100 Minutes of Solitude, for Gabriel Garcia Marquez

It was during those days that she began to think she was dying. She felt as if she had swallowed poison, and it was softening her bones and burning her organs, until finally her insides would rot and boil down and stream out of her rectum in a torrent of sludge and sewage, black and putrid like the pipes overflowing after the heavy rains, flushing the gutters of the narrow dirt streets. She felt that time was reflecting itself in the bathroom mirror, trapping it in a moment that could never be escaped. She sat and glared at her image in the mirror, like an angry cat mistaking its reflection for another angry cat, scared and threatened and ready to attack itself. The bathroom was small, and the mirror so large it took up most of one wall. To avoid it at first she pulled a towel over her head when she had to use the toilet, bathe, or wash her hands, but still she felt the ghoulish presence of the reflection watching her, and she feared that obscuring her eyes only left her more vulnerable to attack and entrapment in the endless moment of fear frozen in the mirror. She began avoiding the bathroom, preferring to shower under the garden hose, and pee in a clay flowerpot which she emptied in the far corner of the yard.

Touisset

Clams, quahogs, mussels, mud. The smell of something dying and something being born. Something green and black and slimy, like sludge, slurry. Protein rotting. Eel grass, slick rocks and seaweed, bladderwrack. The air is heavy with moisture and salt. The wind picks up suddenly in gusts and calms again, balmy. Sometimes there is fog so thick you can't see in front of you, at night shining a flashlight only makes it harder to see through.

There is shoreline all around but no open ocean. There are coves, bays, and salt marshes. Soggy ground, inlets. Cow ponds and cow paths and corn fields, old barns and stone walls and rotting wooden gates.

A strange, watery place. Water all around, in front and behind, East, West, and South. Salt water. I have salt water in my veins.

A place lots of people had lived before, where other people's memories clung to the slimy rocks and pylons of the dock, other people's lives depended on the fish they caught and the oil they left puddling in the cove where the kids learned to swim.

What happened there before that? Were there always boats in the cove and paths in the woods and fields of corn? What spirits live in those trees and stones vines and ivy grass sumac and clover moss. What ever happened there?

something There was

There was a place once I knew about

There was a song I heard

a sound

There was a smell

like flowers and salt water

decay

There was the sound of the waves

the low moans of trawlers

creeping

There were shooting stars

at night the sky

so vast

There was a time

I feel like I remember

in pieces like a dream

not quite

There was a time

slow as mud and tides

slow as the moon

There was a fire that burned all night

There was something I forgot to say

something I forgot about

something

There was

something

I forgot

lost 2

From this green mountain on top of the earth,
I see all.

Past, present and future are known to me simultaneously,
in a flash, and continuously. It sparkles
and glows like the empty blue sky
and the vastness of the Pacific.

I'm not scared anymore. I'm not afraid.
I remember. All that is, and was, and ever will be
is here,
now.

You're here now.
We've been waiting for you.

lost

island
fever
miles around
ocean
island
lost & found
abandoned
forgotten
murdered, drowned
feared & frightened
sacred ground
born & growing
safe & sound
nothing but
ocean
miles around

poem for david gilmour

slow, sweet sound,
how i love you...

if music be the food of love, play on,
i want to gorge myself
until i'm full, and fat, and sick,

that strain again! it had a dying fall,
it fell over my ears like the drowsy breeze
fluttering a field of vivid blossoms,
hypnotizing endless crystal cloudless sky,
perfect blue, and emerald green,
and poppies, poppies,
poppies...

i awake from a trance as the music ends,
feel a flutter in my chest,
and hit play again.

cairn

i placed a stone, and sang a song,
fi ome
and another stone,
crawling through crisp fallen leaves,
fi fi ome
and another stone,
by the crumbling wall in the woods,
fi fi fi ome
and so it was done,
and i buried a penny where the paths crossed.

poem for darth vader

a little boy,
angry, afraid

a frightened little boy
with the strength of a man,
and the passion

this boy cannot grow old,
or only all at once, in a moment
the boy dies
and the man is startled into existence,
spiteful and sad,
immortal but with nothing to live for

and always so lonely,
longing for lost love,
a mother, a wife,
a son

no question

this time i know
the moon whispered me secrets
in the meantime
watch the trees
burn orange and die
they will be born again green
just as you've forgotten about them
a memory a dream
and nothing will stay the same
good and bad will grow
and change and pass away
until everything ends
and everything begins again

obscure

i stretch my arms
to touch the other side,
elongating my spine,
separating my shoulders,
dislocating my elbows,
spidery scuttling fingers grasping
at something just outside of reach,
or imagined to be.

i want to send my reach outside
of itself, like fishing,
casting out my hands
and reeling them in, empty.

what is it that i can't see?
it's so dark out there.

poem for a windy night

who were you who spoke to me
in quiet hushes on cruel march winds?
you know i wanted to be with you there,
wanted to be you,
just like you,
and you be me.

was it you who spoke to me?
whistling, howling, roaring,
rattling the windows in your fury,
then just a hum, a hiss,
a tickly whisper in my ear,
for me alone.

where were you in that quiet roar,
where is your anger, where is your fear?
why do you cry in the darkness
like a cat
begging to be let in from the rain?

who was it who spoke to me?
i hear a voice on the wind.

was it you who spoke to me?