in this notebook

stories ensue
continue
explain
examine
express
this is *it*
life living itself
out loud
and overheard
and here, in this
notebook,
in this digital
camera,
recorded.

take care. i love you.

take care,
i love you
and the phone
clicks shut
here in
this
evidence
of now
flashing
bulb
bulbless
tulip
springing
forth
the winter
is over
we are in the
deep heart
of pollinated
spring
a ring
dadadadadadada
jen and the baby
are here.
aha.
now i know a name.
i'll call you when i get home.
okay
bye
a click of the closed
phone
my dad calls me
every day
she tells jen
the skinny friend
her own pregnancy
protruding
life has its
way with
all of us
a ring
dadadadadadada
some words of
love and explanation
the click
of a closed
connection
cut off?
released.
again. to
LIFE in the present moment.

LIFE living itself

one more
glass
of clear
water
to ascertain
teh half fullness
as i tip over
past full
i am in the
bliss
of this
easy
morning.
i am here
in the crepes a go go
sitting in my
corner perch
observing
both the
rose and
its reflection
baby girl
at home now
on the outside lap
of her already
skinny
mother
eathing
partaking of
crepe
a go go ing
nowhere
for just
a little
while
alive
in the
wide
joy
of entering
a body
exiting
a body
soul
aspiring
fulfilled
LIFE
living itself
AHHHHHHH

amputated imaginings

i stretch the tired
muscles
in my shoulders
arching the reach
of bones
forward--
as if that--
they--
were the only
arms
i have
i had--
i notice
the glory
of holding
the pen
aloft.

if i lost
these hands--
i would
carry it
in my teeth
dancing--
still and forever
across the
open book
of waiting
white
page.

A W A K E

the dangerously thin
red head
older than she
should be
greets ghimila
with familiarity
smiles a hello
in my direction
breathes a
breath of clarity
onto her lenses
and wipes the
wet fog
away
settles into
her book
comfortably
turns the
thin pages
crackling
the joy
A W A K E.

here and gone

here and gone
the long muscles
of the slender
young
terse
beauty
in and out
in a caffeinated
hurry
already
on
her
way

to where, so fast?

new life's cries

a pregnant blonde
carrying a baby girl
new to the world
her friend
brunette mother
is thin again
so fast?
the return to
before body?
how does one sweat
so much? so often?
amid the
languorous joy
of new life's
cries?

no j in arabic

ghimila offers to take my picture.
ghimila.
she takes two--
we don't have J in arabic--
and i ask her her name
we shake hands.

a.i.r. reflections

here, at crepes a go go
i lapse into poetry
mother and daughter
battle out
the inconsistencies
of service
ire
and money spent
hard times
traffic details
driving records
play their spinning way
today i am her
at this cafe
instead of my beloved
denica's
because i, too,
had to take my prius
to toyota.

again, connected.
through overheard
story, double mocha and crepe.

spinach, cheese, mushroom & turkey crepe + double mocha

i sit
enjoy
eat
take in the doisneau
reminiscences
am transported
to a crepery
there
tour de eiffel
rising from the papers they
are printed on
i am once again
in the rich memory
of prin temps
and my stroll
down the
champs elysee
sitting in outdoor cafes
lingering over $8 cokes
rejoicing in the
mishmash of
asian guitarists
bringing alive the john denver
song
take me home
to paris, love
with this crepe
i am ready
for the steps of
sacre cour
the joys of mon martre
take me home.

tuesday, may 13

here i sit
startled into joy
by the jutting poem
emerging as clear
inspiration
from the granite
sandwich.
i pause in the pausing
place
the bamboo worn
away
by impatient
footprints
wanting to get
closer
to the
miracle
of these
unexpected
words.
i read the gift of them
came from you,
dear tobi earnhart gold
age 9
from my favorite
bolinas, california
a river of words
contest
winner
how old are you
now?
and how did you
know
your
words
would give me
pause
to see this place
this glorious
walnut
creek
and cause me,
as you have
to spend some looking time
seeing, at last,
your grandmother tree.
fallen
as she may be
your words
have brought her
and indeed this
place
finally
alive
to me.

posterity

and so
the
soldiers
come and go
willing to kill
and die
4000 now
i'm sure its
more
a stunning fact
out on the
floor
her
son
is
one
has won
his way
to
long forgotten
trials
how long
goes on
this
list of
names
the young
to fight
forgotten blame
misplaced
upon
this
funeral
pyre
he reaches
for his
bride
his mother
to his side
she weeps
and drinks
and stirs the
soup of one
day unforgiven
her lover
joins not
the
family
picture.
it is understood:
she is not welcome to posterity.

moment momentus

here
sitting
in the
deep
yes
of this
collaboration
i come
to
this
shell
of
moment
momentus
here
i
be
a
poet
in
residence
residing
in
my
own
white
car.

overheard

the so and so
of soul
beauty
bearing
its
weight
in the
sunlight
of
forgiven
go in
without
me.
i've got
to change.

and so i come

and so
i come
i enter
i sit
i find
my mind
surfacing
to destroy
the act
of this
artmaking
making
itself
a
mask
promises
threatens
its
place
to hide
behind
to
enter in
to the
dance
beyond
this
body.

i
sit.

i
be.

i
write.

i
find.

i
come.

i
enter
the
offering.

i gift my gifted
self to these proceedings.

seeing

oh without
camera to
capture this
to spread across
the weight of
white--
to capture the
shadow of hand
holding pen
dancing
its up and down
undisciplined
in the rightness
of its letters
cast as they
are the medicine
of shadows
releasing
their contents
holding still
both writers
hand and
dancing pen
there is a world
a way--a
standing
in the way of
the light
that causes
them
all
to be
here
on this
page
this brush
of memory
this veil
of light
lifted
to expose
itself
in
these
red
words

a glimpse cast
and then escaped
there is no re-creation of this
moment
here.

i notice this

i notice this
the point of entrance
the space of spill
a clear point
a tip
a ball roller rolling
allowing the ebb and flow
of lifeblood
of red ink
to move past that block
that rolling ball
to pointed freedom
the promised land
of the blank
page
littered now
with the
thingness
of this
poem.

i begin

i begin
sitting
in the
art car
waiting
without waiting
to spill the shadow
breath
memory
onto this
waiting
page

the last time we talked?

we were doing the taxes
you were making it up
your mileage
but you didn't want to
just make it up
you wanted to look back
at the calendar
and calculate
just how many miles
you might have spent
traveling to the courthouse
and back
taking the back roads
like you liked to do
and we had worked
our way through April
and i couldn't stand it
anymore
the figuring
of taxes
without talking
about the refund
you were not going to be here
to receive
to put in 5% CDs
and save for the
retirement
you weren't agreeing to
me, wresting it from
your clinging hands.
and i started crying
just like a girl
and i stormed about
just like you taught me
and it shook you up
a minute
and we went to the living room
reserved for visitors
and sat down,
and you asked me
if i had any
questions...


was that the last time we talked?

i wanted something else

i wanted something
else
something different
something i couldn't explain
and didn't expect
adn wouldn't
absolutely would not
ever hear of
or even dream about
again.

i wanted something
from him.

and i didn't get it.

and still, we went
we go
on.

feeling our patterns in the lush

it was that one day
that one conversation
that one place where we usually
walked away from one another
to allow for the air to shift
the room to be made
the acceptance to settle in
to the craggy smatterings
of indecision and too much to lose
but we kept our feet rooted
our butts there on the red couch
feeling our patterns in the lush fabric
of maybe there is another way
we haven't thought about
readying its spill
onto the night
of one day
black ink
moving
its deep chagrin welling
into never
where did the thread go?
lapsing into laughter
and forgiveness
and something deeper and truer
than what we started fighting for
we do not have to know the way
nor even the destination
nor do we have to travel every single
square mile together
we just know beyond knowing
that no matter the road
or the journey
or the weariness of traveling
this night, this moment here
we spend it
and save it
by re-entering it
together.

when i deeply listen

when i deeply listen
past my ears and eyes
past the roar of my own welling up
adn spilling over into story
i can sometimes glimpse
the start--the very tip of a
whole iceberg waiting to be
explored under the ice of
getting to know you melting
off cragy bits above the
surface allowing for the
rich gesture of a simple
hand holding the solar plexus
you speaking about gray
and orange and dancing,
eyes sparkling my mind
awake with somewhere
not like katmandu
and hear the shaft
of light caressing the
not buddha and
causing me to rub
my eyes for phantom
floating cat hair and
the laughter yoga's
flowing truths
spilling an inner
niagra falls falling
onto sacred ground
drinking at the well
of a shared chalice
that brings the
dance alive the
fullness of movement
funning up the
memory of a
big rock alive
witht he promise
of an istanbul to
see with you if you
dare to let me--to
offer me some way in
to turkish delight
when i listen
deeply to the place
your singing voice
transports me to
when i occupy it
fully,as i can with
you, those talking to you
as a mother--i can
hear them too--
and i can taste
the bloody sidewalk
and find its precious
warmth and wonder
why you, my booty
friend, my blind
mouse, can know,
at seven, what blood tastes
like and
then beyond
where i have been
where i only dare
hope to go i hear
you tell me
there are no
stepping stones
in the everglades
but i am listening
for them, for me
i am listening
to the deep forest
and the taste of earth
and the maggots
maggoting their
cleansing way
through the
meat left
on the
bone
of
this
moment
i am here
i am listening
and in the listening
i hear
i see
i seek
i find
i no longer hide.

you have given me
cause to speak
and i will use
my mouth
to open here
in witness to
this miracle
this miracle
this miracle
manifested
here
in the
hearing.

are you amy?

it's a weekend of poetry
of course, you come too--
what did you do, say,
tell me? when you thought
this might be the last
moment with your granddaughter?
you knew julie, too--
why no poem for her?

are you amy? born just
as you were buried?
i
stay in the assignment:
an image:

i remember the blue dress
on the doll--the strange
shaped teeth, the eyes
that flapped open and closed
the ringlets of the reddish
hair--the strange covering
of things--the white cloth
body--not white--
aged cloth--even then
as creme like--
yellowed--as this
page of yours i write on.

i saw the butterfly--

i saw the butterfly--
the safe metaphor
full of florious
heaven and all promise
posing its questions
at the edge of
things--i trade it
for a cake pan--
round--the artistry
of your church work--
your fervent prayer--
your poetry there
at the beginning
of things.
i remember
being in the
other room
with you--
playing with
the caskets.
i was there
picking out
the stuff--
not picking
out any stuff.
i played with
your white comb,
with the gilded
edge, the gold
hairbrush and white
bristles. did you
let me play
with your
hair?

something of yours

something of yours--
your red tile--
your white kitchen--
no--yes--your cake pan--
i have a pan--
round--steel? -- it has a
wheel--a lip that pouts
in--a clasp that
tethers the two sides
together--a simple
bottom that fits
inside the ring
when its clamped shut
a space for cakes
to be made
the kind you made
for me--i taste
through the
pictures i see
the icing
the little
caricatures--
carousel horses
and striped
paper awning
you made
me 4?
or was it 5
cakes? with
your two hands.
did i help
you crack
eggs in the
kitchen?
stir the
batter?
lick the
spoons?
there is
so much
i can't
remember
that i
know you
did with me
those earliest
years--my earliest--
your latest.
were you right
about god?

what i'm doing here without you

it was the most honest
you could be
your angry "i don't know"
uttered in swear words,
in beer gulps,
expressed in cheap cigar
smoke.

you took your habits
outside when she
was diagnosed
bought garage sale
air purifiers and
littered them in
every room when
outside put you too far
from your locus of control
command center
under the yellowed lamp,
in the garage sale chair
your beer gut hanging out over boxers
you attention angled at the blue screen
of bloomberg every morning

in the end
it would be you to
die of the cancer
that tried to kill
her hust five years
earlier.

and as we bussed
the butts and crushed
the cans and filled
the dumpsters full
of your garage sale
mind there was nothing
we could say--
nothing we could do
with all you used to
hold off the swell
of i don't knows


###


dropping
down
into the
silence
of the
hum
of
breathers
breathing
in and out
the courage
contracts
expands
delighted
i cut off
from there
from then
i let it
fall--
all--
into nothing
again.


###


where is the center?
the breath breathing itself
in something
deeper
am i doing this
right?
where is it that
the line is
crossed
and i am deep
underwater
breathing in
and out
the stuff of
only my own
things
oh things--
yes
i do not
make
those.


###


hear in the long
since forgotten
woken with death
the trampling through
the late night
offer to walk
and discover
just what lay
there--gone--
without you
i wander--
should be
free of you
now
but you haunt me
or is it i,
keeping you
from some
prized
inner sanctum
in heaven
by my inability
to ever
really
let
loving you
go--


###


i don't love you.
i didn't love you.
i didn't believe
the things you
wouldn't sell
or trade on
scarcity and lies
to keep the
change beside
the cellophane
wrappers that
wouldn't seal
the stench
of yellow smoke
cheap cigars
you died from
bad lite beer
you died from
too much bloomberg
and not enough long
walks talking and
looking at the stars
and counting fireflies
you were every
strong thing
in this world
to me--
every false
belief about
poverty and
unworthiness
and without
you to push
against
i have
fallen in
to that
garage sale
chair
under the
yellow lamp
you could
never look up
from or
climb out
of --
except when
i came home
and you were
once again
alive.


###


did i kill you?
when i left?
or did you
start dying
before that?
with the first
born dead?
with the gunshot?
with the end
right there at
the very beginning
of things.
you prayed me
into being.
now--
i don't know
what i'm
doing here
without
you.