Three days: now, then, and later

Now:
Mine is the culture of Now
“Stop that this instant”:
And we wait.
I continue
My imperfect search for perfection
I pause,
Fascinated by what was, what could be.
Teach me these histories,
Now.

Waiting, waiting,
My small tired scratching
On pages of soft pulp
White, inner birch
That grows in this forest of words.


July 26, 2007
Then
The day is sun-tan sticky hot
Wavering across--
Gathering under the eaves
Coming to wash my skin
And run its fingers through my hair

I lift my lip to let it kiss
My parched throat
And think
Of how cool water looks
Under the trees.

In summer-heated hay
I smell the thunder
And run from shelter
To cover my skin with beaded glass

--
Later
Would I Mind Less
If Reality
Weren’t so slippery?

I need to take a breath
To catch my thoughts at work
Like guilty imps
Fingers coveting

The bat:
Its Papery skin
Orchid-soft and Onion-thin
Dark on a furled wing.

thin-slicing

Pressing my nose against the screen
I smell the rain
Falling on the fuzzy sumac

A passing car kicks up a swirl of khaki
Settling,
Drifting,
On thick-veined leaves.

A film of iridescent algae
surface tension,
reflecting heavens
for the strider to skate upon.

The gentle hiss
Of droplets
Reaching home.

Heads crooked backwards looking
Gaping mouths and question-mark brows
Curving curling pointing fingers
I am “cold, closed, reserved.”


Another e,
+ motion.
I feel
In this silence
The temptation
Of fear.

What shoes are these—?
They are not my own
And my feet are strangers
Treading this trembling path.

Don’t wake, it’s not light out yet
I only have flowers to paint these days
And a sullen smile
And fighting in my sleep

providing music for the stars

Clouds rush down toward me
A blue bowl--spinning daylight
In front of the sun
____

Time, a restless fog
Sunlight on tiger-lilies
It’s not my garden.

cogitate...cogitate...cogitate

Things to think about:

1. True Love vs. Lust
& Love at First Sight Vs. Slowly-growing commitment
2. Fate or Free Will
3. What is truth?
4. Are humans innately "evil" or mostly good?
5. What is happiness?
6. Is there any such thing as originality?
7. Where are we going?

Highway 81; I can't wait to be 20

I paused to realize this morning:
Things to be done before turning 20-
Thing I must think about when I am 20-
What a small age, a single turn of the clock, 20:
And how like dying 20 will never be - except now.
When I am twenty i must think seriously about smiling only when neccessary - smiling deepens wrinkles, you know.
When I am twenty, I probably won't dye my hair purple.
When I am twenty, I should already know how to run a dishwasher, and which exit to take to get home.
When I am twenty, I can't ask for a lollipop when i visit the bank.
When I am twenty, I can't ride in shopping carts ( but probably will anyway).
When I am twenty, I will wonder why people still ask me if I'm shy.
When I am twenty, I will curse at the clerk who asks if I have parents' permission to watch R rated films.
When I am twenty, I will say what I mean, and mean it.
When I am twenty, survival won't seem like such a hazy thing.
When I am twenty, I can say, "When I was a teen..."
When I am twenty, I must practice moderate drinking so when i'm 21 it will already be boring
When I am twenty, I can say, "your music is too loud."
When I am twenty, I will be the youngest adult I know.
When I am twenty, the world will be new before me.
When I'm twenty, I'll know better than the age of reason, and can deny the age of consent.
When I am twenty, I will be able to take a shower without flooding the bathroom.
When I am twenty, I won't be afraid to disagree.
When I am twenty, winter will seem like a holiday.
When I am twenty, I will be able to look food in the eye and say no.
When I am twenty, I'll realize that birthdays aren't such a big deal.
When I am twenty, I will still ask for a pony for my birthday.
When I am twenty, I'll realize that what I really want is a new pair of shoes.
When I am twenty, I will probably buy and new pair of shoes because these shoes are starting to get holes in them, and they're turning green.
When I am twenty, I won't need someone to tell me to clean my room, because, IT'S NOT GETTING ANY CLEANER, DAMMIT!
When I am twenty, I will be the first one not to take it seriously.
When I am twenty, I'll always call you back when I say I will.
When I am twenty, I'll know what I'm talking about.
But maybe--not just yet...

it's a virtue, this thing you have

The air is heavy
A perfect lisp of sweetness
Vanishes like dust
...
Water-speckled glass
Stillness runs its course like rain
I will wake swiftly.

Easy Mower: A Meditation on Lawn Mowing

It’s the dark of the moon, which means if I mow the lawn the grass won’t grow back fast enough to make the whole process a waste of time. We don’t have a “lawn,” but our house is surrounded by tufts of thick, wide-bladed grass that shoots up from the bed of softer, shorter blades to bear golden stalks and tangled seed-heads. Dad bought a new mower recently, which makes the mowing disgustingly easy.
“Don’t worry, it is still exercise,” Dad tells me; I am looking for something more punishing. This mower is self-propelled—inconceivable! I miss our old mower, which Dad found in a junk-heap and revived numerous times. Its red paint covered less than one-third of its body, the little rubber wheels were prone to falling off, and it started only after about five yanks of the starter-rope.
I know the beginning of summer when the mower coughs to life outside my window. I used to watch the creatures escaping its whirring blades: dancing grasshoppers and fat black crickets like the ones I fed to the toad I caught behind our house, little pickerel frogs that scoot away with bulging emerald eyes.
I have to clutch the shuddering handle and push, the muscles in my legs pulling taught. Half of the time I’m not strong enough and I can only manage by pulling the mower backwards behind me, its wheels rattling. The sound of cicadas reminds me of mowing. The sun is honey-warm on my back, scorching on my forehead. In the tall grass, the mower will choke, so I have to angle it upwards and only take half a strip of grass at a time. If the mower chokes on heavy grass, it may not start for a few days. I learned to judge how close the mower was to choking by the pitch of its humming. I like to cut in patterns, squares and swirls, alternating forwards and backwards, around trees and down the driveway. After I finish the slope outside our front door, my hands are bruised and blistered across the palms, my shoes green and skin itching with sticky green confetti. Deerflies prick my knees; I dash inside, too tired to haul the mower back to the shop.
Away with those acres of silky-smooth, moss-green lawn, arching and shining. I’d smirk at that display of foolishness; old men riding back and forth on their riding mowers, as though there is nothing better to do in life but trim the grass down to a quarter of an inch. As though one’s life and reputation depended on it. This is conspicuous consumption at its finest. A lawn isn’t useful, it isn’t doing anything, and requires hours of care, gallons of water, pounds of fertilizer, oh, and weed-killer. Ha! Those lawns say. We’re wasted land, not growing crops, or flowers—we’re just owned—look at how handsome and tended we are (the better to show off the caddy and the pool)! In those days, we didn’t mow because, as I would smugly say to my inquiring friends, “We have lawnmowers—the animals keep our grass short.” Tethered in the middle of the yard, each one would quickly crop that circle short.
The waist high grass was where I’d crawl, playing out my daring deeds and stalking my prey. My friend and I played hide and seek in the grass, our knees stained green, our hair full of seeds. Lying flat on my stomach, I breathed in the smell of growing, the juicy stalks warmed by the sun. I wriggled forward, making a path through the field. I am burrowing through and tunnel, green like the sea. Strawberries grow at the bottom in clusters, their juice staining my palms and lips.
But now our new mower makes the task of keeping the grass cut feasible. I can start it. I am amazed that I can cut the whole “lawn” in an hour. Everything seems different when the grass is cut, the light is a different shade of lime, the shadows of leaves on the ground are sharper, the smell is overpowering, begging me to gather up piles of grass and jump in them. I think of lawn ornaments, the smell of chlorine, summer games of soccer, barbecues, and things that are not part of my life.

contradictions that might or might not apply to the way to sun rises today

this morning was early dark
yesterday i knew everything
too ready (for it all)
I paused on the edge of sleep,
smiling.
and as the sun rose,
I am empty again.

close your eyes when you look
and i will tell you
what to see.
I am flat on the surface;
a thin trickle of memories--
i have no right to be so broken.

contradictions
are on my breath
as I whisper:
I am happiness.

I need to be needed
neediness pushes me away.
Just tell me! - I beg
then i can be complete
in knowing.