Knit crochet or write
writing forms a lacy shawl
lying on the page
Tag Archives: hand
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
No facility in the hand this morning.
Simple. Simple. Simple. Sometimes your writing is so simple, you can’t do it, you’re stuck below the rungs of simple with your monkey-loving hands, reaching, reaching, fingerly grasping.
How are we to have a moment where I contact you? Evening.
I let you alone. Left.
How is this to be done? Radical.
Fingerly grasping.
Fingerly typing.
Finger lily.
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—
The vast sensation of quietude, not caring. The exhaustion comes from difference of opinions. Some humor on the side, but mostly black. There are no breakthroughs, only cash. Trying to compare my work with yours, the mental striving taking me away, destructive. Well is it destructive. Listening to you better angels, are you out there after all? Lifting up my hands for rescue. Lift me to a higher place.
april 6, 2007
Wool socks don’t help. Cold feet, cold hands, cold pen, cold pages.
Chikeola sits there African and deep black and inhumanly strong and flexible. She touches my back, my hands, my feet, guides my elbows into microbends. Thoughts cross my mind—I’m 50, no I’m 51—and this is pretty good, right? Well no, she wouldn’t buy that, would she.
march 25, 2007
Un visible
A standing stone.
Three standing stones, white marble, in the conifer garden (trust the rhythm it will take you where you want to go) the lax
whispers
the coffee
the hand
My hand is almost numb. I have control over muscles on the back of my hand that I can arch and press slightly into the hard surface of the splint.
Far out.