The vacant lot

behind my house seemed as good a place as any to take some pictures, since I was in the mood and decided that Bisbee was too far away for today (about a two hour drive). I will go there soon, though. I've heard there are a lot of neat old buildings--hopefully some abandoned--and nice little cafes and galleries and things. It would probably be better to go when I have some spending $, anyway, 'cuz I don't right now.

So instead I took some photos in the lot between our backyard fence, our neighbors fence, and the fenced-in well that belongs to Tucson Water. There's nothing too exciting to be seen back there. Just some sad looking prickly pears (some of which we dug up recently and planted in our yard), tufts of grass and shards of glass. A gourd I threw over the fence back in November. A rotten grapefruit. Barbed wire and clouds. And in my neighbors lot, a bunch of rusting cars and old tires and corroded pieces of scrap metal.






(Poem draft/doodle thing circa May 2006.)

There's definitely sex in this.

I woke up. Opened a book of poetry that I checked out from the library simply because I liked the title (and hadn't heard of the poet): August Zero, by Jane Miller. Landed on this poem--it seems appropriate. I'm just emerging from that sleep/wake state (it's past noon. When will the sleeping in end!?), the morning brand, that carries with it a certain feeling I've known since childhood but can't really describe. But I'll try: it's sort of a primitive, hypothalmic...tingly(?)feeling. Yeah.

New Body

There's a sort of eternity
when we're in bed together
whether silently you awaken
me with the flat of your hand
or sleep breathing with a small scratch
in your throat, or quietly attach
a bird to the sky I dream
as a way in to my body--

Now you have made me excited
to accept heaven as an idea
inside us, perpetual
waters, because you let yourself
fall from a sky you invented
to a sea I vaulted
when it was a small rain
accumulating--My heart drained

there and fills now in time
to sketch in the entire
desert landscape we remember
as an ocean port,
that part of me accepting
your trust, a deep
voluptuous thrust into my hours,
that has no earthly power

but lives believing you were made for me
to give in to completely,
every entry into you the lip
of water that is in itself scant hope
broken into like sleep
by kisses--Policed in the desert
by a shooting star, we are the subversive
love scratched out of sky, o my visitor.

Camelbacking Poetry

Whaddya' know? It looks like Sunday might be my new blogging day. It's the second week in a row! Wow. I love Sundays--the feel of them: slow...mystical kinda'. The fact that Sunday is currently one of my days off only adds to the feeling.


(Taken on a Sunday.)

In a bit Nate and I are going to go for a hike. It's been too long since we've visited the mountains. It's hot out, of course, but we'll just have to suffer through it. It shouldn't be too bad. There's a few clouds floating around today, and it even SPRINKLED earlier! (I guess my rain dance worked.) It's a little late to head out, but I do like evening hikes. We had planned to get up early this morning--I set the alarm for 7:30, hit the snooze button for about an hour and a half, and then finally turned the stupid thing off. When I fell back asleep I had this incredibly long, achingly beautiful dream. I lost most of it upon waking. Hopefully I'll be able to recall some of it later.

Best be off. I just got out my Camelbak (I haven't used it months) and found one of my little notebooks in it that I had forgotten about. On the first page, between doodles, a poem thing I wrote, oh, a year ago?

-----

+fulcrum's grace
a sorrowed place between
the edge of life
& dreams of golden grass
one can run & run & never
find truth's chalice
passt the bone
& tendon of it
into doubt fling
all your habit
into the dark
& fly
unencumbered.

-----

Time to hike.

I'm Drinking Iced Coffee from The Good Egg and Thinking About Chicks

And I don't mean hot girls. I mean baby chickens!


In a half hour Nate and I are going with some friends to see Linda's chicks. Linda is a very nice lady who shops at New Life, where I work. She just acquired some more chickens and is gearing up to be our new local egg provider. Sadly, the old egg lady passed away a few months ago. Every week since, it seems, someone asks when we're going to get more local eggs. Eggs, eggs, eggs.

Eggs are good. I came out of one. So did you! And I just ate some a little while ago at a late breakfast, with two fat pieces of French toast and a whole lotta' coffee. (Half-caff. They bring a hoddle or two to the table at TGE, and then supply you with giant to-go cups, which is why I'm still drinking some. I added the ice [and xylitol] at home. Mmmm. Xylitol.) That said, I've got a pretty good caffeine buzz going on right now, and I'm excited about our visit. It's a small step in the learning process that will allow Nate and I to one day have some chicks of our own, and make omelets from eggs laid in our very own backyard!

Here's an eggy poem by Margaret Atwood. It's set somewhere moister than here. It's 98 degrees today in Tucson and there's not a cloud in the sky. Beautiful, but someone please bring me a lake!!!

Last Day

This is the last day of the last week.
It's June, the evenings touching
our skin like plush, milkweed sweetening
the sticky air which pulses
with moths, their powdery wings and velvet
tongues. In the dusk, nighthawks and the fluting
voices from the pond, its edges
webbed with spawn. Everything
leans into the pulpy moon.

In the mornings the hens
make egg after egg, warty-shelled
and perfect; the henhouse floor
packed with old shit and winter straw
trembles with flies, green and silver.

Who wants to leave it, who wants it
to end, water moving
against water, skin
against skin? We wade
through moist sun-
light towards nothing, which is oval

and full. This egg
in my hand is our last meal,
you break it open and the sky
turns orange again and the sun rises
again and this is the last day again.

I've become paranoid that someone will steal my useless "poetry."

Which is why I never post any.

Ha!! JK. It's 'cuz I don't write any. (Except in my journal. Once every four weeks, I construct the skeleton of a poem and then forget about it for four months.) I haven't been able to finish any of my poems for a while. Dunno why. I've got blox in my hed.

Sooo, anyway...here's one of my most recent...creations. It's a work in progress. I've got big ideas for this one, I sware. Bon Appetit!

I’ve Reached Critical Mass.

Critical mass for the Big Empty,

critical mass for useless

knowledge. I just watched

a video about parasitic stylops.

Suddenly the soundtrack for my life

is Tom Waits “Chocolate Jesus.”

Who woulda known.

I can’t swallow any more I say so’s,

I can’t swallow any more doubt.

The only answer I get is do, do, do,

the only question is, “What?”

One of my teachers told me never

to use quotation marks in poems

“” “” “” “” “”, but I think they’re pretty.

And I’m down to opinions, each of them

meaningless. “What” else is there?

“What!” or else, or else,

or else. I leap into thin air

legs flailing, mandibles.