journal notes 1/9/18
I write, Sitting in the Vietnamese Restaurant
an astrologer worked my chart. tapped: this, this improbable lattice, where does this much go, taps the moon, jupiter – it shrugs my shoulders
brushed or bashed in transits. a fly on the neptune, moth on your moon — the fine trembling resulting. a consequence along the wire, numen or flare.
*raises vow* all my dreams are and always have been buildings houses or water.
Do you have to have the dreams. I’ve kept them, some days I guess I will not ever tell you.
How to accept, Pluto, Pluto in my pets, in my health, in my daily routines.
A truck passes: Rental Repairs. Motto: “Our name says it all.”
Don’t ask for anything else.
A sublime sun, just after the winter cusp, white golding off glass. I’ve gone so long without my eyes water back at it, grow the lazing strobe. My corneas prism a holy pattern, seraphic.
I know one dream is the water, your hand pulling me. Another, blue moths pulse.
I count up every patron, study first dates, the friend dates, all of us at the solo table staring, shooting lit information at our faces. Crow-like risings, one after the other off a line, kiting our bodies on the day.
In my favorite poems, women walk outside and see every color. They are given the spectrum and immediately cast it.
I see this. My child’s face veiled clear emerald and plum, marbled yellow. My skin polychromatic, gone kaleidoscopic, all verdance and grow back, rhizomes splitting shoots and everything pressing out now now now.
1481hyperion 