I feel the air
from all your wings,
flapping, flapping,
fibrillating fritillary,
dragonfly.
Category Archives: feelings
I prefer emotions in my tail, heartache in my bottom.
Move your bottom, Sam submits, submits to everything.
There are no simple words.
Is there simple love, shy love?
Is there narcissism?
Is there weakness in my forearms, shaking, thunder?
Brilliance, decisions, suffering.
july 25, 2007
Random rivers of the heart.
Heart-mind, chitta.
Is the Pali.
I hug the Pali, huggable Pali.
july 20, 2007
Fear of start.
I can resurrect the feel of fright – tightness, hollowness in the chest, circulation stops to the extremities. Pounding. Swimming Head.
july 16, 2007
Emmy’s birthday uncertainty. Overwhelmed this morning. Poetry oozes pus.
There is no exploration—
sad tolerance well sad.
Everything is perfectly orderly
there is no unknown
there is no pressure
there is no relationship
all words for work
all winds blow from there to there
unmitigated
today is no-sentence day
today is unword, a day to unword.
A little craft manifesto
A feisty little manifesto
A crafty little manifesto
A festival
Hello regret
No tears today.
Today no tears.
I feel a curvature in my stomach, a sensation preceding tears.
Some things that I am learning.
Want to run and hide away.
The Lord of Sad,
the King of Sad,
Sir Sad-a-lot.
The Count.
The Duke.
The Partner, the PIC,
the BUPIC, the BUP,
the Rump, the Frump,
GRiMS.
Low endorphins. Not excited. Sad.
Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon.
Find that wishing-wanting. Find that rooster Greed a’crowing.
Find aversion, Blair at High School Graduation in a thunderstorm,
dressed like hell, and making his first adult deposit into an account.
Lost my faith. Lost energy, lost lore, lost love. I am skeptical.
Numbness
numb nuts
Amorous appellant.
Rebellious repellent.
june 21, 2007 Summer Solstice
Hesitance – so typical.
“Coming Soon – Tony’s Deli”…
“Office Space for Rent”
“Sanda’s Cleaners – Free Pickup”
(scared) (scarce) (spotlight) (frozen in)
there is a layer of judgment in the clouds
it’s atmospheric pressure there
thin band of cloud that blesses you
this is the way of cloud
this one wants to write through everything
this one wants pigtails
this one wants to be the age I am
this one wants disabilities and aches and pains
this one believes in happiness
the floral happiness
the petalled extras
the extravagance
the vagaries
the vacuum vengeance
the cosmic curiosities
the wretched
there are unawakened
there are emotional storms
Ralph’s sadness and his brave front
how do you like your brave front now
I’m going home soom. I’m used to haze and clouds, I find them comforting.
who knows there are so many of them
trying to impress a dorky blend
compassion insight and the mere awareness
here it’s murky there is lots of black
occasional pashmina tight shirts walking skirts
and colored personal skin that’s very vague
and expletive with panty lines—sigh—
let’s all uncover it—
that one is pregnant and
two boys go by on roller shoes…
june 5, 2007
Worried look. Eyes echoing her beads, shiny, pink.
It was after her remarks.
It was on account of his smirking.
It was on account of being steady state.
swimming about without a project
there is nothing I can do
no means no ends no optimistic no despair
and here a series of no’s
that anyone would call bad poetry
and in my hand, the summa critical
of everyone who thinks
or writes or speaks
just wanting nurture
happiness
I am mad at them.
I am sad. Little girl with pastry, mother talking on the cellphone. Unsweetened. Men doing crosswords with raised eyebrows.
What about a CSP reunion? I am undecided, in a murky turmoil.
Feeling oversized, overwrought, overcome. Feeling feet in shoes. Feeling a non-yogic sluggishness, untoned qualities creeping in and the mind is coalescing.
I’m not sure what time it is. The anxiety of the future has me in its grip.
What else would one do, where else would one go? I am dismayed.
Flashback to Nantucket and The Bean and
the anxiety of my last day there and not so long ago.
Rhyme Rhyme Rhyme rhyming one-stroke here we go.
This is my life what has it come to what I am learning is something different I must say it is draining it is lanced I am lanced and oozing after Canyonlands and Arches Park. I am teetering on the edge and struggle to make something when there’s the skyline halfway clothed with leaves and a suburban brightness in the air with sounds of water gurgling and a morning goldness in the air and a suburban cheeping with a hum of traffic while the dog rests and the flying bee whirrs by.
no rhythm
no awful
no silly
no sentence
no courage
no dependability
no glancing
no gazing
no call
no dependency
no tooth
no braids
no exoskeleton
Oh that is it and tonight the Dinner Party a casual affair.
Flooded with resistance like a blinding light.
There is some default, not my fault.
Fault and fault and fault.
The spring of faults and restitution.
There are a lack of general principles
and analytical reach. There are.
My precious treasure.
And this morning—wrapped in the cleanest sheets of calm.
And still worms tackling.
may 23, 2007 Wednesday 8 am Starbucks
Stealing time. Stealing it and hiding it in a perfect hiding place. Buried in a perfect dirt hole. Tell you how I miss, tell you how I miss my objects, tell you how I miss my dirty objects. This is like a gaping rawness in my heart. This is like a virgining of the flowers. This is like rotting. Don’t want that habit. Objecting to the purity.
Choking sensation in the solar plexus area. Driving sensation I interpret as a need to be alone. Desire for code, the secret code that expresses how and what I understand. My children are not fat and both are bald. That’s over that’s enough. Embedding secret line breaks in the work. Choking sensation in the lower throat. Anger’s like a cavity in the chest.
Happiness. Counting the days, the lines the minutes and the hours. Yes, yes I can see the Buddha in your mind is angry. The smells. You can’t deny requirements for meditation, you can’t deny the leftovers, the bowls, the cups, the glasses, the hard litter of the kitchen. You can’t deny your stomachache, you silly westerner, when are you leaving? yesterday? Someone made a study of her punctuation. And so long arriverderci after all amen.
Let us diagnose it. But there is no diagnosis. Off my high horse.
Let the wind blow me off my high horse
let the derogatory blow me into yesterditch
let the white appalling bloom in my backyard
let the Geshe undertake me
let the mercury be done and married
let the soon be sooner and the heart be hearty
hartfelt heart fool fool hearty—
where did I see that?
She is guilty. Turn the corner, there’s an ice tea, there’s a way-too-good time, there’s a summer, there’s an ice cube. I am disestablishmentarianism, I object the mailman.
This is the long form. This is the long relax. This is the long white whine. Where is the invention? What is the distinction in the roots of literature?
I am sick.
Feel made sick by these studies.
Modulation—magic breathing worked for me last week—breathed through your remarks—the smarting,
the shrinking of my skin—and now, we have the body
and a yoga practice—
how much happiness (smile) is already here
my body might as well be hung with jewels
I forgot I was a poet
with this sun thing I embraced
there is an eager energy there
sun energy—she lets it play
she delights in the sun
a form of ecstasy
but dangerous
I don’t want to be involved—I’m on the plane with you, I’m in the air, I’m living in the braided strands of synapses and emotions in your body—this is oppression—this is not freedom oh Pandavas
may 5, 2007
Trepidation starting to write—iron chains, bit in my mouth, torture devices all around my head—
wind blows fluff past these windows
struggle
it seems ceaseless
brief thoughts of sex—need for writing about sex—some struggle in the bedroom and some insight—my mother unable to find comfort unable to take refuge—what is my refuge? yes the moment’s smell and that sensation walking on this trail this step-by-step, yes, your shoulder and pow—the odors of your hair sensation pressing mouth into your shoulder upper arm, sensation from other parts of body sensation pleasure from the use of muscles in my limbs with a calibrated abandon—leading okay—leading out of mind—it is a kind of practice—the flexibility to change your frame of reference—to let the body lead (no breath awareness) but—this is something I have learned
I will work with Inna. She is from the Ukraine and she has definite opinions. Sigh—I am—sigh—repulsed.
Morning waves of aversion rise like nausea where am I, what am I doing.
Not a damn thing prepares you for the Albrecht Dürer rabbit made of bronze.
Or the sadness of chipped paint on windowsills.
There’s all this lifting eyes up, all this lifting eyes up necessary.
And this from someone not a particle religious.
I don’t know where I want to go.
She is sad and lonely, after all.
She lives without a purpose, fed on grandiosity; it’s not nutritious.
So behind the scenes.
My boyfriend doesn’t sleep with me.
I am unwilling at this point.
Unwilling on campus. Irrational fears. There is no healing balm for everything. So just get used to it. The most unpleasant thing of all is—heart dropping from fear. If I could avoid that automatic heart-drop from now on, I would. Do egrets have it? Flamingos, herons, other long birds? Birds with hearts that beat so fast and so unknown. Birds with eyelashes and bird dogs, slim.
This morning I listened to stories about the golden carp. And stories about stories. And resistance to the fact of stories. And the sources of stories. Beyond. All I can tell you.
You enters shyly. You has been driven away, off the mountain path. You has flown over the cliff in a blaze of herbal fire and lifting smoke. I feel your cloud on my arms. I feel cold leaching down my arms. I feel devils on my arms, in my hands. I feel dust coming up, dust and ash, clouds of smoke from the charnel grounds.
Her laughter—can’t kill herself because her son would then have to kill himself. I listen and might be tempted to be afraid, temptation to be afraid, mentally ill like everyone one. Everyone one.
So here we go—
Nothing left to say to you. This is how it feels—a ragged stomach-hole. Some kind of pressure. Some bit of proud that he’s so uncommon. Some bit of fear. Some bit of panic, that I just want all of this to go away and that (my friend), detachment. Hard-hearted. Fuck. Jesus Fuck.
My bloodroots, buried in a pile of leaves. Something exhausting.
I hate to break the news to anyone. I hate to let you know—anatta—after all, there is not-self. It was something that you felt so strongly.
she is so happy
lifted on a chorus of balloons
she is so happy
harbinger of abernathies
she is so happy
melt will tell tomorrow
she is so very happy
lifted on a chorus of raccoons
Vacuum
Raccoon
Pregnant woman
Big
Band
Sound
Chocolates for Sam on Valentine’s Day. Nantucket chocolates. Makes me very happy.
Going back to yoga.
Going home to order books.
Maybe exercise. Maybe write to CJ.
Pain in my feet. Cramps from the heavy boot. Hair falling down, escaping the barrette in wild strands.
Guilt drinking coffee without Sam.
Waking alone waking to the bare bones of a room and the bald pinkness of the light outside.
Waking into a zen of discouragement echoing from past mountainsides.
I could have a nervous breakdown at work, I could start sobbing, sobbing with frustration at the restrictions placed on me there. “Structural violence.” Yet I accept it, this solution to my insecurity.
I am spoofing on the Beats today. It’s a shame, but that’s the way it is. I am after all forlorn, my wrist(s) are broken, I have fallen from my ladder. My phone.
november 30
Optimistic with Buddhism.
The practice.
Hey Sal.
I have nowhere to go.
I alternate. Surprise me.
My stomach is twisted.
Suddenly I am warm.
Occasionally, I feel something trickling next to my skin.
I am observation.
I am—disgusted.
I am vibrating nervously,
my nerves are twigs in wind.
I miss Blair.
I love my in-laws. I felt so sad that I won’t see them this weekend.
I have a fear of not being able to keep myself clean when I’m old, old and too proud to be seen.
november 9
Still sad. Sadder than ever today. I want to throw myself on your mercy. To wander into your crowd full of people I don’t know. I set up a conflict with people around me. I don’t stake my claim.
I don’t taste my own sauce. I guess I’ll leave here now.
I want to hug my faith, to cultivate it. Of course, that involves nothing.
Still pain, still swollen, still quite ill at ease.
I learn to mourn
I yearn to mourn
I learn to yearn
I mourn to learn
I mourn to learn how
I like the sensation of a loose form. Three pages at a sitting. Or thirteen fragments. Or 50 words. I feel safer. Enclosed. I am in a quieter, less hysterical space.
I thought about my lack of focus. An attachment disorder. To exhibit no passion, not to be drawn to anything with that lovely intensity.
Still sad. Last night I had an apple and a few chunks of parmesan cheese for dinner, and watched an Italian movie “I’m Not Scared.” Intense. I was distracted from sadness by my awareness of what was going on inside Michele, the 10-year-old boy. Empathy, I guess. I also felt the heat of the sun and the joy of running in the wheatfields. I played and ran in fields. Corn fields. Forests. Meadows. I played in brambles and thickets, streams, streets.
I had to miss the poetry class on Halloween. This was disturbing. I should have tried to go. I could have made it. No use trying to reinvent the past. I had to miss out. I hate to miss out. I am easily disappointed.
Sad girls are responsible. They take on the tedious tasks no one else wants to do.
If I’m very busy writing, I won’t have time for tedious tasks.
But something’s wrong with my invention. My imagination is broken. I don’t get out much.
november 2
Appropriately, raining. Wet leaves scattered everywhere. Sad place in my solar plexus, deep hole of mourning. Or rather, not so deep, shallow and sheltered. Impressionable as a child.
Do eccentrics have this sadness? Do hermits? Do religious believers? I would like to know. But there are things I can’t change about myself, things I have to accept.
One of those is tears springing to my eyes. I am a frequent cryer at any little adversity.
It’s familiar to shame I felt as a child. It’s a familiar syndrome.
Returning to the sadness, the persistent sadness. The sadness of short sentences. The sadness of employees. The sadness of elderly eyebrows. The sadness of muted achievements. Of not knowing your place. The bewilderment of multiple remotes.
The fear of not ever having a home. Not at home here.
Writing in ruts.
I would like to decipher this sadness.
Does it relate to the personality? The philosophical outlook? the biochemistry? the inability to get on the network?