the sheer touch of
nothing— the wind.
Make my voice or the print on this page the color of your
choice: hemlock heart soul empire aquamarine or gravity passed
to your daughter to sister to brother to father bothering their
spirit bow and the arrow. Color a brawny bear lumbering by a
little murderously, just out of his crevasse and cave, awakened
to spring. Color yourself right in, write over the city or
suburb, in between skyscrapers or trees and never mind better.
Future chances wander through settled shivers dilate on abundant
apparent ardor. Eye oxygen or smog muffs are poor exclusives and
neither irrevocable as one gold earring. Color anything you
heard about the latest bombast or anyone talking plainly
autobiographically believing invention once spoken aloud becomes
practice. Color was based on a theory of dust molecules, nothing
kept or swept under historic. A Crayola butterfly we
instinctively know is the right carrier of field and
fettle-spar. It soars. Wax the boy autistic near genius tapping
the point wasn’t insurance. Do you stay within the lines or out
when trying to generally misidentify old emotions in the suspect
line? Can you name even thirty-six copyrighted colors? But you
can color Ear to Experience and Smell the Embrace. Permanent
press wrinkles always ironed are most shocking immaculate white
bed drawn in the middle of your intersection. Sometimes decadent
angels sharpen their pastels breaking them —one eye on the
cellar and one eye on the sky, and the fragrant fairy shavings
scoot through thorns of gray. Color rain on fire or infantile
guns. Color in kind, the light you know best: incandescent,
florescent, sunlight. If you swallow one word, what word was it?
Show me your throat. A poet doesn’t want to find the way out of
a paper bag, due to a long forgotten indiscretion. He was
fifteen, a boy, going around the railroad gate, in San Bruno but
you can color that out if you want, he was the fifteenth hit and
killed this April thinking he could beat the light. Can you
color your mind? Do you mind your colors in or out of context?
He wasn’t smoking a backfire joint or erasing his shoes beside a
cultured pearl ballet slipper. Or a California Poppy. Or a
dental floss Venus casting a shadow. A direct statement or
deposit slip shames introspection and turns into an insufferable
song. Affirm once and for all, that this immense illiterate
illuminated pollen must heedlessly toe-point to another spring
in bloom. A color that really comes through, one that really
comes through must bleed with morning violence variety
vivacious. No greater violence than that.
Beauty So Wanton
You really had me going there
swaying Ms. Crystal Chandelier shaking his overcoat
in the hotel lobby where Inspector
Rhododendron fell asleep
out cold put
it on a credit card don’t miss anyone ever
can’t be choosers blind luck blind corner
no coupon expiration
they really had us
going there for a minute
they really did
weather currently partly cloudy with sudden
upwards to an hour showers falling
their favorite number
brakes squealing the topdown
you’re feeling better
refreshing to have a
good cry on the rinse cycle
the turntable making another revolution
marigolds mockingbird phoebe
requesting permission to take off
field a short cut dog bounds across on all fours
airlines everything goes the Mayflower
leading you away from the
proverbial bush blindfolded
backwards and forwards jump rope
had you going for a
minute left the engine running had the headlights on
he had you then
don’t I know it
three new planets
named daily one hundred billion more stars
as many more in unobservable
absence has no gravity
dye the roots
that’s so old
can’t believe I
dropped the pen without looking
yarrow and borrowed sleeves
rivers run rusting
newspaper stands creak
didn’t see the cap off
maybe they’re not ruined
department stores close at ten tonight
that couple we recognized them
from the movies
seventeen the elevator groans
They exit the page onto
another rain soaked street
You really had me going
Fat sparrow choirs mesh with broken factory
sealed de de
de dementing dovebar earlobes
full sigh O
cirrus clouds drowning whimsy
meadowlark to oak magpie crow.
Art mount my
byres. Walk tight my poet-thief
cattail catch eye-eye not
touch sails a single white crane
credence for band or bullrush. Aye-
polished crescents rise. Crocus
of lust and curtailed petals
pray a prelude to my mores last floursack
bayleaf, crumb, lush cockle byre, soon unmask
this need this pelvish triangle nightdress
Walk tight poet-thief, eyelids treble clef twin moons.
I believe in the architecture of the moon
the moon makes its own figure
a golden snake
as good a place as any to hide
when we find the moon in the river
we hear it laughing
we hear it crying
breaking out of the goldfish bowl
where passions live free
in the moon’s mirror
you can’t see your reflection
that’s the trouble
the moon warms the body in a sentient way
dreaming I’d become the moon
I put on my new glasses
Take double stock, add bays, oceans.
One darkens with intensifying prints.
Add cayenne pepper, artichoke hearts
put onto medium heat, for each chop of lagos bologi
or epazote of fiddlehead
add cilantro, celery stalk, bok choy
a dollop of weir, olive oil,
onion cream and blue lake kurrat,
accent of thyme.
Toss in caraway seeds without care
turnip whites, salsify, whisper and skirret
Add radicchio and the ever illusive
Table the funeral yams.
Consider the milky way of Irish potatoes.
Add one splash of dandelion wine.
Nary a crinkle of tiger lily
but not too much— nine less or so…
Add angel hair pasta turned aside and
chickpeas. Add green lake beans. The best
stroke stirs and stirs strokes, then lets it be.
The picking remains purloin.
Cut slices of cucumber to float between winged
beans, mustard greens, and endive.
Bubbles burst time: Niagara.
Slip in tears, the incurable kiss, the missed
fist hits the table, iagara! then a dash of salt
no more. Add additional snow peas and parsley
to taste. Call on orange zest, lemon essence
against formality or the easily prized
squeeze of luffa. Needs love— a saffron thread, you understand?
Add garlic butter.
What do you do with your thyme?
Now give or take mountain tea leaves thrice.
A population of maca, reduce…reduce.
Now, add celeriac and rub smooth
Add two prized plurals.
The history of arugula and a hand full
more of the illusive Orache.
Parboil another wet cucumber.
We’re not quite done. Are you getting all this
down? Add in crisps and beet root,
mustard and golden seeds. Render the rue
separately. Barley waits and shallots.
Add chrysanthemum instants, childhood
mallow. Hold the critical croutons until later.
Cast in cantaloupe quartered, gentle your wants,
stir, salsify, add banana fritters.
Add more celery stalk and coffee
grounds; skirret and sulk.
Suffer more broth just like the old world
and of the new world spread some apple seeds.
Remember the most—
whisper the illusive Orache.
Add only the difference between ginger
and gin. Sun shouts samphire and sapphire.
Unleash a storeroom of jasmine.
Pumpkins last longer than avocado.
Choose blonde broccoli. Blanched rutabaga.
More red beets.
Good. Now slide in climbs of sleep,
spiracles of cinnamon.
Take turn with turnup greens,
no longer petite.
Cauliflower clouds and jackfruit compassion
Dance they bump.
Don’t care is thrown in with care.
There are sections of orange and nectarine.
Let it bubble madly against the sides.
Let it froth.
Have you been stirring the pot?
Don’t let it burn, whatever you do.
“If the appearance of spices were to reflect their real
importance in the history of the world, the bottles of spices
would be filled with bright glittery substances, diamonds,
rubies, emeralds or gold would be appropriate. When you opened
the bottle, a poof of vibrantly colored, mystically fragrant,
magical smoke would slowly slowly slowly billow softly
throughout the room.”
Islands will appear in foam and flour.
Reams of spare asparagus bob
and rise with horseradish evenings.
If you wish, add mangos.
What will you do today?
Blackberries, a whole arch,
after gathering the illusive Orache
Raise the heat
If you please then
another dollop of wait and jicama,
A crack of cinema and taps—
also, a poet’s wild fennel
and sweet laurel.
I tell you this is no ordinary soup.
And I’m no cook, did I ever say I was? I don’t
have to be— but this is my brew. I am—
Have you been writing all this up?
Have amaranth and bitterleaf at the ready.
If you dare add purple grapes and red
but none too soon. Timing is all. Patience.
Watch the pot carefully.
No, that’s a myth, it will boil madcap in no time—
yet Nelly and Esther know more than I.
Go ahead and add mushrooms and two kinds
of fluted riddle-heads,
following the illusive Orache.
Pepper to taste
Skirl the collard greens
and lusty eggplants gone parlay.
A hundred years it might have been mangelwurzel.
You must let the kale nap.
Curry only in motion.
Add nothing more dangerous than fantasy,
than hope, the Grand Canyon or an explosion of
scotch bonnet peppers— all colors, chard,
white carrots and charmed sorrel.
Don’t forget, star anise or a feather of Mirabelle.
Couch in tomatoes, use canned only
as a very last resort. Leeks. Did you remember
the cauliflower clouds? Zucchini now can be added.
Again, all these flavors circle themselves asking.
The process takes an indefinite amount
a week, a year, six thousand—
it can’t be foretold, this pot is vast.
Test and taste often. Live.
All crumble before the inspector of maraschino cherries.
All burble and meld alabrolabra.
Fling sixty-eight soko exactly, or no less than forty-nine.
Black olives are a nice touch too—
years behind cumin.
Add more duckweed pasta or egg noodles.
Whatever you want. Ask yourself that.
Iceberg lettuce comes last.
Maybe a pinch of leafy mint extra.
If you have any questions, now you should be able
to answer them for yourself.
Copyright © 2008 Mary-Marcia