a family shape

some people's families are

shaped like shining galaxies

like constellations linked arm in arm

like lush webs dripping dew

some are shaped

like knitted loops of wet wool

like slippery roller coaster tracks

some people's families slowly pulsate

creatures bumping in a tidal pool

but my family is shaped

like bark flaking off an old rotten tree

like leftover bits of stars on a cloudy night

like a raggedy sweater in the back of the drawer

an already tiny family

just dwindling down

to small faint

points

gone

when I think about the dwindling

I panic

I cling

I cry

my heart stops

shoots hot liquid fire

behind my eyes

breath catches in my chest

and I drop down to my knees

and pray

to god, the universe, mother, energy, light, nature

(whichever fucking term you stick on it)

and I beg for something better

to erase the pain and sadness

of our wasting lives

the sudden realization of ten to twelve

years of selfish waste and hurt

a ramming flood, overwhelming

years pressing their immense burden of time

on my mother's head, my father's hands

my heart all shriveled

like a goddamned piece of jerky

or a deflated balloon

or crusted over scab

with nothing left to give

but a pretend family of dogs and cats

it's time to grow a bigger family, brand new

like a starfish regenerating new limbs

it takes a lot of energy

when she's only just come to realize

she's only a lonely stump

stuck to the sandy floor

this gummy stump translates

pain into tissue

breathing underwater, slowly

soaking that old heart

plumping it with patience

trusting that current

how to be a poet

"how to be a poet"
by Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i

Make a place to sit down.

Sit down. Be quiet.

You must depend upon

affection, reading, knowledge,

skill—more of each

than you have—inspiration,

work, growing older, patience,

for patience joins time

to eternity. Any readers

who like your poems,

doubt their judgment.

ii

Breathe with unconditional breath

the unconditioned air.

Shun electric wire.

Communicate slowly. Live

a three-dimensioned life;

stay away from screens.

Stay away from anything

that obscures the place it is in.

There are no unsacred places;

there are only sacred places

and desecrated places.

iii

Accept what comes from silence.

Make the best you can of it.

Of the little words that come

out of the silence, like prayers

prayed back to the one who prays,

make a poem that does not disturb

the silence from which it came.

accidental poem

The sister cries, big branches press squeaking.

The teacher laughs, animal warmth pervading.

The daughter fumes, little piles in all corners.

The lover wilts, dry corn medicine taste.

The nurse heals, back humping over notebook.

The policeman shivers, soft parts and hard parts of foot.

The aspirant tries, curve of fur breathing, blinking.

The traveler plans, wind or truck over cricket hum.

The runner treads, the days fuzz coating hard.

The yogi breathes, little hair wind twisted dry.

The caretaker relents, salt tears dry rivers.

The drinker abstains, sun and windburnt cheeks.

The poet whispers, long nails over itchy sides.

The being breathes, stormy night drifts in the window.

Bright Eyes- At the Bottom of Everything

We must talk in every telephone
Get eaten off the web
We must rip out all the epilogues in the books that we have read
And in the face of every criminal
Strapped firmly to a chair
We must stare, we must stare, we must stare

We must take all of the medicines too expensive now to sell
Set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell
And in the ear of every anarchist that sleeps but doesn’t dream
We must sing, we must sing, we must sing

It’ll go like this:

While my mother waters plants
My father loads his guns
He says death will give us back to God
Just like this setting sun is returned to this lonesome ocean

And then they splashed into the deep blue sea
It was a wonderful splash

We must blend into the choir
Sing as static with the whole
We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul
And in this endless race for property and privilege to be won
We must run, we must run, we must run

We must hang up in the belfry
Where the bats and moonlight laugh
We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past
And in the caverns of tomorrow
With just our flashlights and our love
We must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge

And then we’ll get down there, way down to the very bottom of everything
And then we’ll see it, oh we’ll see it, we’ll see it, we’ll see it

Oh my morning's coming back
The whole world’s waking up
All the city buses swimming past
I’m happy just because
I found out I am really no one

ebb and flow

sometimes

my heart fills up

like a big dumb balloon

bloated with blood and empathy

for the poor kid in the hall

the redneck in the aisle

my brother in the apartment

waves of filling

swelling against veinous walls

spilling over with threats

of open human love

other times

my heart closes up

criscrossed daggers

and gnarled liquorice roots

guarding, posturing tough

pettiness, which plays so rough

liquid flames fly high up

in the brain stem

primed for the mental manipulation

storing fantasies and plots

closed in grey tissue drawers

sometimes my heart is crushed

sometimes nothing is never enough

housewife

"Housewife" by Anne Sexton

Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.

words on paper

connections crumble

shift and shake

buried under

tectonic forces

of reality

words on paper remain

memory a mystery

life is [but] a dream