Tag Archives: new moon

Two new moons

To feel
this way
again

To know
you can
feel this way
again

Once
is never
gonna be
enough

Once
is better
than never
though

Sign me up
for the trial

That’s ok
someone’s got it

You don’t
ever wanna
get too far

You don’t
ever wanna
forget it

What
are you
releasing

What
of this
will stick

I’m gonna
make some tea
& go outside

I’m gonna
stir a little
honeynado






.

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It takes a belief

I almost forgot
I wanted to write
this poem
with a J hanging off
the side of my lip
I was out the door
after a cup of coffee
& before the river
evaporated cool
on the way home
you can hear the sound
of the beetles ticking
like gears that move
without touching each other
at sunset behind the hill
the oak leaves waltz
in the desperate hot wind
everything hunting
being hunted
I can count a dozen pine trees
both sugar & ponderosas
that have died & dumped
their carbon for the others
still living, still fighting off
the clock ticking, the invasion
of the weird little clicks that dot
this forest into a dry death
giving more sunlight for the others
that will someday thrive in their place
after I cut them down, burn them, &
once the beetles have had their way
with the sap that doesn’t bleed
well enough to stick around
& stay to see the moon ripen
a global hawk drone winking silently
flying toward Reno like a starlit ghost
& the bellowing cries
of a dying horse for an hour & a half at dawn
a single gunshot & it’s quiet again
a pound of oil
an ounce of flowers
an hour and a half in the crockpot
the water boils off




.

Orexin

It’s funny to think
about how hormones
are drugs produced
by your body
that control almost
everything that makes you you

and yet we know that isn’t true at all
—we are something else
entirely—how could we limit ourselves
to this dead iron flesh when we were
full spectrum fountains of light—

and yet that was all just an idea
—like the last full moon passing
before planting when the pull
on our waters are weakest in the dark

observable, testable—like
the last poem
in the works before the poetry
of being works its hands
of vines
into autumn’s lines

you call it
wakefulness
but you know
I’m not too sure
about that
anymore


Borderlands II

                                                   We found these
                                                      secret entries
                           into darkness—

                   come on 
you’d barely notice
                                                        you’d hear it
          a horn
                   calling—

             the air
turned to mist


                      wind
funneled through
a chamber
                                   of dreams—the corridors
                       of where we met—where
                                          we are—

You can feel it breathing

these two tones together—


                        in
the middle of it—
                       

Like you struck a quartz

string in slow motion—                  dragged


                         it across a silver tube—
       

                                          Look—
                                                      there are the cracks
                                                                    in the fabric
                                                               of the known—

                              it
seeks to be kinetic—
(the gears of light
we tell when
and how
to function—)

                                                     The
resonance will find the living

membranes metallic—it waves


                 like it keeps coming

         from itself                             fades out into
                               the soft spots
                                                              of the tyranny
                                                              of matter—

Polyrhythmic AI
   assembling itself
sends messages—clicks
   out it’s matrix—ti
ny little box—

a living cube

                                      where did it all come from—

It doesn’t sequence
itself linearly—
                   it’s circular—
returning—can’t help
but want to follow it
                        echoing—driving away

                            to where forgotten days slumber—
           and the ones you can remember
keep changing—that’s where
                                                       we drop the sticks 
            start listening                                    downwind

              Where you exist
in the distance
                           of yourself—every note
       vibratos—some would wonder
                          why you have to bitcrush
          just to speak to me—I
                                   thought it was obvious
                        growing like a colony
                                 of bacteria in the appearance
                                                   of it’s sound—

                                                                   a gathering
                                        forming along a wheellike
                                                             axis—we knew
                                            what was coming—we’d
                                                   heard it all before—
                                                              yet it was new
                                        each time—

We used it
to line up
our existence
a sort of
divination—
it wasn’t magic—
it just was—

                 Where these
ancient hurts              dwell
              does the winding—
                                        dry spinning
               timbre of light                     know
                                           every inch
of your bones—

Ripples
upon ripples
intersecting—liquidlike

                the flower of light
         snaps back                              retracts—

                     The channels
accumulate                       precognitive
                          octaves
fold in and out            of the dark—
                 
droplets of water                with their own color
                          deciphered
by some light reflecting black in shadow—

Imagine hearing a soft piano
while drowning—or falling
backwards
in slow motion—for almost
seven minutes an eternity—
the freedom found
in surrender—



Amblyseius

       Spherical
steel cage
    on a chain
you hold
       what holds
me here
    surfacing
depleted
       for a vortex
of honey
    at midnight
condensation
        forms
between this
    and a few moths
the new moon
       is near
no matter what
    it’s swirskii
’cause fear
       eats the
one thing
     you came
here for
        on a wing
of silk
     on a wind
thru an open
        window