The blister is open where the money is.
Lie down,
Removed from the vicissitude of skin.
The pit of mercy,
His own money,
Leaves her hungry.
A proud pit, a deep pit.
The development of such objects
Unbearable as it is unacceptable
He wanted his place,
His needs eternal,
And so he did something dark.
In the smudged silos,
a slipshod grain hungry and unfilling.
The fields here do not even
feed their own.
On the crotchety mountain,
emigres weave stories of
the old cruelty of the thin, dry air,
new cruelty of elevated antiseptic oxygen.
Between a one and a two,
a child is born with four feet.
The cry of a lone lantern in
the nefarious night.
In a journal in well written white,
the presupposition of posies,
the assumption of risk.
Beyond books,
cinders drift lonely through cities
too hot to feel their burn.
All that dust
that pushes pavement forward
to an unforeseeable finale is from
dust to dust
in a fourth world, my mother
cooks salmon on a simulated Saturday.
On a Sunday superimposed on the
wall of my one thousandth year,
my daughter wears sapphires,
asks me for a pond.
Age burrows in me like a tick.
I will write it away.
Dead now, I move to the grass
and develop a conscience like film.
I need a friend. I have friends, a few at least. And I love them. But what I wish I had was one more friend, a friend who likes phone photography or writing poetry or taking still lifes or journaling or painting or collage. A friend I can do creative challenges with, or even start a separate blog with to post collaborative work or stuff that follows the same sort of theme or concept.
I think that working with someone and bouncing ideas off each other would make my creativity stronger. I would certainly love the companionship and having someone to talk to about creativity, either written or visual. It would be fun if we were doing the same thing, but it would be equally great if we were doing two different creative things and just talking about them with each other, and giving each other suggestions and keeping each other posted with our progress.
I feel like I run on and on about poetry and other artsy things to friends that aren’t interested in them. And no one wants to be the person in the room who talks for an hour about something no one else in the room is interested in! But it’s hard when almost no one is interested in something that you really love.
So many creatives throughout history have been shaped by other creatives that they were friends with. I would love to have someone like that in my life and I would love to be that someone for another person.
I am not an amazing artist or photographer, but I really like designing images. I wish there was someone I could talk about it with. Maybe we could inspire and challenge each other. Perhaps we could give each other ideas outside of one another’s usual subject matter or mode of creating in order to sharpen one another’s senses. Why not try mixed media? Or instant film and toy cameras? Or ekphrastic poetry based on one another’s photographs? Book binding? Incorporating ephemera into our art?
Blogging helps me work some of my Creative Energy out. Blogging is extremely important to me. But maybe through my blog I will make a serendipitous discovery of a kindred soul who might want to be an angel in my life and let me be an angel in theirs.
This is probably a long shot, but maybe someday somebody will find this post and a beautiful friendship will spark. I know it’s unlikely, but it’s always worth a try. If nothing comes of it, my life will continue in much the same way and I will not have lost anything. And I have a good life. But if I do find that kindred soul, how happy I will be! If I don’t open my doors no one will know that they are welcomed into my life.
Iron sharpens iron, and friends are priceless. Is anyone out there? Hello….Hello……
The book I am currently writing my poetry in. I have written about 70 poems inside. I like filling books with creative writing. It is a way to measure the productivity of my creative life. Selecting beautiful journals makes my soul sing and my mind tingle, so it is also fun to amass gorgeous journals. I actually have several journals already and I use most of them for daily logs and Diaries. This is the first time in a long time that I have been handwriting my poetry. It seems to affect my mind differently than typing my poems. Typing poems is great because you can do it on the go. Where ever you have your phone you’re all set. For several years now I have typed all of my poetry on my phone. I seldom work on the computer. What I need to start doing is bringing my poetry book with me in my knapsack purse so that I can write hand written poetry on the go as well.
As the book starts filling up my husband types up my poems for me. Then I begin to revise them and post them. Then I do Some experiments with them.
Insolvent, insolent, innocent invention,
An open blister where money
And sleep sink,
Tucked in their skin.
He invented the blister,
The pit of pity.
His cash split,
Leaving him with hunger
And insubstantiality.
And yet, like a name,
The blistering invention is as
Unconscious as it is unwholesome
He needed a place for his
Incomplete necessities,
And he crafted one of dark matter,
Negative space.
Tomorrow lies in my bed
As rugged as a coast.
I marvel at the sleepiness of my fist.
Where has my fight gone?
Has it left me for another woman?
A woman with more steel in her back,
a chest of gravel?
Tomorrow hums,
Brawny and blue and wastefully.
I adore extravagance.
He wants to tell me what to do,
I luxuriate in commands.
I am no longer holding my dice.
They burn in the green fire writhing in the corner.
This is not my game.
This is not my life.
It is time to surrender.
Unfair fields mock my festivities.
Out here my breath turns to flowers.
I am a sprinkle.
I am the whole fluffy cake with buttercream frosting.
The pianist plays among the poppies ,
The flutist in the daffodils.
But the field opens up its maw
at the far end of the horizon,
and everything falls in,
Particolored joy abating in a black abyss.
This clock is orange and extravagant
like a drink I shouldn’t be drinking because it is only noon
and I have a child.
In a clock,
wild excess is forgiven.
The clock throws so many minutes in the trash,
spends forever buying contraband at every border.
My fingers have given their free will for a little love from this clock.
Miniature Moon 