to regain consciousness of what is lacking

all, every, entire crack-rod/twig/spoon "thrust into a snug place"
holding power in a kind of tunic
exclusive small enclosures
wasted, spent in vain – no longer to be found in a bag-sack or satchel

in gallabuxur*, deprived of life.



• gallabuxur is icelandic for "jeans"


(an etymological translation of one of my past poems... can you guess which one?)

"Take the bins out Sunday night, so we don't forget in the morning"

we're all commingled containers-
sticky substances in the base of our jugs

we're jagged edges of aluminum cans,
soggy tops of cardboard milk cartons

we recycle ourselves-
bump up against other beer bottles and artichoke jars

we're all labeled accordingly
but the glass smashes when we're dropped from too high up
and my label breaks
your's tears
his is soaked in neglected liquid
hers, plastic and in tact

it's after the smash that we learn to live at bottom of the bin together,
broken and mixed

from a crouched position

Sometimes wonder where my elbow is –
If I cannot lick it, is it present?

Teeter two senses on the same precipice
Just as The Grasshopper holds, in accordance,
two visions

two visions concomitantly occurring,
prey and predator, lying down together

:patterned stiletto landscape
perforated crumblings of earth, dirt:


A parallax, clearing a space for fusion,
as well as diplopia
A perspective shift of necessary tension

Horizon as threshold,
– not a line
– certainly not a boundary
A place of configuration and continuation

SNIPpets

From my last post, inspired by such writers as William Carlos Williams and Gertrude Stein, I've decided to start a small collection of short poems where I Say Nothing In Particular. Through these little poem-pets, I will have a collection of dust and cloud-dew.

Aren't you all excited?

Are you still there?

I'm here, come back! I'm alive, again!

SNIP

every writer should have their own:
“say nothing in particular” poem.

this is mine.

-Lord Byron, poet (1788-1824)

Words are things; and a small drop of ink
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

for jeff, from prague

the mac computer sat, overnight,
in a shallow puddle on the kitchen table

in the morning, she refused to type.

no one knew where the water had come from
there was no evidence of a glass
having been knocked over by the cat

"maybe it was an ice cube. ice
leaves no trace."

The evidence disappears.
If I ever commit a crime,
solid water will be involved.

for orange peel:

a fish with asymmetrical
fins will swim
in a circle
forever w/o
end

hearsay

she said she heard someone say:
"there is no such thing as synonyms"

and there aren't

just words that say the same thing differently...
"like does not like like that is obnoxious" mm says

and he who writes error with four
r's is being symmetrical, maybe -
tidying up a mess

a pangolin as an artichoke
a noun as a mistake
things we can reflect on
or is it expression, creation?

we mimic and stir, is all

someanimals inacanoe

newness! (nooness?)

as i quoted in the last post, the concept of "busyness" should hit another level of severity. i guess you could use swamped or immersed or submerged but those sound so negative. i am busy in a good way. creatively, but also workedly. everyone should enjoy their work and i do, so i do lots of it.

this is my update: we're running the show here in boulder. i will not specify what we are running, but i can guaran-fricken-tee you that we own a slice of this joint by december 2007. and who's "we", you might ask? we is confidential and will be disclosed shortly.

so this is a very surreptitious post. please continue to check back for updates on "we" and "what".

It's button time.

-meghann

busy as a bee

dear blog readers,

i am sure, by now, you have given up on reading/checking this place of writitude.

much is going on in life right now. i quit a job, acquired a new one, and i am back up at 3 jobbes. exciting - yes. sad to say goodbye to one of my dear dear coworkers who makes me laugh and think ab life thrice weekly, but it is time to see the sunrise.

i promise to all friends of mine a wonderful gift of art/writing/update/personal words of endearment within June month.

love and miss you all,

please continue to return to this site, as it will continue to be digitally written on.


muah!

Goodbye Iko

We'll miss you buddy.

Anthurium ears

She sheaths her thoughts like bracts:
modifies the latch
to let enter some,
aloof from the rest.

She winds her flimsy midori gown taut
against her breasts, the remnants
spool down her hips
into a comely dress

She lets what she needs in
via ear-duct
then back out through her breath

Although they mimic flowers,
her body does it best.

Why How When What Write?

I write many letters to friends over months,
then send them all at once.

Exaggerate the tails on my g's so when people read it, and hate it -
they still say "But wOw! Look at the tails on those g's!!!!"

I write because I am too old to lasso the moon.

I write to have something to show for my thoughts.

I write ambidextrous to see if a new voice arises.

I write to save CO2 emissions.

To collaborate.



Why how what when where do you write?

Mobius

His inseparable umbrella:

Mnemonic devices aside,
he primed our hood
for hail and asphalt.

Episodic buoyancy

All antecedents
are built upon antecedents
All things precede and succeed, eventually.

Snapped Nostalgia

Used to remember you as a
rumble in my stomach
A hunger stuck inside
like a habit that
adheres itself to one’s mind.

Now your face has faded
further into the backdrop–
a mere fleck in the scenery.

Holy Forest Companionship

An autumn aspen grove
as blanket on our skin
Build a home under the hover of
white trunks and tawny leaves

Rhizomes pulsate through
our frigid, curling bodies
We feel the beat beneath us
as the earth releases heat

When words reveal themselves

I found a slit of paper buried between the rust colored sheets of my bed. The size was fit for a Chinese fortune, it read: "'…weaving a home out of poor materials.' 115" and I wondered what it was from but then instead, decided to provide a place for it to go:

Swerving the cones you imagine on the road
You’re missing the lines with your tires by inches

Your inchoate ideals build a faulty base
One hundred and fifteen ideas misplaced
Stacked poorly, the soggy logs of your logic–
One weaving a home out of poor materials.