canticle of the turning

With thanks for the out of bounds angels, poets with visionary limbs, the manifesting ultra pisces, the old woman in the purple jacket’s hand on my canary sweater, and her fine hands holding my head, my knees, this hound, that child.

Blossom

Dorianne Laux -1952

What is a wound but a flower

dying on its descent to the earth,

bag of scent filled with war, forest,

torches, some trouble that befell

now over and done. A wound is a fire

sinking into itself. The tinder serves

only so long, the log holds on

and still it gives up, collapses

into its bed of ashes and sand. I burned

my hand cooking over a low flame,

that flame now alive under my skin,

the smell not unpleasant, the wound

beautiful as a full-blown peony.

Say goodbye to disaster. Shake hands

with the unknown, what becomes

of us once we’ve been torn apart

and returned to our future, naked

and small, sewn back together

scar by scar.

Sun in Scorpio

I mean, as long as we must be here – our emotional innards scraped raw and smooth like a pumpkin’s hollow – we might as well use it.

While I work now, I watch different versions of Wuthering Heights. I’m trying to watch them all. There are a lot. I’m looking for something, but I’m not sure what. It’s something about younger me, something that slipped off and fell. I’m trying to figure something out, methodically tendriling through the floor of a dark lake, searching for something rare I lost. I’m not sure what. A will or a desire or a spark, perhaps.

One of the times I miscarried early, I was alone on the floor, losing it, writhing in pain. Both of my dogs stood over me. The one, the small one, the Pisces Moon, concerned and tending me, the other, staring at me, her will and force telling me to get the fuck up.

I didn’t read Wuthering Heights until my late 20s which was like reading under a spotlight just turned on, angels trying to teach me something, pushing my head closer to the page, saying ‘learn.’ Wuthering Heights should never feel autobiographical, and, one should never have to consider the cost, decades later, a cautionary tale you arrived at too late to heed. What was dropped in the process of faith and karma, twinning and isolation, toxicity.

This protracted Scorpio season due to Venus’ retrograde through, then Mercury, now the Sun, has stretched our emotional excavation past a short season into an extended exhumation. Denying the work would only leave us lingering in ignorance later, less transformed, less faceted than we might shape ourselves now. That doesn’t mean it’s emotionally without cost. Excavating in the dark means we’re residing there, feeling our way versus seeing any dangers. We need to go back for everything we forgot, pick it up, or at least gather it so that no one else can have it without our consciously sharing.

Simon the Good

– – Joyelle McSweeney

I’m the matron-king of hell
In yoga pants and a disused bra for a laurel
& shatter the scene inside your simmering year
 
Like a ransom scene filmed through shattered transom
I smear in my glamour
I make as if
to justify the ways of God to man
That’s my ticket in
That’s why God lets me speak here
Crystostoma’d
on his couch
Even though I’m derived from Hell
Hellish Helenish Hellenic
 
I’m the hanged man
in this version
pegged up
in mine pegged jeans
by mine ancles, an inversion
mine manacles are monocoles
I spit out the key
and squinny through the keyhole
back at the unquittable world
 
In my rainment
of gummy sunglasses
and crows wings for epaulets
I delicately squawk from the edges of things
balance unsteadily on the bust of the goddess
 
squawk:
Aeschelus Euphorion Aeschelus Euphorion
 
&:
I’m going to tell you something so bad that when you hear it you’re gonna know it’s true.
 
Like all the worst stories
It comes from the heart
& it goes there too.
 
Back here in St. Joseph County
a struck duck flies crown first into the asphalt and is stuck there
with its brains for adhesive
like someone licked the pavement and sealed it
a postalette
with its cartoon feet in the air and its Jeff Koon wings
that’s roadkill for you: realer than real
and the cars mill by with their wheels in reverse
heavy as chariots
in a dealership commercial
and I am walking my dog by the river
a matron from hell
 
look on me and despise
I am like the river:
thick as beer and with a sudsy crown
there polyethylene bags drape the banks like herons
and a plastic jug rides a current with something like the determination
that creases mine own brow
as I attempt to burn my lunch off
the determination of garbage
riding for its drain
hey-nonny it’s spring
and everything wears a crown
as it rides its thick doom to its noplace
 
gently brushed
by pollen
by the wings of hymenoptera
like a helicoptera
performing its opera
all above Indiana
bearing the babes away
from their births to their berths
in the NICU in Indie-un-apple-us
Unapple us, moron God,
You’ve turned me Deophobic
the greasy tracks you leave all over the internet
the slicey DNA
in the scramblechondria
the torn jeans
panicked like space invaders
in an arcane video game
oh spittle-pink blossom
the tree don’t need nomore
shook down to slick the pavement like a payslip
you disused killer app
 
each thought strikes my brain
like the spirals in a ham
pink pink for easter
sliced by something machinic
each thought zeros in
flies hapless and demented
festooned like a lawn dart
finds its bit of eye
spills its champagne
split of pain
 
then we come to our senses
suddenly alone
in the endzone

Loss

Rodney Gomez

Lately I have been a gap.
Moth clouds follow me to bed.
I counted them: twenty, fifty, block, choke.

In the room where I used to sleep
a breath hangs low on the bed
and hoarsens the room.
No one knows where the air is
charged and released into the world,
but it thistles.

This is how breathing fills a house
with family: breathing to draw
the buzzing to its source
and breathing to lacquer a plugged maze.

How a house fully beamed and walled
is not a house, but a husk.
How a life in the span of a few breaths
becomes a clockless thing.

#sobfest

Untitled
https://g.co/doodle/65chm9

 

I learned how to cry finally a couple of years ago. I’m trying to find out if I can make it into a super power. So far I’m still really very bad at it, but Mr Rogers, everytime. Thanks for this waterworks grenade, search engine corp. Between this and a ‘They Grow Up So Fast ‘ video compilation of photos of my child stored on google, I guess I’ll just go for the hat trick, rewatch Dear Zachary, and call it a day. (p.s. no one watch Dear Zachary unless I’m with you to hold you and bring you tissues.)

The Poetry Vlog

Thank you to Chelsea for asking me to catch up and to chat about a project I consider (mostly) complete!

Despite the Merc Rx follies, our video being useless, audio giving her terrible problems, the lag making us trip over each other’s words, and me sounding like I just woke up and am calling from an alternate plane of existence, it was really fun to spend virtual time with each other, speaking about our primary love. I only regret that I popped home from work during lunch to do this because you can tell I’m still in work mode and not properly in a poetry head space — my reading is terrible and rushed. Switching speeds can incredibly hard for me, but I’d cross treacherous rivers and terrible oceans if it meant I got to talk poetry for even a few minutes.