Monday, September 13, 2010

MON. / an old journal with a rodeo queen on the front / song on Pandora 'wise up'... / the journal is from Laura to me on my 25th / the first entry

is for/to her & also myself, from then: (circa 2006)

~

she's nothing but a slow swell garble of hands & no more sweeping mothers when the sky turns peach, it is. the fence row & the hangers-on, rough ivy--done the benign, begin the pull, your shoes emptied by what rapture, what blowup dolly, wear what clothes; interminable divorcings: she as arched onlooker, daze as goings. hold-tight, looker, fancy not the brazen cages you are in boxed tight, flash of knee in a leg bend upwards. and on & on. her voice low & loud & low the corsage & low the buttons. feet-easy your once, your mother, & once a fencepost. once a crane & once a searchlight. find her, find her smiling again. every cup in the cupboard is on her nightstand & she's lowest the landing runway & pose, tuned to the outlet that let you in.


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"i didn't want to be reductive with too grand a material."

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pound's dictum that writer's fail when they start from too narrow a base--& life too. the way i understand it anyways.

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Eeyore: "All I get is thistles."

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Bunyan's riddle: "the more you throw away, the more you have."

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Feet! You walk now.