Deep experience is never peaceful.
A la recherche du temps perdu
I am pleasantly located in the deep sea, but love will row you out, if her hands are strong, and don’t wait till I land, for I’m going ashore on the other side.
Each epoch dreams the one to follow.
To dwell is to leave a trace.
I am not what I asked for.
Pontormo. Portrait of Maria Salviati de’ Medici with Giulia de’ Medici, c.1537 (detail)
infinite endings
Since my Electric Literature piece on social media and disconnection—as well as trying to reconnect, in some way—was published, I’ve been scant on social media. I creep on it like a phantom from time to time, wondering if I’m missing anything; I sometimes miss the connections there, the camaraderie I felt and which I tried to describe in my piece to which I’ve linked above. But it simply doesn’t…
This is not my teeming fate, my rind, my roiling ellipsis or valedictory spray of myrrh.
I think here I will leave you. It has come to seem
there is no perfect ending.
Indeed, there are infinite endings.
Or perhaps, once one begins,
there are only endings.
ICYMI: Publication News After many arduous months spent trying to write a specific experience out, to make sense of it the only way I knew how (through words), I am pleased to announce that…
Beneath my eyes opens—a book; I see to the bottom; the heart—I see to the depths. I know what loves are trembling into fire; how jealousy shoots its green flashes hither and thither; how intricately love crosses love; love makes knots; love brutally tears them apart. I have been knotted; I have been torn apart.
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree
‘Tis early as our Breath…
for (a poets small) eternity
my eyes captured & photographed
your moving figure
(that picture—still moving
hands in the sacred galleries
of my mind)
(that picture of you moving like
a tantric angel—secured in the
cathedral of my skull)
Roy Andersson, You, the Living, 2007
Heart, keep very still—or someone will find you out!
I confess that I am often lost in all the dimensions of time, that the past sometimes feels nearer than the present and I often fear the future has already happened.
Ushering
There was a crook in the treeline where leaves willowed into the pond; we spread a gingham tablecloth across the tilted grassblades and sat crosslegged but upright as if expectants. Sunspots deepened; your teeth opened saying one thing but meaning another. I catch hold of your hip to anchor you down, say: here there is only us acres of cloud no one I promise will know you are. I can’t see your…
