cosmic dustbowl niall twohig
cosmic dustbowl
niall twohig
C H A RY B D I S P R E S S new york
Published by Charybdis Press New York 2017 Charybdis Press Some rights reserved Printed and bound in the USA 15 14 13 12 4 3 2 1 First Edition http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/
Text & Poetry: Niall Twohig Layout & Design: Jason Blasso Photo: NASA: https://www.nasa.gov/image-feature/goddard/2016/hubble-sees-alegion-of-galaxies Warnock, CiscoSerif, Rockwell & Whitman fonts used. www.charybdispress.com
For Lianne, Jay, Mol, Jeff, and Jimmy We’re together even when we’re apart
contents Cosmic Dustbowl Universal Riding the Evening Train Strange Familiar Under an Orange Moon Storykeeper Rain Haiku Her Eyes In Yours Eyes In His Eyes Hard Travelin’ Woman (A Song) You Crack Me Up Hoarders and Other Squirrely Folk Serenade, or the Ocean Blues The Crying Room The Big Crunch
Cosmic Dustbowl Our dust never settles. It rests, shortly, gnomically, in this little form. but never long. It always kicks up, remembers its nomadism, It came a long way, has a long ways to go. It hits the road, goes a billion ways, carrying bindles from homes once known.
 
Universal From Ma and Pa death maw and paw Saint Paul and all kept all in universal Universe, sweet universe Uni, verse, all Uni versus all You know who versus all Universe sweet all wee swee sweet all sweet universal We swept all in all under the rug and all
 
Riding The Evening Train fer the fellow Larry saw jumping I. I’ve ridden the train, twenty years of my life, hidden below light, out of human sight. And where’s the green and the blue? Who, who gave birth below heaven, raised me on the idea of the unseen? Seen, am I seen? or maybe just a ghost, sitting here in this handicapped seat pack of wrapped cigarettes in my lap, devils riding at my feet. “Get outta that seat!” says the conductor. I say, “I’ve been trying all my life.” “Life,” laughs the conductor. “Life is the subway, and I’m the drunken train, twisting and turning along rust rotten tracks. Look there! Below my metal skin: Rats! Scuttling and squirming thrashing and gnashing A thought gnaws at my brain— the poison in their veins. I’m poisoned too. I’m turning,
as metal turns to rust, as dewy skin to dust. Look there! Below rusty panels, through my dusty windows. Can you see them inside: My boundless passengers, all itchin’ to exit. Poor souls have a hellofalotta stops to go. (Standing room only) Wishin’ they could lie down, (Dry faces and parched lips) Wishin’ they could cry biblical floods. Once, a fella stood on the platform, stepped over the yellow line heard a low lingering whine, thought it was a train, but it was echoing, echoing somewheres deep in his brain, And that’s when he realized, realized I is the drunken train, And beyond I— all one chain, one winding restraint binding us inside (not out), and there ain’t a one of us can hide from the dirt ’n the dust, from the fungal must, the surrogate stench of others, the hellish-heavenly bells: Dew Dewwww! Dew Dewwww! Stand clear, brother, stand clear of them devils (or angels) riding at yer feet.” I say “I don’t have the time of day no time, no day, no pay for metaphors, similes, or homilies.
I’m no drunken train, Just a drunk on this train. The only devils I see are these dust devils riding at my feet.” “Well then, get outta that seat,” says the conductor. “Here. You. Are. Last stop, full stop.” II. I step off the train, see a man on the track back to the world, fingers curled around a necktie he wants us all to know is his noose. He’s tryin’ too hard, tryin’ too hard, to get it loose, but it just ain’t no use. “Come down,” he says, “Let’s bow to her light.” puts his head to the rail, a gesture cued to the sound of rolling thunder and hail. “Stale,” he says, “Everything went stale, rotten, then turned to dust. Cigarettes left my lungs with a hole, but you should see the singular solitary place of the ‘soul’— holey, holey, holey black hole. Nothing escapes it, not the sweet, nor the light.
“All I have now is her, my evening train. Bow down, offer her this prayer: Empty. Empty your mind, leave it all behind, don’t cry at night don’t pray for light, don’t curl fists for a fight. Empty. Empty your self. It’s the holey way— Dust to dust, not a stain or a drop of you or I to leave on the tracks, just dust for dust devils.” III. Evening train’s halo precedes it, along with a Doppler scream. Then, its face appears from the tunnel. It speeds towards its devotee, But before it splits his brain time freezes and we feel rain, spring rain falling and pounding puddles, dripping and dropping on green trees and green leaves. And me and this noosed man, We walk and talk through this rain. And I say, “Why get off at that stop?” “Why ride the rails to someone else’s heaven or hell That ain’t our way,
Let’s step off the train, set out for lands greened by rain. Let’s go up, aboveground, We’ll laugh at the empty night, kiss the morning light. We’ll dance in the darkness, sing in the shadows. Sane or insane, I’m just trying hard to be seen. So, see me here. See me now. Give me your hand and let me share some of the pain you’re tugging at on that necktie, just a necktie, not a noose. So loosen it, Give it some slack, cut yourself some too. His heart gives 165 pounds as he gets off the ground. No more sound, no more sight, just overcast easterly light all ’round. The last sound are his words, as light as they are sweet: “Help me up off the track. Let’s bring it all back, all back home, to the last stop on the A, Some Far Rockaway of our dusty old hearts, Ferlinghetti said something of that sort.” I take it all in, no word escapes me. I crush his words and hand into mine. Dry hands remember what parched lips cannot say: Weatherman says chances of rain are slim but not none. Let’s take our chances, we’re bound to be bound for some place better,
some place a little less dusty than these subways, these path trains we’ve been on all our life.
Strange Familiar fer J You are the gift of my self-awareness, ripple in the stream that causes me pause in this our ceaseless drift You are me becoming aware of you becoming aware of me You are a wrinkle in time, upon the void, upon the brow of a nameless shoeless faceless hobo who, for today, I call brother because I see in him my own wrinkles, graying hairs, my own eventual nameless face and shoeless feet You are a crack in the cobblestone. If it means bringing death to see you then I choose the sickle-edge of knowledge. I choose crumbling edges and eroded beaches over quilted patchwork prairies You and I are like those single celled critters who, for a pinprick of time, danced together (not even knowing it!) in primordial goo, to rhythms before they were rhythms, to jazz bands of fire and ash and smoke, only aren’t we aware of the humor in being a part and breaking apart! In those depths, you showed me that in bringing death I be, I be, I be nothing, I be, I be, I become, I be, I be, I be a-breaking the circle and absolving the body (my manifold eyes burning, you tell me not to look with many eyes, but with one that peeks through form and void, And when I see ‘er, you laugh a thunder clap that brings me back down to this simple fire) Looking in these three mirrors, my true face is a strange familiar, as an arcane nebula is a strange familiar
So I un-name you, Strange Familiar, as you motion me upward to look through the darker mirror, to hear a voice from within without that silently says: Bring death, bring life, float on wordlessly now, brother, till we dance again as familiar strangers  
Under an Orange Moon It’s about ramblin’ on with the words not worryin’ about what it means to be a good Marxist It’s about not stoppin’ or worryin’ about rhymin’ or reasonin’ It’s about welcomin’ in strangers to the fire and askin’ them to put away their phones and bad songs and instead listenin’ to Mother Moon as she’s singin’ and a-screamin’ and a-blinkin’ and arrestin’ us in astral waves and lunar vibrations It’s about hopin’ for the aurora with no aurora in sight though Jeff is wishin’ it was there with all his heart It’s about that old nameless hobo who once told tales to school kids about gettin’ caught up in a churnin’ threshin’ machine on the beach but who lived to tell the tale and it’s about me wonderin’ where he is now and thankin’ him for his verse and hopin’ he’s sleepin’ soundly It’s about hobo Steve, now dead, masterin’ those 5 and 10 cent bottles though his nose goes a-drippin’ till dawn
It’s about Remedios Varo not carin’ about her nose but carin’ for the Moon, like a child, as she walks through the store door and loses all sense o’time and space It’s about stars givin’ and giftin’ us their old light, linkin’ us with tendrils and threads that get tangled up in our wind-tossled hair It’s about not publishin’ the pages but about givin’ your Da a big hug and findin’ him a back-man close to his home a backwater place from a past Norm Rockwell never imagined: spine charts and certifications hangin’ askew but spines bein’ bent a-right and put a-new It’s about rememberin’ your mom and Julian and that 18-hour trip to college that should have been two when Julian, hard working man with rock-solid hands, built his engine eight times over each time gettin’ us twenty - thirty miles for the puzzle-piece of spare parts that would get us goin’ again It’s about rememberin’ the loves of your life and wishin’ hers a nice wish and blowin’ hers a sweet kiss across time or space It’s about breakin’ out of your proper place
and a-ramblin’ on to a place your Principal never saw you a-goin’ even though she kisses your cheek and says I saw you getting there before ya got there It’s about buyin’ the $60 shirt you can’t afford and exchangin’ your secret passwords and writin’ till your hand runs adrift and helpin’ a friend lift some drywall on your day off It’s about pushin’ and peddlin’ and burnin’ the pages and beatin’ the rhymes and greetin’ Erin Otton on 92nd street and hearin’ your old man tell her God bless your dead pa’s soul and hearin’ disbelievin’ Erin say: she believes cause that’s just what she needed to hear It’s about this backwater town called Rockaway that shared its fair share of the troubles these last several years It’s about the good people tryin’ to make a livin’ after Sandy after the towers went a-fallin’ after another plane went a-crashin’ It’s about those poor souls on the flight who didn’t see it comin’ when
Da saw it comin’ outside his winda’ and that sight haunts him till the end of his days It’s about listenin’ to Bob Dylan and Woody and not bein’ afraid to imitate their style or do as they’d do by offerin’ a kind gesture to strangers in need of a fire It’s about Julian repairin’ his van just to get me where I needed to be goin’ so many times he deserves a second verse It’s about Ma nursin’ so hard but still pickin’ me up from a 5am flight though she should be a-sleepin’ and takin’ the day off It’s about wakin’ jetlagged hearin’ her shovelin’ what’s left o’ the flood It’s about good ol’ Sarah keepin’ me on the straight and narrow and a-walkin’ the line so I made something of myself that could be given back to the good people who are still prayin’ to God even though I don’t say prayers no more It’s about Uncle Derm
translatin’ Heidegger and illuminatin’ Bible verses in his old Gaelic hand It’s about him cutting back on sugar and adding a wee bit of nectar to the coffee he’s a-sippin as the cancer went a-growin’ yet we still went a-ramblin’ on to El Greco and Valesquez And you told me, Uncle Derm, about El Greco’s eye-troubles that burnt his world and set it aglow It’s about D.B. Twohigk’s beautiful wife Kay and his sons and daughter briningin’ a ready-made life back to life for a day It’s about automatic writin’ and scribblin’ and readin’ Rimbaud so you remember to bring these burning senses back down to earth and to fire It’s about your friend, J, who tries so hard to keep the beach fire a-burnin’ even when nature’s callin’ and he has to let go
It’s about givin’ keepers o’the flame a little time off bringin’ them a blanket when they’re a-shiverin’ so they can enjoy the last o’their buzz It’s about rememberin’ and talkin about all the dreamers o’68 who picked up the pavement n’ found beach beneath the brick they’re ’bout to throw It’s about bringin’ to mind Mike Brown and thinkin’ his is the worst way to go It’s about Jeff not being able to explain his lunar visions of Mother Moon as he cries and falls to the sand born anew It’s about Ma, so kindhearted, spottin’ J at a party and askin’ why the girl with another guy is lookin’ at him with lovin’ eyes from afar It’s about Mel being as good a mum as she could be whilst strung-out
between two poles set so far apart It’s about Mol, now doin’ it all in the spirit of her dear dead sister Mel It’s about Ivan transcribin’ his dear dead dad’s art It’s about Kristin and Danielle who took me a-climbin’ in Acadia Park It’s about Auntie Clea who drank too much wine and now needs a nephew to reach out and ask: Auntie, how have ya been It’s about Renato planning a dam and gettin the job only minutes after flyin’ in upside down from the clouds It’s about my dear sweet Lianne Who I love With all my lopsided heart And the critters we keep ’round us to mark our days with a magic we have n’known since the start
It’s about her being the chiropractor for my lopsided heart It’s about puttin’ the pen down and flippin’ through a book of art that your dear dead uncle would have loved with all o’his dadaist heart It’s about your brother Larry who turned his car ‘round though he’ll turn back again just as he does on the track It’s about his kind-hearted wife D who is now the mom to the son who she cares for with all her green upstate heart It’s about ramblin’ on to Dave and Busters and grabbin’ new memories by winnin’ six 5 cent watches for your dear sweet nephew Gabe It’s about missin’ your sister Mel who needed your help but now you’re helpin’ her by puttin’ pen to paper and by teachin’ her son when it’s right to rebel
It’s about all o’them who helped me see that livin’ true to yourself means livin’ true to your roots and livin’ true to the good workin’ people who deserve to be writin’ verse rather’n beatin’ their heels to the turf Under an orange moon, it’s about all o’them and more Under an orange moon, it’s about all o’that and some more
Storykeeper fer J — again Seated by the fire, you stoke the flames, stir up another story. The wind whistles a reminder: even Lieh Tzu came back down after fifteen days.
 
Rain Haiku fer Lohgi The land was in drought Without a doubt, you brought Rain, Green sprouts, high and low
 
Her Eyes In Your Eyes In His Eyes fer Jeff Did anyone ever tell you that yer eyes smile? I once knew a girl whose eyes smiled like yours, Though she’s gone now, her eyes smile on like Buddha’s eyes smilin’ on a thousand times a thousand cheap candles in a thousand times a thousand novelty stores (I find the value of your eyes and her eyes innumerable, and if there were a number, wouldn’t it be well beyond the thousandth power!) Did anyone ever tell you that yer son’s eyes smile? Yer eyes are smilin’ in his eyes That’s the first blink of a thought that came to mind The second: Her eyes are smilin’ in yer eyes are smilin’ in his eyes And with that strange upturned twist o’ thought, I realize I’ve seen them smilin’ eyes before, Not just in that girl I once knew, But in your Ma, who I met in a worn-out Johnson City diner in fresher days, days when your eyes held and beheld, when her eyes held and beheld, when that girl’s eyes held and beheld only smiles despite the sad sight of worn-out busted ol’ diner seats (the best kind!) Did anyone ever tell you that yer eyes smile? And isn’t it a hard thing now
For eyes to smile as yours smile And hers smiled and hers smiled Hard now that her eyes have closed and her eyes have closed (Some sad lines needs repeatin’ a thousand times a thousand times) But why end with sad lines When, sure enough, I find between the lines her eyes smilin’ in your eyes smilin’ in his eyes A thousand times a thousand poems can’t hold a candle to them sets of smilin’ eyes
Hard Travelin’ Woman (A Song) fer Mel When your cigarette was all ashed out, And you came a-callin’ for some help, We weren’ there to find you in a dark, as dark as four-armed Kali’s breast Weren’ you a hard travelin’ woman, Mel, Your brow wrinkled way too young, You’d hitched a ride for some Outback, went elsewhere at the drop o’ a dime, Cause for you there weren’ no East nor West When your head was a-rollin’ sideways, And you drank yourself too drunk, I wasn’t there to hear your silent callin’, I was too damn sober t’hear your merlot song Weren’ you a hard travelin’ woman, Mel, your eyes lookin’ young yet old, You threw your compass to the wind, When someone saw you a-travelin’ eastward they’d be sure the sun set n’ the East not West When you were a-weepin gently by that River, And your tears went floatin’ down the bank, Wasn’ I the one gladly fillin’ my bucket from Piedra’s salty stream Weren’ you a hard travelin’ woman, Mel, You threw your clock-hands to the wind, For you there weren’ no timelines, no dates, nor deadlines, Cause a hard travelin’ woman knows none o’ hours, nor minutes, nor second hands When you were a-shinin’ on the beach, runnin’ up your desert storm, Wasn’t I the blind one then, Couldn’t see a smile as bright as baby Krsna’s crown
Aren’ you a hard travelin’ woman, Mel, Your body now dust on the wind, But wouldn’ I be a fool to forget that you, our hard travelin’ woman, Would be the first to throw caution and sadness to the wind
You Crack Me Up fer Baba We often use the phrase you crack me up without ever really stopping to think about what just happened that caused us, almost instinctively, to say those words. Let’s think about what that phrase means in its truest form: You crack me up. When I listen to you chuckle or hear your hearty belly laugh, it cracks me up. Your laughter breaks me into pieces, a thousand fissures, that lets in all the light of the cosmos. When the walls of my self give way, I am free with you. For an instant, we are one. We swirl and twirl together in the white light. And this has nothing to do with time or space. After all, you might as well have said what you said ten hours ago or a hundred years ago. I still would have cracked up if I’d come across your words. I’d be chuckling and you’d be chuckling across the gap of time and space. We’re cracking up together. The downside is that we always come back to ourselves. The laughter ends.
Then, we have to deal with all those folks who keep the walls up: the glum, the sad, the mad, the snooty, the moody, and the serious. Theirs is not a world of cosmic laughter. They prefer a world of cavernous shadows. They prefer their masks of tragedy. But I guess the joke’s on them. For aren’t we the ones that saw and felt what it was like to laugh and snort and soar to new heights?
Hoarders and Other Squirrely Folk fer Da Ain’t it a strange half-fact that we, such God-fearing or God-disbelieving folk, are related to squirrels? Heard that on a scratchy radio once, so must be at least half-true Last week Da saved four squirrels from the Pest Man, but don’t go calling him St. Francis just yet, for wasn’t he the one who phoned the Pest Man in the first place! Scritch-Scratchin’ got to him, running nails and circles all up and down his wall When it comes to hoarders, a Pest Man must do as a Pest Man does: sets his box-cage a-hangin’ just right on the roof, fills it full o’ bait to lure the itinerant boarders from their much too cozy place Silence in the wall turns to a tossin’ n’ tusslin’ from that cage Next morning: four caught up in the box, shiverin’ and a-shaking together, fur clumping through that gridded cage Scrtichity-scratching at the bars
More power to them, Mammy Squirrel and her three young ones, they huddled it out together, made it through a damp and chill ol’ night Then the boots stip-steppin’ up the ladder, rustlin’ and a ringin’ o’ the cage The Pest Man tells Da what’s next, after all it’s just his job, a Pest Man must do as a Pest Man does, but doesn’t Da say Ah, God no! Ya can’t do that! Da gives a sigh, a squirrely breath from a well-wintered pair o’ lungs Da says to the Pest Man, Look son, c’mere a sec I’ll show you something among my things A rustlin’ sound as Da leaves through scattered papers and a shamble of loose bills Old Da, hoarder of warped and wrinkled photos, finds two of himself from another time: A hunter holding a line of dead fish, a fox by her tail Scratchin’ from the cage reminds Pest Man that he’s gotta shove off for a long day’s work But Da says, Look son, don’t ya know I used to hunt, After eating many an Irish rabbit, didn’t I come to see the light when I found myself raising a wee lil one? Another rustlin’ as Da rummages through his mess of scattered papers
No use givin’ a homily about all God’s creatures great and small, Da finds his buried checkbook which he’s thinking speaks in clearer tongues A scribblin’ and scratchin’ of the pen and the Pest Man says Are ya nuts! Then a turning point, like a critter roundin’ up a oncefamiliar tree, when the Pest Man sees another photo: Da, much younger, in white collar and black frock Now the scratchin’ half-reminds the Pest Man of school catechism once remembered but now long forgot He says, Hey St. Francis, this critter cage, she’s all yours, no check needed, he hands her over to the defrocked priest and disarmed hunter (turned hoarder in the end) A scattering sound of nuts as Da (sure as day, he must be nuts!) feeds the critters and figures out how to set four o’ them free In the end it ain’t that strange a fact that such squirrely folk as Da are on the same family tree as the furry four he once set free
Serenade, or the Ocean Blues fer Sweet Sweet Caeli I. Spizzlesplashdizzeldash Wade out under orange moon, when the ocean’s swish-swishity-swish thunderclaps to a pause Wade out then and there, into silent pumpkin colored seas, and you might just catch sight o’ sweet-eyed Serenade, a humble myth-makin’ maid with a shimmerin’ diamond face that sets the sea alight (but only if you happen upon ’er under orange moon and milky night) II. Spizzlesplashdizzeldash Some say that’s the sound of sweet-eyed Serenade as she goes a-skimming down through waters deep, movin’ as a feather moves, dancin’ free and freer still Free, wasn’t she so free! down there, in seas so deep, far from man’s dust n’ dirt n’ plastic things, that’s where Serenade and all her maids went swimmin’, carryin’ peacock colored trails in their wake, glidin’ through villages free o’ walls and free o’ clocks,
swirlin’ and twirlin’ past public schools full o’ fish o’ many a size n’ shape n’ form, driftin’ through emerald cities formed from green sea-glass n’ greener sand, See them venture in deeper deeps, swimmin’ through crystal communes set a-sparklin’ by phosphorescent clouds, playin’ loop-the-loop on carousels made o’ shell and mother o’ pearl, hop-skippin’ through Grandest Canyons (deep enough for three o’ ours), where ten thousand chandelier-shaped jellyfish set them valleys alight and aglow And down deeper deeper still, Serenade and her gals go a-glidin’ across ruby red prairies broken only by giant pillars n’ plumes o’ smoke, Magma cracks and lava streams can’t stop them girls from a-ridin’ volcanic Ferris Wheels spun in motion by ocean currents (No height checks or tickets required, no electricity needed) And down to deepest deeps, To deep dark caverns where all’s they had was touch, Fearless Serenade and all her gals skimmed their hands and tails into the dark, skimmin’ across octopus gardens and squid forests that went a-swayin’ and a-wavin’ back “how are ya” as Serenade and those gals swam on and on, no particular destination on the eye, no time or place in mind, just slippin’ on, slippin on through dreamlands and slipstreams III. Spizzlesplashdizzeldash
Tis’ the sound her truest love made when first she heard him swimmin’ by her side, ’Twas sound that brought them together, But ’twas sound too that set them far apart, set them a-waitin’ for the day, when they might meet again under orange moon and milky sky That sad story (as many a story goes), started light n’ sweet: In times long gone, when the oceans were a calmer place, Serenade and her fella filled the seas with sweet sweet song, harmonies went a-echoin’ echoin’ through emerald cities, past ruby towns, down to darkest deepest deeps, rhythms filled the ocean blues, sent jellyfish pop-hoppin’ in shared step, gave ‘n extra twirl to carousels ‘n extra whirl to Ferris Wheels, Even from far off, you’d hear their song movin’ and minglin’ with phosphorescent clouds, breakin’ through pillars o’ ash and smoke, Always would it find ya, even in the darkest dark and deepest deep
But wasn’t Serenade the wise one, when she told her fella, If our song should fail us, let’s find each other under orange moon and milky sky And isn’t that just what happened, when those great movin’ metal islands, came a-thrashin’ through the waters and a-churning up that dark black stuff! With a CRASH! and a SMASH! and a BANG! BANG! BANG! Them movin’ metal islands made a grand ol’ ruckus, a heavy metal din that covered up all sweet song, Even still, ever still, Sweet ol’ Serenade went a-singin’ her ocean blues, But never did she hear her fellow return her sad-eyed song IV. Spizzlesplashdizzeldash Sound as Serenade breeched the surface on a night ’luminated by orange moon and starry light She didn’t find her fella there (if that’s the ending you were thinking) A thousand times a thousand times she’d checked, But on this, a thousand times a thousand times + 1, Didn’t she happen upon someone else in need of findin’! Starin’ up from them there pumpkin seas, Serenade saw the raft floating down her moonlit path Ridin’ down upon it was a little land girl,
out o’ place and out o’ time, last and best o’ her kind, a wakin’ dreamer from a tired dusty world full o’ sleepers and sleep-walkers, Little land girl came a-carrying loose papers, crayons, and all kinds o’ brightly colored drawings that shimmered in her wake She says to Serenade, tone so matter o’ fact, I heard your Mermaid’s song, came paddlin’ out your way, been paddlin’ for years now, just kept on keepin’ on, set out hopin’ you’d take me down to yer sunken land o’ emerald cities, phosphorescent clouds, and dark dark deeps, But now, seein’ your sad face and all, I’m thinkin’ you need me more than I need you, or maybe it’s that we both have a secret for each other, one we’d both be glad to give Ol’ Serenade, wisest of the maids, asks the little land girl: Have you really paddled for years? Did you really hear m’ ocean blues? Well, my lil’ land friend, I do indeed need to share a secret, one that I’m seein’ in your art She says to Lil’ Land Girl, Ya needn’t swim to emerald cities, or ride carousels in crystal communes, or touch the darkest deeps, for I see all o’ that floating freely from your heart into yer art,
And from the sight n’ sound of things up here, this dusty world’s in need o’ color, the kind you’re drawin’ on that page Hearin’ this, the lil’ land girl smiles, a smile that sets the sea alight under orange moon and milky night She turns to Serenade and says my secret’s simple: I may have found ya here upon the orange moonlit sea, But ‘twas your song all along that set me and this here dusty world freer than what’s called free
The Crying Room fer Hunter, Grey Grey, and Lohgi I want to worship the God of the Crying Room. That is where they send the figidity ones, who crawl under the pews, who tear Missals with grubby hands, who turn backs to the lord and faces to the congregation. I want to worship the God of the Crying Room. That is where they send the loud ones, who talk above hushed whispers, who laugh at broken bread, whose coos, farts, and wails fill the sacred silence. I want to worship the God of the Crying Room. That is where they send the wide-eyed ones, who stare too long at sad old crones, who count aging spots on bald heads, who perk up at the sight of backs bent low. I want to worship the God of the Crying Room. I bow before that God, who moves through them, sounds through them, sees through them. I rest my restless prayers in play.
The Big Crunch fer Lianne I cannot wait for that moment when the universe decides it’s about time, about time to curl back in upon itself, like a cosmic nautilus, shell spiraled inward toward a silent singular point. Before the Big Crunch, you and I will not be, but when it happens, we will happen again, spiraling out of inexistence, riding the receding wash of time, of space, as they move back to their long lost start and end point. When our time comes, again, we’ll defy entropy, we’ll rise from death beds like it’s just another day. Tumors shrink, wrinkles unfold, burst blood cells fuse,
and here we are, in another here, another now. Then, again, we’ll un-love each other with great care. We’ll take back kisses and tenderly rub pain back into stiffening shoulders. The dust will unsettle between us-no-longer-us. We’ll unwrite love letters. Unwatch sunrises in the West, Take back gifted books and voraciously unread them from right to left. When beginnings become endings, I’ll redact my love for you, whisper it in reverse, holding on to it until we meet each other for the firstlast time. Then, again, I’ll go my separate way, not knowing we’re separate. I’ll slowly shrink day by day, slowly ceding my words, slowly ceding my cells, slowly ceding my self, until an unnamed babe slips back into
the womb, of another who’s moving beyond birth, toward a shared single point .
C H A RY B D I S P R E S S new york