Tuesday, June 12, 1979
Sunday, June 10, 1979
THE EDGE
In the kitchen, a plastic cup of coffee
abandoned, rotting odor of compost
thick with fish, impossible to ignore.
It is morning, it is morning in a strange house.
Waking to an empty room,
I slept on a floor as sharp as razor blades,
while bums sleep on street corners.
Breakfast of grapefruit is bitter on the tongue.
Breakfast of grapefruit is bitter on the tongue.
What separates sound from the brain?
From the body? Black nausea swirls,
blurs the peripheral edge of the eye.
I walk in the Panhandle alone.
It's the fine line of being afraid
and being alone, to be tested.
Bitter in the mouth like boiled coffee.
The line is a fine line.
Bus exhaust curls around a red hibiscus.
Its trumpet gasps for air.
Feet upon the earth, what's left
is slimy as the sidewalks where the winos hawk.
Morning in the city, it is a fine edge.
6/10/79
Diane di Prima workshop
SF Zen Center
MOON CUP
MOON CUP
touch the red moon
the cup is full
the pouch holds the cup
like the moon in Gemini
liquid birth
of the moon in a cup
cup full of moon
the body full
the moon blood full
like the heart
eclipse
of dragon's blood
spilled from the cup
the blood of the moon
6/10.1979
Diane di Prima workshop?
SF Zen Center
Saturday, June 9, 1979
A BURIAL COMBINATION
it provided immediate inspiration
and maximized limited resources
it continued to be used
with down-to-earth impact
6/9/79
Diane di Prima workshop
I later stole the title and used it for another poem
Friday, June 8, 1979
Diane diPrima workshop, June 8-10, 1979, San Francisco Zen Center, journal
June 8-10, 1979, San Francisco Zen Center, Diane diPrima workshop journal notes.
Diane began the writing workshop with a visualization, she said to relax and let the imagery flow. We could either be in a prone position, or sit in a meditation triangle. We were asked to write down 30-second takes, haiku-like, and to use them but to rely upon all our senses. She asked us to try visualizations of our dreams.
She pulled out some tarot cards, and said that dreams of love and aggression, death and flying, and falling are your victories. Ask to see the spirit behind the mask. Bring back a dream song. Bring back a balance between the dream world and the real world. If you grow fatigued, retrace your steps before waking.
We played games of chance. She said to use pieces of articles, random cut-ups, she said to pick out phrases and re-combine them with new work. Or mix them up with old poems.
She also asked us to to word-gamble with dice. Take six books, then roll the dice for a stanza, roll for words, roll for images, roll for found sentences. We slammed down the liar’s cup and called it poetry.
She told us to collect objects that tell stories, we met in groups and wrote a composite poem from each of them.
She also suggested creating collective verse where we all share in the process.
She asked us, what am I? Each line is a separate take.
She reads from her own work and she reads from Frank O’Hara. I love Frank O’Hara’s poems.
We work towards disjointedness and let our fantasies play.
Using the Alastair Crowley tarot deck, I drew the universe and wrote about a dappled gray horse coming in from the sea. The horse was carrying armor of a human but it was empty inside and they were cobwebs across the eyeholes. The wind blew through the armor with a hollow lonely sound.
The horse said, My name is Equus. I told him he wasn’t my God, nor was he my myth. He said I am your God. I always have been since you were a child and you’ve ridden upon my back. I thought of the Welsh hobbyhorse with the horse’s skull, the ghost mare, the Mari Lwyd.
I unmasked the stallion. I peeled away his flesh to find his bloody face, and another layer. l breathed on it—it was the face of a white wooden horse beneath the third layer, the skull beneath the fourth layer was bleached white and in the eye sockets and the spaces between the nostrils was a scenic landscape of Drake’s Estero in Point Reyes. I wanted to ride the red mare.
I followed him down the pathway to the valley below, to the river, to the sea. I left my red mare behind on the hill underneath the pine tree and left the red amanita undisturbed.
When we reached the end of the rise that followed the pale strand, we took a canoe across to the other side. The horse had become a knight in armor who was prone, on his back, either dead, or gazing skyward. The shore and the hills became surreal as if I had become the landscape and I could taste the green, the blue, the shimmering sea.
6/8/1979
Diane began the writing workshop with a visualization, she said to relax and let the imagery flow. We could either be in a prone position, or sit in a meditation triangle. We were asked to write down 30-second takes, haiku-like, and to use them but to rely upon all our senses. She asked us to try visualizations of our dreams.
She pulled out some tarot cards, and said that dreams of love and aggression, death and flying, and falling are your victories. Ask to see the spirit behind the mask. Bring back a dream song. Bring back a balance between the dream world and the real world. If you grow fatigued, retrace your steps before waking.
We played games of chance. She said to use pieces of articles, random cut-ups, she said to pick out phrases and re-combine them with new work. Or mix them up with old poems.
She also asked us to to word-gamble with dice. Take six books, then roll the dice for a stanza, roll for words, roll for images, roll for found sentences. We slammed down the liar’s cup and called it poetry.
She told us to collect objects that tell stories, we met in groups and wrote a composite poem from each of them.
She also suggested creating collective verse where we all share in the process.
She asked us, what am I? Each line is a separate take.
She reads from her own work and she reads from Frank O’Hara. I love Frank O’Hara’s poems.
We work towards disjointedness and let our fantasies play.
Using the Alastair Crowley tarot deck, I drew the universe and wrote about a dappled gray horse coming in from the sea. The horse was carrying armor of a human but it was empty inside and they were cobwebs across the eyeholes. The wind blew through the armor with a hollow lonely sound.
The horse said, My name is Equus. I told him he wasn’t my God, nor was he my myth. He said I am your God. I always have been since you were a child and you’ve ridden upon my back. I thought of the Welsh hobbyhorse with the horse’s skull, the ghost mare, the Mari Lwyd.
I unmasked the stallion. I peeled away his flesh to find his bloody face, and another layer. l breathed on it—it was the face of a white wooden horse beneath the third layer, the skull beneath the fourth layer was bleached white and in the eye sockets and the spaces between the nostrils was a scenic landscape of Drake’s Estero in Point Reyes. I wanted to ride the red mare.
I followed him down the pathway to the valley below, to the river, to the sea. I left my red mare behind on the hill underneath the pine tree and left the red amanita undisturbed.
When we reached the end of the rise that followed the pale strand, we took a canoe across to the other side. The horse had become a knight in armor who was prone, on his back, either dead, or gazing skyward. The shore and the hills became surreal as if I had become the landscape and I could taste the green, the blue, the shimmering sea.
6/8/1979
Friday, June 1, 1979
TUFTED PUFFIN
TUFTED PUFFIN
I. The sighting
Surf rock sound, pounding ocean of perches,
Polyp colonies and brittle stars.
Sea palms sway in, and pacific waves roll wet
While pelagic puffins wing wearily northward.
This parrot of the sea
Has bright bandied legs of green,
Orange feet, tri-colored beak,
And harlequin eyes edged in black.
Upon a white cheek, and black crest
A white feather tuft dangles.
He lives mid-ocean,
Sleeps, and fishes on the waves.
Only when he nests
Does he come to the land.
II. The journey
He flies, not gracefully —
This portly bird sets his course
to the north tundra,
To the barren rocky islands to nest.
Blowing off course, or lost,
He lands on the Farallone Islands,
Islands also drifting northward.
Their migration is measured in inches a year
As the techtonic plate shifts
along the San Andreas Fault
Stretching all the way to Alaska,
and to the Bering Sea.
Continental plates bend and shape the land.
Where the Sea of Cortez once flowed
Lies the Great Central Valley,
And beyond, the mighty rift that lifted the Sierras,
Young mountains still growing.
On their crests, the sky blooms.
Sky Pilot and Penstemon intertwined in the roots
Of Bristlecone Pine, older than the calender of Christ,
Twists in cascading snowfields of the White Mountains.
To the north, liquid sunshine of the Pacific Northwest
Drizzles down on the Hoh River Valley.
Budding pseudopods, amoebas, slime molds,
And copopods slip sideways in the marsh night.
In the clear brook, myriad rainbows
Prism the sunlight between bearded oaks.
Farther to the north, zebra-striped tundra mosquitos
Suck the blood of caribou.
Salicylic willows provide shelter for insects.
The tufted puffin returns home to the north
To nest in the willow-down with the eider ducks.
The blood of the caribou runs.
That's why the leaves of the huckleberry are red.
At home, the fruit stains purple
Budding pseudopods, amoebas, slime molds,
And copopods slip sideways in the marsh night.
In the clear brook, myriad rainbows
Prism the sunlight between bearded oaks.
Farther to the north, zebra-striped tundra mosquitos
Suck the blood of caribou.
Salicylic willows provide shelter for insects.
The tufted puffin returns home to the north
To nest in the willow-down with the eider ducks.
The blood of the caribou runs.
That's why the leaves of the huckleberry are red.
At home, the fruit stains purple
the teeth of Inverness Ridge.
Through pine needles, coastal fog
Tastes of salt, salt of the earth.
This land is too valuable to grow food
Through pine needles, coastal fog
Tastes of salt, salt of the earth.
This land is too valuable to grow food
For the people who live in the houses
Planted upon sugar-beet fields,
And the ghosts of apricot blossoms
Gathering nectar for bees in April orchards.
The caribou's tendons crackle as they trample
The caribou's tendons crackle as they trample
Miniature forests of willow, pine, and Pasque flowers.
Growing with the lichen, they eat the fragile landscape.
Deep snow comes and covers the lichen,
Deep snow comes and covers the lichen,
Wolves howl and anticipate fresh meat.
The lucky ones manage to live until spring thaw.
III. The visitation
III. The visitation
Fog trespasses along the Point Reyes coast,
Paying no heed to fenced land,
As it drizzles upon rein orchids and huckleberry.
Fog and ocean blend into one
Where the tufted puffin drifts in the surf.
1978-79
Paying no heed to fenced land,
As it drizzles upon rein orchids and huckleberry.
Fog and ocean blend into one
Where the tufted puffin drifts in the surf.
1978-79
Tuesday, May 1, 1979
THE CHERRYPLUM (haiku)
THE CHERRYPLUM (haiku)
The honey bees dangle
on the wild cherry blossoms
smell of musk honey
The honey bees dangle
on the wild cherry blossoms
snowing on the ground
i sit on the porch
windows cobwebbed and painted
i sit on the porch
windows cobwebbed and painted
frame the afternoon
sonorous buzzings
sonorous buzzings
yellowjackets devour
fallen cherry plums
yellow leaves swirling
burned cuttings in bonfire split
yellow leaves swirling
burned cuttings in bonfire split
wood stacked up high
open the windows
coastal snow and rain sweep in
open the windows
coastal snow and rain sweep in
gather wood for warmth
sit by the iron stove
wood from the cherry plum glows
sit by the iron stove
wood from the cherry plum glows
thru the freezing night
bright budding branches
sap runs upward during thaw
bright budding branches
sap runs upward during thaw
night blackens new growth
sap runs in yr veins
the stirring of dormant seed
sap runs in yr veins
the stirring of dormant seed
and budding flower
smell of musk honey
on yr fingers, on yr beard
mingles on our bodies
stamen and pistil
the anther and the ovum
pollinates the fruit
warmth of sun on skin
stamen and pistil
the anther and the ovum
pollinates the fruit
warmth of sun on skin
nibble upon ripened fruit
and nourish the fire
tongues seek out nectar
tongues seek out nectar
limbs seek shelter from the night
lips touch each other
on yr arms i am
on yr arms i am
gathered up again for warmth
in the freezing night
the honeyed scent drifts
the honeyed scent drifts
up in smoke to the nostrils
blood warms and flows
Chinook breezes blow
Chinook breezes blow
sap runs with energy renewed
bees stir in their hives
bees stir in their hives
bees stir in their hives
bees stir in their hives
fragrant cherry plum blossoms
unfurl their petals
Spring 1979
added 2/2017
Monday, April 30, 1979
Mindless interjection
Mindless interjection of unlocking words, interpreted throughout the seamwork of a fine conversational linen soliloquy, folded carefully and placed in the closets of inattention, while a harmony of silent moths nibble at the frayed yellow edges unraveled with age.
No date, written on the back of a Gary Snyder poster from April 1979.
No date, written on the back of a Gary Snyder poster from April 1979.
Tuesday, April 17, 1979
Gary Snyder poster reading at College of Marin
This is sort of where it all began. I saw Gary Snyder at College of Marin; and said, "I can do that." At least, it was at the College of Marin reading that I began to take myself seriously as a poet. Clearly I have work that predates this date. This date works out as April 17, 1979. The back notes set the day of the week as a Wednesday for April 11, which makes it 1979. I thought it was earlier than that. Maybe something else will turn up. I had torn the poster in half to use the back as writing paper...
Sunday, April 1, 1979
Traces of the Goddess
Traces of the Goddess
she surveys the night because
the answer is, of course,
traces of the goddess
a foot beneath the cover
a foot beneath the cover
a light in the window
mostly in April
mostly in April
new growth
presses against
the leafless tree
what brings you here
what brings you here
bearing heavily down
with such force?
the pounding heart
sees the blood
here on the cut glass
these essences that spill
she bites the flesh
the body turns and heaves
to a rhythm that lasts 'til dawn.
April 1979
added 2/2017
Sunday, March 25, 1979
Dolphins, Inland Passage, journal
We walked down four flights of stairs of bleached wooden cedar planks that connected the cliff with the shore, and the railroad tracks below the town. The stairs, like the ones at Pike Street Market in Seattle collect all the town winos, and the Indians.
We are on foreign soil, their stares tell us. The streets are for white folks that ride the ferry up from the mainland in there well padded Winnebagos. They are like metal wombs that completely isolate them from the people that live here. They're all bound for Prince George to go fishing and hunting. No one stays long in Prince Rupert.
With our grubby backpacks and jeans, a symbol, just as the Winnebago is, we wandered down the tracks where the vegetation grows the thickest. We watched the natives of the forest with their cheap wine watching us.
The mid day summer sun warms the railroad ties that smell of creosote and tar and the light shimmers wet on the inland passage that faces to the west to the Queen Charlotte Islands, and beyond them the open Pacific.
Why aren't the Indians somewhere out there and dugout canoes like the Haida in Curtis's film? What's here for them? Work in the floating ship factories? They drink down their two weeks pay before the weekend is over.
I've been to the coast of Vancouver Island. Uclulit, another fishing town 40 miles away by sea, some 90 miles by road, wouldn't want to spend the winter in either place.The intense loneliness of the isolated towns along the coast. Even the sun seems indifferent as it filters down to the hemlocks.
The quality of light in the north, a difference of angle of sun to the earth. The sun didn't set until midnight and then it arose again too early. Orange sky for three hours as the sun dipped to the horizon. Haida Bear stands sentinel to the deserted longhouses, rotting away in the wilderness on the Queen Charlotte Islands.
Winos lying along the railroad tracks, when's the last time they saw their totemic ancestors? Last night, dolphins escorted our ship into port.
No date, but a copy was attached to my Hoh River piece, 7/25/1979, though the experience was from 1977 or 78.
This may be a piece I wrote in 1978. By fall of 1978, I had turned it into a poem and added it to my poetry MS (calligraphed), so it dates from 1978 or earlier. But it's interesting to see them side by side. If I wrote the prose in 1978, I was clearly a much better prose writer than a poet. If only I had known.
Inland Passsage
Added 10/16.
The quality of light in the north, a difference of angle of sun to the earth. The sun didn't set until midnight and then it arose again too early. Orange sky for three hours as the sun dipped to the horizon. Haida Bear stands sentinel to the deserted longhouses, rotting away in the wilderness on the Queen Charlotte Islands.
Winos lying along the railroad tracks, when's the last time they saw their totemic ancestors? Last night, dolphins escorted our ship into port.
No date, but a copy was attached to my Hoh River piece, 7/25/1979, though the experience was from 1977 or 78.
This may be a piece I wrote in 1978. By fall of 1978, I had turned it into a poem and added it to my poetry MS (calligraphed), so it dates from 1978 or earlier. But it's interesting to see them side by side. If I wrote the prose in 1978, I was clearly a much better prose writer than a poet. If only I had known.
Inland Passsage
Added 10/16.
Thursday, March 22, 1979
MEASURING THE DAY
MEASURING THE DAY
A leaf scuttles across the blacktop
A leaf scuttles across the blacktop
on four tiny feet
and leaps up the embankment
where the full moon lamp post
illuminates the way
In the western sky the new moon
In the western sky the new moon
carries out the aging moon
in her crescent arms
The sword of Orion dangles at his side
the hunter and his dogs bound
The sword of Orion dangles at his side
the hunter and his dogs bound
along the western journey
through darkness
Does his sword slice through the perfect orb
through darkness
Does his sword slice through the perfect orb
of darkness and light
making an even cut across its surface
this equinox?
Do the days end nights
Do the days end nights
dole out their essence carefully in spring?
Does Orion chase after the setting sun
Does Orion chase after the setting sun
or does he hunt for something else
only in darkness?
Does the new moon flee
Does the new moon flee
from the edge of his sword
with the encased egg of the old moon
with the encased egg of the old moon
in her arms like a spider
protecting her young?
Will we never see the stars
protecting her young?
Will we never see the stars
from the Southern Cross from here?
Why is everyone chasing through the sky?
Why is everyone chasing through the sky?
who brings in the day?
Spring Equinox, 1979
added 2/2017
Thursday, March 15, 1979
A mile a minute past midnight
A mile a minute past midnight, my memories of you reminds me of tiny words pattering across my mind at night when I'm about to go to sleep. I'm not aware at first, that I haven't gone to sleep, and that I'm not dreaming, but I catch myself thinking at 60 mph, and it's an hour past midnight, and I'm still not asleep.
I can't shake the words out of my head and onto a piece of paper when I need or want them. Fickle words, they raced back-and-forth willfully and disturb my sleep, or whatever else it was that I was doing.
They seriously disrupt my every thought process until my poor tired mine looks like an oatmeal porridge bowl fraught with tangled, snarled, wounded, mutilated words limping back from the wars with goblins and hobiyas.
I have to gather them up neatly and packaged them and place them in the proper crannies and knotholes until I need them again.
The problem is, they won't stay of their own free will. They kick off their wrappers and start making themselves heard, and so I spent a lot of time repackaging and re-rapping them to put them back where they belong in the dusty recesses of my mind.
Like you, they tip-toe out uninvited and run rampant as soon as the lights go out.
Good night… Again.
Good night… Again.
Spring 1979? No date
added 10/16
added 10/16
Thursday, March 1, 1979
Driving to K’san, Skeena River
Driving to Terrace
I admired the rough beauty of the Skeena River and the glacial sweep of the mountains. We were nearing Terrace. There was Old Terrace where the Indians mostly lived, New Terrace, a government project most likely, and there was a lot of empty road between it and 'Ksan, a reconstructed Indian village near Old Hazelton, that Vernon helped to design. Something to do with national pride. The Gitxsan Indian Nation.
Vernon was nothing like the Cherokee man we met in Vancouver who wanted to annihilate all white folks. But he liked us right enough. He wore a breastplate made of bones in the Cherokee style. Bones that reminded me of the delicate bone of my forearm. Paranoid, I told myself.
Vernon Stephens was driving down the Yellowhead at 110 mph in an old 60s pickup truck. Our packs were in danger of flying out the back of the truck. But I trusted Vernon implicitly. He picked us up in Prince Rupert. Liked our foolhardiness. "Anyone nuts enough to try to hitch out of that place deserves a ride," he said.
I had briefly met Vernon years before in front of the de Young museum (or was it the UBC?) I once spent an afternoon watching him carve a totem pole in the old way. I never expected to run into him again in Prince Rupert, of all places.
Vernon's hair was the most beautiful wavy black cloud I had ever seen. Bob's hair was long, and curly, California style, but he always wore his hair tied back in a knot, like he was secretly embarrassed by it all, and only grew long to be defiant after he got out of the army.
Vernon wore his hair like a bride's veil and he walked with the comfort of the man in touch with his body, his energy directed from his hips led him forward with grace and ease. Bob was head oriented. Like there was this string attached to the top of his head, lifting him up every time he stepped forward. Not of the earth. But then, that was Bob's way.
I'd been with Bob for so long, I'd gotten used to his ways. I'd forgotten about them, actually. Vernon made me aware of it. Made me turn over in my subconscious. Took me two years to realize it. Bob made me unhappy and I didn't even know it.
We stopped off to have a beer in Smithers. Vernon knew everybody there—there wasn't enough room for another chair at our table. "Can I buy you another round?" another face asked. I couldn't even place the name with the face, there were so many buyers.
I noticed that I was the only woman drinking in the bar. This was truly a man’s world. I was gatecrashing.Again. I asked, "So, don't women drink beer around here?" No one answered. The waitress was the only other woman I had seen since leaving Prince Rupert. Rosie was her name. Vernon said she was a great gal. He knew her well. I think. It made me a little envious.
Amazing to watch this man who had the profound respect of all these white folks. Not like the ones who hurled slurs at Indians in other towns. Not like the drunks sleeping it off below Pike Street in Seattle.
Vernon is a goldsmith. A well-known goldsmith. Most everyone around here is wearing one of the chased wristbands he makes for the Provincial Museum in Victoria, and other tourist shops. One of those bands costs more than what Bob and I have to live on for the entire summer.
Vernon takes off his cuff to show us how he makes it convex. I dabble in silver and show him my turquoise rings. I can tell that he is not impressed which makes me sit up a bit, as I'm pretty good at it, but I have no intention of becoming a jeweler, and he knows it.
The beer keeps coming. Soon, I'm slithering under the table, and they all have a good laugh. "She can can't even hold her beer," Vernon says smugly. I feel the implied dig and I slur, "I'm Irish. 100% Irish. We feel it sooner. It's this Canadian beer, it's stronger than our American beer." He laughs.
"Yeah, that’s real piss beer," someone offers. I retort, "Hey, listen, you got to account from my relative size. I am a lot smaller than you guys." And then I pretty much fall into a heap on the floor. Vernon takes my unfinished beer and drains it down. Lifts me up. Says, "Well, we gonna hit the ground. I got to get to Terrace. Thanks. Be seeing you."
Vernon pulled the battered truck into the only gas station in town. It took us two tanks of gas to drive from Prince Rupert to Terrace. We paid for gas. Least we could do. Nothing is close these parts. To go to the nearest bar, you have to drive 40 miles or so. No alcohol on Indian reservations.
Soon we have to take a break, return all that rented beer. There's so little traffic in these parts, the two men just stand there jawing on the side of the road at dusk. Male bonding in action. Twin rivulets track across the road and head down to the Skeena River. My beer frothed into a little well of sacred earth by the side of the road, making me realize, that despite the company, I was very much alone. In retrospect, I should’ve folded my bad hand, and run off with Vernon. But it was not in the cards.
typed 3/1979
I admired the rough beauty of the Skeena River and the glacial sweep of the mountains. We were nearing Terrace. There was Old Terrace where the Indians mostly lived, New Terrace, a government project most likely, and there was a lot of empty road between it and 'Ksan, a reconstructed Indian village near Old Hazelton, that Vernon helped to design. Something to do with national pride. The Gitxsan Indian Nation.
Vernon was nothing like the Cherokee man we met in Vancouver who wanted to annihilate all white folks. But he liked us right enough. He wore a breastplate made of bones in the Cherokee style. Bones that reminded me of the delicate bone of my forearm. Paranoid, I told myself.
Vernon Stephens was driving down the Yellowhead at 110 mph in an old 60s pickup truck. Our packs were in danger of flying out the back of the truck. But I trusted Vernon implicitly. He picked us up in Prince Rupert. Liked our foolhardiness. "Anyone nuts enough to try to hitch out of that place deserves a ride," he said.
I had briefly met Vernon years before in front of the de Young museum (or was it the UBC?) I once spent an afternoon watching him carve a totem pole in the old way. I never expected to run into him again in Prince Rupert, of all places.
Vernon's hair was the most beautiful wavy black cloud I had ever seen. Bob's hair was long, and curly, California style, but he always wore his hair tied back in a knot, like he was secretly embarrassed by it all, and only grew long to be defiant after he got out of the army.
Vernon wore his hair like a bride's veil and he walked with the comfort of the man in touch with his body, his energy directed from his hips led him forward with grace and ease. Bob was head oriented. Like there was this string attached to the top of his head, lifting him up every time he stepped forward. Not of the earth. But then, that was Bob's way.
I'd been with Bob for so long, I'd gotten used to his ways. I'd forgotten about them, actually. Vernon made me aware of it. Made me turn over in my subconscious. Took me two years to realize it. Bob made me unhappy and I didn't even know it.
We stopped off to have a beer in Smithers. Vernon knew everybody there—there wasn't enough room for another chair at our table. "Can I buy you another round?" another face asked. I couldn't even place the name with the face, there were so many buyers.
I noticed that I was the only woman drinking in the bar. This was truly a man’s world. I was gatecrashing.Again. I asked, "So, don't women drink beer around here?" No one answered. The waitress was the only other woman I had seen since leaving Prince Rupert. Rosie was her name. Vernon said she was a great gal. He knew her well. I think. It made me a little envious.
Amazing to watch this man who had the profound respect of all these white folks. Not like the ones who hurled slurs at Indians in other towns. Not like the drunks sleeping it off below Pike Street in Seattle.
Vernon is a goldsmith. A well-known goldsmith. Most everyone around here is wearing one of the chased wristbands he makes for the Provincial Museum in Victoria, and other tourist shops. One of those bands costs more than what Bob and I have to live on for the entire summer.
Vernon takes off his cuff to show us how he makes it convex. I dabble in silver and show him my turquoise rings. I can tell that he is not impressed which makes me sit up a bit, as I'm pretty good at it, but I have no intention of becoming a jeweler, and he knows it.
The beer keeps coming. Soon, I'm slithering under the table, and they all have a good laugh. "She can can't even hold her beer," Vernon says smugly. I feel the implied dig and I slur, "I'm Irish. 100% Irish. We feel it sooner. It's this Canadian beer, it's stronger than our American beer." He laughs.
"Yeah, that’s real piss beer," someone offers. I retort, "Hey, listen, you got to account from my relative size. I am a lot smaller than you guys." And then I pretty much fall into a heap on the floor. Vernon takes my unfinished beer and drains it down. Lifts me up. Says, "Well, we gonna hit the ground. I got to get to Terrace. Thanks. Be seeing you."
Vernon pulled the battered truck into the only gas station in town. It took us two tanks of gas to drive from Prince Rupert to Terrace. We paid for gas. Least we could do. Nothing is close these parts. To go to the nearest bar, you have to drive 40 miles or so. No alcohol on Indian reservations.
Soon we have to take a break, return all that rented beer. There's so little traffic in these parts, the two men just stand there jawing on the side of the road at dusk. Male bonding in action. Twin rivulets track across the road and head down to the Skeena River. My beer frothed into a little well of sacred earth by the side of the road, making me realize, that despite the company, I was very much alone. In retrospect, I should’ve folded my bad hand, and run off with Vernon. But it was not in the cards.
typed 3/1979
SKEENA RIVER
Skeena River and vast glacial mountains
We drink from a pure stream along the way.
Why did Vernon say he hated the river?
Whey did it ever do to him?
Whey did it ever do to him?
Halfway to Terrace we stopped off for a beer
Soon the table was crowded with Indians
and two gringo hitchhikers.
and two gringo hitchhikers.
After several rounds, I slid under the table
and all the men laughed because
a woman couldn't hold her beer.
We returned the rented beer to the river.
and all the men laughed because
a woman couldn't hold her beer.
We returned the rented beer to the river.
I’ve backpacked through British Columbia
and slept wherever it suited me.
But in Vancouver there was nowhere to stay.
and slept wherever it suited me.
But in Vancouver there was nowhere to stay.
So we slept in the shrubbery
at the University of British Columbia
at the University of British Columbia
and under a tree in Beacon Hill Park in Victoria
only to be awakened by an aphid rainstorm
and to a young man waking the swans with his flute.
only to be awakened by an aphid rainstorm
and to a young man waking the swans with his flute.
And after a hangover from the Beaver Pub
we slept in the shadow of the lofty Empress Hotel.
In Stanley Park where we watched the ships in the Straits.
we slept in the shadow of the lofty Empress Hotel.
In Stanley Park where we watched the ships in the Straits.
At Jasper, deep in the Rockies, We slept in a hotel lobby
with other travelers of the thumb
with other travelers of the thumb
And we snuck into the showers upstairs.
Ah, such heaven.
Ah, such heaven.
On the reservation
she was young and big and brown
and seemed so much younger than I.
and seemed so much younger than I.
She looked forward to the day
when she could join the RCMP Academy.
She said her grades were good.
when she could join the RCMP Academy.
She said her grades were good.
I looked at her in disbelief
and thought to myself, ah well,
one can be miserable in the midst of splendor
but it still is a kind of hell for her.
and thought to myself, ah well,
one can be miserable in the midst of splendor
but it still is a kind of hell for her.
I have traveled so far to see her hell.
I camped by the Skeena River
in the bushes that night
and I got sick from the water.
Another hind of hell.
3/79
I camped by the Skeena River
in the bushes that night
and I got sick from the water.
Another hind of hell.
3/79
Wednesday, January 3, 1979
Tuesday, January 2, 1979
EMPTY SIDEWALKS
EMPTY SIDEWALKS
Empty city sidewalks
Empty city sidewalks
Light gushes out of the streetlamp
like water from the faucet
and bathes the stone-cold midnight sidewalk
with its fluorescent spray,
while the parched earth wait
for the new dawn.
No date. But it is making a note of the drought even back in 1978 or 79 whenever this poem was written.
Monday, January 1, 1979
THE LINGUAL ARCH OF THE RIVER AND THE SEA
THE LINGUAL ARCH OF THE RIVER AND THE SEA
The river is a tongue leading into the dark
whispering ocean of many tongues
The mouth of the river is interlocked in an embrace
with one of the many mouths
of the ocean
of the ocean
The polygamous ocean ' tongues ' rivers everywhere
Those mouths exchange the souls of those
Those mouths exchange the souls of those
who are indifferent to living
Those who slipped into the grey snags
of willow along the river shore
They slid down thru the roots of the willow
into the river to that long journey downward
The river is a molten tongue
carrying them downward to the sea
The words on the tongue of river
The words on the tongue of river
are words of all those who still wait to speak
The ocean is tongue
The river is tongue
They share the same mouth
To speak they each need separate mouths
Women have two mouths and one tongue
Men have two tongues and one mouth
Mouths and tongues each need a place to lie in
Mouths and tongues each need a place to lie in
before they can speak
1979 summer
Faces
Faces
I have many faces
my faces as you
ask me to stay, my faces
as you ask me to leave, make
me warm with love
love, change I
follow you, my
faces upon the mountain flank,
my faces under the stars,
your warm lips intertwine with mine,
your tongue enters my mouth
my faces
there in the moonlight,
my faces
there in the moonlight,
there in the meadow
smell of musk, summer dust
poison oak and bay laurel
smell of musk, summer dust
poison oak and bay laurel
as we talk about living,
my faces search yours,
the faces we share melt
like waxen masks
like waxen masks
in moonshadow
we melt into each other's bodies
on the path many
faces intertwine
in the moonlight.
we melt into each other's bodies
on the path many
faces intertwine
in the moonlight.
1979
added 2/2017
Morning Poem
Morning Poem
Stiff eyes search out another cup of coffee
lids scratch across the surface of nausea
flies crawl in on my skin, sun sweats it
my hands so stiff i can barely write
as last night catches up with morning
I'm too tired to wake up, it's too morning
to go back to sleep
as humming birds flit on our voices
1979
added 2/2017 minor changes
Of That You're Certain
Of That You're Certain
I am like a water pipe that freezes and thaws
until the stress breaks the pipe
the pipe is my body, the thaw is my heart
the freezing is the restrictions of our love
The ground is unstable under my feet
and I am afraid of falling on frozen earth
the path is always forward
it is not a hopeful path
soon it will freeze and the pipe will burst
The frost is black and white
the hoar frost is white
the black frost is a killing frost
and you are water that flows thru the pipe
you are night that freezes the pipe
you are the sun that thaws it over and over again
The ground is unstable under my feet
and I am afraid of falling on frozen earth
the path is always forward
it is not a hopeful path
soon it will freeze and the pipe will burst
The frost is black and white
the hoar frost is white
the black frost is a killing frost
and you are water that flows thru the pipe
you are night that freezes the pipe
you are the sun that thaws it over and over again
1979
added 2/2017
Mother Simplex
Mother Simplex
I taste the lie upon my tongue
martyred flesh
life is a breath of...
and the images flash before me
mother's meat to be crucified
She barks like a dog
wolf mother with fear in her voice
as she slowly dies
1979
added 2/2017
The Swim
The Swim
Harvest of spring and midnight swims
in snakeskin
she breaks star ripples in a pool
of moon fungus water
Water fingers caress her body
amniotic birthing
water thru spread fingers
water thru splayed toes
the toes of childhood
Water fingers caress her body
amniotic birthing
water thru spread fingers
water thru splayed toes
the toes of childhood
like frogs, full breast stroke
thigh frog-kick shatters moon, star reflections
float in the water, breathing sea mammals
thigh frog-kick shatters moon, star reflections
float in the water, breathing sea mammals
we exhale into the water
we are water, we are water
She swims in liquid night wrapped around her body
She swims in liquid night wrapped around her body
thousands of tongues lick and lash her
she stands by the pool
cement slurps up the water that streams down
cement slurps up the water that streams down
her curve of spine, belly, nipples erect
the water licks down
down
1979
added 2/2017
men in the landscape
men in the landscape
there are those who would stay on the land
there are those who would stay on the land
until the land takes them back again
it is their mother
there are those who were once firmly rooted
there are those who were once firmly rooted
who wish to escape and fly above it
it is still their mother
it holds to them and brings them back into the fold
it holds to them and brings them back into the fold
when they love women
it is the mother
they are the ones who resist the hardest
they are the ones who resist the hardest
their death brings them back again
it has been and always will be
the great mother
1979
added 2/2017
Is It Time?
Is It Time?
Depression sets in
it is nearer time to go than to stay
amid the stars and
sliced segments of orange moon
lips full of envy
and i have teeth to caress
this blood orange
bittersweet
listless limbs drape
over the sounds of a ticking clock
amid the stars and
sliced segments of orange moon
lips full of envy
and i have teeth to caress
this blood orange
bittersweet
listless limbs drape
over the sounds of a ticking clock
that melts down too slowly for time
it sets in for days
it sets in for days
memories of
my hands absently strokes my breast
my hands absently strokes my breast
is that you i hear?
no? then melt down the clock faster
no? then melt down the clock faster
it is not time yet.
1979
added 2/2017
MEMORY
MEMORY
Rings on trees
signify the passing of years
the pale wide rings dividing the wet years
from dark dense wood when the rains don't come
I'm looking-down at my fingernails & it occurs to me
that there are growth rings embedded on them too,
where growth measured in weeks, not years
What drought is measured on my nails?
Is it a loss of the heart?
Or a loss of love?
A memory lapse?
Loss of the poet?
Loss of protein?
Or a loss of fear?
Maybe ridicule?
Or antibiotics?
A pregnancy?
Memory gain?
Weight loss?
Or water?
Drought?
?
1979
added 2/2017
very minor changes to make the tree shape work
Maelstrom
Maelstrom
The grinding stream, the maelstrom
is a way to the land of the dead
dilate yr mind beyond the unbearable
it is not a forgiving universe
it is inexorable as the stars in their courses
where no sparrow could fall unnoticed
for there are seeds which propagate
themselves along the jetstream of time
the mud has lost its cutting edge
the omphaloessa, the umbilical cord has been severed
"into water wind has come, into water wind will go"
time to separate heaven and earth with a sickle
It Is a Part
It Is a Part
it wraps itself around you
a drop of water splats the top of your head
where the part is
where the part is
warm water in the tub
down your cheek it trickles
as you pull the plug
it escapes slowly down
the drain
where it collects in the pipes
and your sorrow runs underground
to the briney sea
taste the tear that bathes the sea
the tear is salt for your tongue
to taste
1979
added 2/2017
For Worse, Replies My Friend
For Worse, Replies My Friend
naked you walk
naked you walk
netting is suspended at night from stout cords
stars overhead are the presage of summer
and bright stars
i hold myself here and alone through the mist
lost but not completely
and far out into the dawn the first bird of morning
opens his beak and sings
this dawn is shaped by the sole scream of ecstasy
this dawn is shaped by the sole scream of ecstasy
and you just stand there free from it
made free by it
limbs touch the suppleness of a woman
the straightness of a man
now it expresses itself, in control
if we had hope for an excuse, or even love
the apple cuts at your mouth like broken glass
and you lie there like a sick cat in the gutter
while the great bed sighs to itself
i, instead of being dutiful, write letters
the pathology of the life processes is known
as well as the normal
is this an unnamable joy, or a sorrow being named?
there will be some discomfort
limbs touch the suppleness of a woman
the straightness of a man
now it expresses itself, in control
if we had hope for an excuse, or even love
the apple cuts at your mouth like broken glass
and you lie there like a sick cat in the gutter
while the great bed sighs to itself
i, instead of being dutiful, write letters
the pathology of the life processes is known
as well as the normal
is this an unnamable joy, or a sorrow being named?
there will be some discomfort
1979
added 2/2017
To an Eclipse in the Moon - dark Past
To an Eclipse in the Moon - dark Past
Deep sleep lies down within the well gone dry amid boquet of rags on the carpet
fingers explore and massage the erotic zones of the mind the depths of ecstacy dangle on a phallic cross painted red
Paint it red
Paint it red Lately she has taken to painting the lips of her mouth a fragment of the true cross is lodged within her bones, her breast she sought a reflection of it" but her eyes , they cast no shadow in the mecuriaal glass
The church bells are ringing
The bells of the church
They are ringing
The bleedings begun
The bleedings begun What are those flecks of white so like the stars growing upon her feet?
It is the skin
Skin of the dead
Skin of the dead She must wash it away with her hair , lest it adhere and grow there
Let it grow
Let it grow there He was born(some say he was born) during the full of the eclipse moon the eaten eclipse of dragons blood, and he was a man disguised as himself
The needs of the flesh
Made flesh , proud flesh
Being eaten among you
The blood of the dying
The bleedings begun His fingers make sing to another song of her cunt liquid runs in her veins, liquid fire thrust down deep withtn her she is strung out on beads of lapis and bloodstone sweat trickles down between her breasts, she is liquid in the well liquid night of the stars to melt down the yolk of the moon, half eaten see the silver crest of the cock as it crows for the light of the egg flickering stars witness the ritual cannibalism of cocks egg
Visions of pressed wrinkled
Splintered bloody bone
Crushed beneath the weight
The bleedings begun Her bare feet christen the pine steps as she walks like champagne flowing down from the bow of a boat at baptism clouds pass behind the moon moving with the wind
wind... and the flagellation of trees as they whip at the night air she sits with the wind ,and the moon on the horizon she follows it across the ocean on a breath they speak to each in their own
Behold the body
Visions of the flesh
Being eaten among you
The bleedings begun
Patterns
Patterns
The annual and diurnal patterns hold
it seems always to be connected with the notion
that in the savagery of love
the skeleton set in motion collapsed flaccidly
the skeleton set in motion collapsed flaccidly
as we take off from now
the spider crawled all the way down and delivered him
blue as the star
blue as the gull
the bull headed monster
of the double axe
Body whose hands broke ground for that thrusting head
blue as the star
blue as the gull
the bull headed monster
of the double axe
Body whose hands broke ground for that thrusting head
years have passed since that autumn
it had promised to be too hot
but just enough sun warmed them
Pleasant whiteness of pearl barley
Pleasant whiteness of pearl barley
or woman's body, a communal drink
Antares glows faintly without sparkle
behind all that maleness of that mulling night.
1979
sounds like another diPrima workshop pome, june?
added 2/2017
She Steps out of the Mirror
She Steps out of the Mirror
she waits
she is always waiting
she was born waiting
waiting to be reborn
she will die while waiting
she lives in the mirror
she sees only the reflections
looking out of the mirror
at the others looking in
at themselves, at her
none knowing which side of the mirror
they stand behing or in front of
so they wait to see
who will move first
to betray the reflection
in the mirror that waits for them
they are frozen
as they wait to see
if they are reflections
or merely real
they grow old together
die and are reborn
and still they wait
while looking into the mirror
the mirror ages glass
slumps mercury
peels off
warping their reflections
pieces gone missing
like holes in a painting
cracks appear on the glass
across their faces
still immobile
they wait
silica seeks its own
they grow old together
die and are reborn
and still they wait
while looking into the mirror
the mirror ages glass
slumps mercury
peels off
warping their reflections
pieces gone missing
like holes in a painting
cracks appear on the glass
across their faces
still immobile
they wait
silica seeks its own
as glass returns to sand
sand in an hourglass
shifts through time
1979
sounds like a Diane diPrima workshop, if so, then June
added 2/2017
LIGHT
LIGHT
Light cleaves to walls
ceilings & floors.
It sticks to you
& you can't shake it
or wipe it off.
It always comes back looking
for exposed surfaces to cling to.
As you crawl out of darkness
it waits & attaches itself to you
until you hide to avoid it.
But still it comes—
waiting to be freed
from the darkness
that tempers it.
1979?
Light cleaves to walls
ceilings & floors.
It sticks to you
& you can't shake it
or wipe it off.
It always comes back looking
for exposed surfaces to cling to.
As you crawl out of darkness
it waits & attaches itself to you
until you hide to avoid it.
But still it comes—
waiting to be freed
from the darkness
that tempers it.
1979?
The Paper and the Sonoma County Stump
Since I've discovered that I can now backdate my old blog posts that were crammed into the years 2007, and 2008, when I first began blogging, I've been rearranging old posts. However, they no longer have context. So here's a bit on the newspapers I worked for during the 1980s and 1990s, to give you some kickoff perspective.
See also Old Posts, New Posts
See also Old Posts, New Posts
The Paper was first launched in 1979 by Elizabeth Poole and Nick Valentine, in Guernewood Park, and later moved to Monte Rio. After Bliss Buys and Joe Leary's Sonoma County Stump folded around 1981, Simone Wilson and I began working for The Paper. Somewhere along the way, it became the West Sonoma County Paper. Nick Valentine, or the new owner, John Boland (of KQED fame) may have changed the name again. John Boland moved The Paper from Monte RIo to Forestville to Freestone, to Santa Rosa and it became the Sonoma County Independent.
It was purchased in 1994 by Silicon Valley-based Metro Newspapers Group (a chain of 10 weeklies: AAN Metro Silicon Valley and Metro Santa Cruz). Soon after that, I left The Paper, the thrill was gone, micromanagers and myopic editors, and turfy journalists including Gretchen Giles, ran roughshod over us. I didn't survive the politics. The jerk with whom I was sharing darkroom duties (I was on the road a lot in those days) stole my negatives and job. And that was that.
The Sonoma County Independent morphed into the Northern California Bohemian in 2000, or rather, The North Bay Bohemian. Alas, the archives only date back to November of 1995. I use the same name throughout, though I worked for at least three iterations of the paper. I got some good stories, I learned a lot. For that I'm grateful.
Impossible to find anything online about The Sonoma County Stump. But I found this:
It was purchased in 1994 by Silicon Valley-based Metro Newspapers Group (a chain of 10 weeklies: AAN Metro Silicon Valley and Metro Santa Cruz). Soon after that, I left The Paper, the thrill was gone, micromanagers and myopic editors, and turfy journalists including Gretchen Giles, ran roughshod over us. I didn't survive the politics. The jerk with whom I was sharing darkroom duties (I was on the road a lot in those days) stole my negatives and job. And that was that.
The Sonoma County Independent morphed into the Northern California Bohemian in 2000, or rather, The North Bay Bohemian. Alas, the archives only date back to November of 1995. I use the same name throughout, though I worked for at least three iterations of the paper. I got some good stories, I learned a lot. For that I'm grateful.
More here on The Paper. THURSDAY, JULY 28, 2011
Remembering Nick Valentine & Phil Osborn at The Paper
Activist Mary Moore wrote to the Bohemian editor: Your birth was in Monte Rio around 1979 as The Paper and I still have many articles saved from that time. With Nick Valentine as editor and Tom and Elizabeth as publishers, this brave little weekly with beautiful graphics and extraordinary layout (before computers) became must reading for all us counterculture types. It replaced Bliss Buy's previous paper, the Sonoma County Stump as the activist publication, and was one of the reasons that we were so successful in 1980, the first year that we protested at Bohemian Grove. It took us through the early 1980s protests at Rancho Seco, Diablo Canyon and the Livermore labs as well as covering all our doings here at home.
Impossible to find anything online about The Sonoma County Stump. But I found this:
Patrick K. Lanzing, Editor/Photographer/Life StudentSonoma County Stump1972 – 1975 (3 years) Russian River, CaliforniaI found this reference in the March 1978 Oak Leaf: Jerry Garcia Band and Robert Hunter’s band Comfort will be appearing at the Sebastopol Veterans Auditorium on March 22 to do a Benefit for the Sonoma County Stump, a local newspaper. Tickets are on sale now so if you’re interested, go get ’em while they’re still available.
Learned how to run a local-area community newspaper in the beautiful Russian River region of Sonoma County, CA, alongside one of the great unsung heroines of the American Free Press: Bliss Buys (ne: Cochrane). Helped organize a benefit featuring the Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter Bands. Photographed the Russian River Rodeo and stomped grapes with folks who nowadays own their own wineries. Walked in the redwoods, happy but dirt poor. Wrote stirring editorials and knew my community. Then I went to the big city and got a "real" job.
The White Goddess
The White Goddess
you have slept within the worship of the divine child
you have also slept with the white goddess
she has stolen from you your light
she will always steal it from you
you will always give it to her
she is the moon, she waxes and wanes at your touch
she drips liquid from her crescent
she is the old moon going out in the arms of the new moon at dawn
her crescent is the horns of the bull-headed monster in the labyrinth
she is the rebirth
she may steal your darkness
she may restore your light
she may devour you
she will kill you yet, in her hand
she may steal your darkness
she may restore your light
she may devour you
she will kill you yet, in her hand
is the double-bladed axe
you will be reborn from a tear in her eye
you will trickle down her cheek onto her breast
you will evaporate and become frozen salt of the tear
you are the bearer of that name which you have lost
it is not precisely lost
you will be reborn from a tear in her eye
you will trickle down her cheek onto her breast
you will evaporate and become frozen salt of the tear
you are the bearer of that name which you have lost
it is not precisely lost
it is not precisely missing
and she is dressed in lion skins
1979?
It sounds like a poem from the Diane diPrima workshop in which case it was written in June/
added 2/2017
THE UNDULATION OF DESIRE
THE UNDULATION OF DESIRE
My belly in your hands
undulating 'til it swells as round as the glass float
that broke loose from the fishermen's net
carried by the Japanese current
past the fog shrouded coast of Hokkaido,
past Russia, the Bering Straights,
to the shores of California
where waves deposited it on fine sand.
- a glistening ruby of the sea.
Making a journey up the coastline of your body
my breasts envelop that firm resistance
a soft frothy cradle for your blind mouth
to spill the surgences of the sea in my kelp hair,
Gentle bells, my breasts softly swaying
two windblown tulips
their nipples the center of the flower
- a stamen for your lips.
In the dark, your hands reaching for me
as I sit astride, I am a dancer
where waves deposited it on fine sand.
- a glistening ruby of the sea.
Making a journey up the coastline of your body
my breasts envelop that firm resistance
a soft frothy cradle for your blind mouth
to spill the surgences of the sea in my kelp hair,
Gentle bells, my breasts softly swaying
two windblown tulips
their nipples the center of the flower
- a stamen for your lips.
In the dark, your hands reaching for me
as I sit astride, I am a dancer
with back arched to the wind.
1979
added 2/2017
this sounds like a first draft of
FISHNET
The red glass float from the fisherman's net
rides the Japanese current past the Russian coast
and the Bering Straits to California
where it glistens like a jewel in the sand.
Making the journey down the coastline of your body,
my breasts cradle your blind mouth.
The essence of the sea spills into kelp hair.
From the net, your hand uncovers precious stones
and the arching dolphins at the crest of the wave
rise in the wind like love's cry.
After the River
After the River
You melt like words on my tongue
bitter pith of lemons
essence of oil to salivate
sweet and sour on the sides
the tip tastes of salt
from the sweat that drips from the eye
Slow bits of dying lie scattered about
like chunks of flesh bitten out of a living whale by sharks
the ten percent loss of body mass is followed by death
the sharks swim on only after they've each eaten their fill
plus the tongue of the leviathan
Devour your flesh live
the essence of being is still there
to share with you in the communal meal
the sweat of salt heightens your olfactory senses
on the tip of the tongue tastes of ocean
Words almost spoken
rest by the banks on the river tongue
that eddies and swirls around incomplete thoughts
the blossom of the lemon is sweet, honeyed
doesn't prepare the tongue for the fruit
that's why we taste both sweet and sour
on the same banks of tongue
We add sugar to sweeten the burden
we are the world's hungry
see the hunger in our eyes
the salt, the sweat, the tears
We add sugar to sweeten the burden
but it's still the same sour fruit
the back of the tongue recieves the bitter pith
as it journeys to the throat
There is no return to the sweetness
the bitterness of taste is to be sophisticated
like coffee and dry martinis
sweet teeth are for children
The appetite never ceases
tolerance for sugar increases tongue's addictive appetite
we eat each other down and starve from lack of nourishment
There is no return to the sweetness
the bitterness of taste is to be sophisticated
like coffee and dry martinis
sweet teeth are for children
The appetite never ceases
tolerance for sugar increases tongue's addictive appetite
we eat each other down and starve from lack of nourishment
we are the world's hungry
see the hunger in our eyes
the salt, the sweat, the tears
to increase and stimulate the taste
We strap on promises we can't keep across the flesh of our tongues
We strap on promises we can't keep across the flesh of our tongues
intolerable links of sweetness across the pith of the lemon
essence of oil escapes from the rind
voilatile into the air we breathe
our nostrils flare and we hunger for more
we starving bodies
essence of oil escapes from the rind
voilatile into the air we breathe
our nostrils flare and we hunger for more
we starving bodies
we hunger
always we hunger
for more
1979
added 2/2017
Breath of Wind
Breath of Wind
The death it strikes
the anger it comes
it goes it comes again
like the tide that flows
increasing rhythm of life
its ebbs and flows
Time: time to, go, come again
the pull, the push
of the moon upon the earth
we are of the earth
we return to it again
we unite, we become the elements
we flow into the oceans
we are of the earth
we return to it again
we unite, we become the elements
we flow into the oceans
to nourish the living
the living
it is teneous like death
a breath, we exist
a breath of wind stirs the water
whips it into a frenzy
a breath of wind stirs the water
it evaporates into air
moves the clouds to land
a breath for rain
water completes its cycle on the land
the rain to nourish the living
Water: we are 97 percent water
tissue of the living
to seek it
always the seeking
we are the living.
the living
it is teneous like death
a breath, we exist
a breath of wind stirs the water
whips it into a frenzy
a breath of wind stirs the water
it evaporates into air
moves the clouds to land
a breath for rain
water completes its cycle on the land
the rain to nourish the living
Water: we are 97 percent water
tissue of the living
to seek it
always the seeking
we are the living.
1979
added 2017
Berries in Winter
Berries in Winter
there is nothing more
there is nothing more
red than the color of hawthorn berries
in winter
berries the size
of bird's eggs against the grey
of last year's grasses and the pale green
of winter sprouts
herring-bone pattern of pines
on steep hillsides
softwoods crocheted on the north slopes
the top of the ridge snakes in and out
berries the size
of bird's eggs against the grey
of last year's grasses and the pale green
of winter sprouts
herring-bone pattern of pines
on steep hillsides
softwoods crocheted on the north slopes
the top of the ridge snakes in and out
of the barbed wire stretched
along its surface like strings
on the neck of a fiddle
the trees on the top of the ridge
the trees on the top of the ridge
are like a fine Chinese comb
grooming the fleece of clouds
we live on the western slope
we live on the western slope
on the eastern side
of this mountain.
1979
added 2/2017
Who Pulled the Plug? Clock says 7 after 9
Who Pulled the Plug?
Clock says 7 after 9
been saying it for days
gets tired of it but no; one notices
It dosn't know if its A.M. or P.M.
prefers to go round clockwise
but has been known to counter the issue
Now as time stands still
clock gets lonely for internal order
so it waits
(what else can it do?)
clock says 7 after 9.
It dosn't know if its A.M. or P.M.
prefers to go round clockwise
but has been known to counter the issue
Now as time stands still
clock gets lonely for internal order
so it waits
(what else can it do?)
clock says 7 after 9.
1979
added 2/2017
The Dichotomy of Edges
The Dichotomy of Edges
and when i walk upon the ridge
my footstep is uncertain
the wind is too cool for summer
and it sweeps up the ridge from the valley below
the valley below the ridge
the valley below the ridge
where our faces melted in the moonlight
yours white, mine featureless
against moonshadow
i felt your fear as we rolled faceless in the grass
i stt on the ridge in sunlight
is it true we must separate ourselves
from day and night?
the edge of night carries in your fear
on a double headed axe
the axe is cutting the edge of our love
our friendship
sever one, can the other survive?
the dicotomy of edges two people two ways
you are the tao of water
you seek your own course down
from the mountain to the valley below
i felt your fear as we rolled faceless in the grass
i stt on the ridge in sunlight
is it true we must separate ourselves
from day and night?
the edge of night carries in your fear
on a double headed axe
the axe is cutting the edge of our love
our friendship
sever one, can the other survive?
the dicotomy of edges two people two ways
you are the tao of water
you seek your own course down
from the mountain to the valley below
i am the vessel placed there to collect you
as you tumble downward
you are also the night and the day that freezes
and thaws the water in the vessel
if the vessel breaks, the sharp edges
stressed by night frost
need the day to bring back the water
to wear the edges smooth again
you are the water
you are the day
i walk down the ridge
my step is uncertain
i am afraid to leave the ridge
the shadows grow taller across the valley
and the wind is too cool for summer
it brings in the fear riding in on the fog.
1979
added 2/2017
A SENSE OF TASTE
A sense of taste
Today is far eating just made apple pie
Today is far eating just made apple pie
this afternoon's blackberries
with dinner a bottle of noir
Nibble upon skin
Nibble upon skin
taste it
knead it
make it
Tomorrow I'll fast
wake up to more apple pie and cheese
after lunch I'll fast
after dinner I'll fast
Hey, let's eat!
1979
added 2/2017
Tomorrow I'll fast
wake up to more apple pie and cheese
after lunch I'll fast
after dinner I'll fast
Hey, let's eat!
1979
added 2/2017
Forthcoming in Spectrum 34/35 Double Issue, 2023
at yr own wake
at yr own wake
would you come to your own wake
would you knock at your own door-—
would you walk beside me in the land of the living
would you stand before me on the funeral pyre
would you light the match
would you light the match
would you stand before the temple
would you draw the knife across my heart
on the stone altar
would you drink up my blood
would you offer me up?
1979 when?
aded 2/2017
SHORT LOVE POEMS 1978-87 new file
Since I don’t have creation dates for most of these, I made a long file.
Table of Contents:
Short Poems 1979
BAMBOO
I send you white chrysanthemums
frigid as the setting moon
bamboo crickets rub legs
in rhythm to rustling sheets
9/23/1979
BEHOLD THE RIGHT EYE
you watch my nakedness
watch my body turning
in the room i am naked
your eyes upon me are naked
your left eye gathers me up
the right eye keeps distance
my breast calls your name
you gather me up on your cock
& your night eye closes
1980
DAWN POEM
to the beauty of the dawn
a lotus opens its wings
winter sun dips into darkness
and we recall our own birth
sprouting seeds
& mud in my hand
12/10/1979
it provided immediate inspiration
and maximized limited resources
it continued to be used
with down-to-earth impact
6/9/79
JAZZ NOTE
was that a
blue bird in a
bay tree
or a jay bird
in a blue tree?
10/12/79
SC Stump 1980
MELANCHOLY
the center of a muskmelon
with its lips full of seed
is like the body of a woman
in love
7/28/1979 or 80
MOON CUP
touch the red moon
the cup is full
the pouch holds the cup
like the moon in Gemini
liquid birth
of the moon in a cup
cup full of moon
the body full
the moon blood full
like the heart
eclipse
of dragon's blood
spilled from the cup
the blood of the moon
6/10/1979
UNTITLED HALF LIFE
The ocean is the first
circulatory system
of creatures
Could this scorpio moon
newly shaven
stretch its beams
across the continent?
What is the half life
of a hippie marriage?
11/13/79
UNTITLED LOVE POEM # 3
emptiness of seashells
mourning for the ocean
trapped within an ear--
my tongue traces snail patterns
in the dark
12/17/1979
UNTITLED LOVE POEM # 4
please stay the night
again the night
once again the night
stay
7/7/1979
UNTITLED LOVE POEM # 9
the perfume of flowers
sitar sound
drumbeat
music slips into the ear
bellies slip down
make love
8/13/79
Sunday, December 31, 1978
Sunday, December 24, 1978
APHRODISIAC
He sits with his back to me,
and his reflection in the mirror
watches me intently.
Quite mad, his glazed fire opal eyes peer at me.
He had been nibbling upon the mistletoe earlier,
and was obviously quite high on its necromantic properties.
The druids never mentioned anything about a cat
getting high on mistletoe.
But then again, he doesn’t like catnip.
Aphrodite never told him he is supposed to get high
on catnip either.
Buggins, a large, longhair, orange, and white tabby was quite an intelligent character. Completely nuts. Bob, who thought he didn’t like cats, took the cat when we broke up. I was devastated. But I was also homeless for quite some time.
. 
Thursday, December 21, 1978
KAT HAIKU
Sleepy cat stretches
his popsicle toes furrily—
southern sun bathes him.
Asleep in a dark room,
my gut for a launchpad, cat
settles in for a bath.
Crumpled prayer rug
on the floor while the glib cat
quietly licks his paws.
Cat innocently
licks his paws, again surveys
the prayer rug, crumpled.
Lonely, straightened rug
waiting for the nesting cat
to attack again.
Cat lies in waiting,
watches rug suspiciously
for some sign of life.
Dawn, suspiciously
cat, and I watch each other
for some signs of life.
Winter, 1978
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