The sidewalk never forgets
the grasshopper’s half-form
and two hand prints pressed
in crushed stone. It remembers for awhile
the silver paths of slugs glazed under moonlight,
street-lit rhinestone studs of shattered glass,
children’s chalk drawing fading
under sprinklers.
It remembers tricycle tracks after puddles,
ant piles sugared away from kitchens,
break your mama’s back cracks,
and oblique outlines of dripping summer
bodies absorbing its stored warmth.
On a lazy morning I lay my face
soft against its rough one
and listen for two drunks
holding each other’s
laughter and the skip-a-rope slap and song
of Cinderella dressed in yellah
or my mother reminding me
always, to keep to the right.
I listen for the step-tap of buzzard lady and cane,
the rumble of skateboards escaping
and three boys beating
inverted pickle bucket drums –
unconscious rhythms
in my step the rest of the day.
I press an ear to the course of stone
stretched parallel to the facades of our lives –
our wet births, continual decay.
I press an ear to the sidewalk
and hear nothing.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Whisper
I am breath punctuated
by the aspirated pursings of ps and bs—
please bring me a peanut butter sandwich—
from a child faking sick
to avoid what he isn’t prepared for,
or to keep his mother hovering.
Sometimes an aside at the back
of the congregation, classroom, theater,
translated: see how smart I am or do you really think
we made the right decision?
I am intimate, urgent, irreverent, insurgent.
Overt, covert, subversive, recursive.
I would risk cliché, call myself
the language of lovers, risqué,
because there is this romantic lack
of distance—words hardly
audible, like meet me later—displacing
the cilia of your mammalian ear,
the follicular stimulus, anemone waving,
uncoiling in the cochlea, nautilus deep in the brain.
Without alarming the world,
or the girl sitting across from you,
the perfect little bones you named
in fourth grade begin their frantic iambic motions
and you cannot stop them
even if you want to, which you don’t,
because all important knowledge
comes this way, as breath behind closed doors,
or between women after dinner,
packing the meat and Jello away.
This is education, when conversation ceases.
by the aspirated pursings of ps and bs—
please bring me a peanut butter sandwich—
from a child faking sick
to avoid what he isn’t prepared for,
or to keep his mother hovering.
Sometimes an aside at the back
of the congregation, classroom, theater,
translated: see how smart I am or do you really think
we made the right decision?
I am intimate, urgent, irreverent, insurgent.
Overt, covert, subversive, recursive.
I would risk cliché, call myself
the language of lovers, risqué,
because there is this romantic lack
of distance—words hardly
audible, like meet me later—displacing
the cilia of your mammalian ear,
the follicular stimulus, anemone waving,
uncoiling in the cochlea, nautilus deep in the brain.
Without alarming the world,
or the girl sitting across from you,
the perfect little bones you named
in fourth grade begin their frantic iambic motions
and you cannot stop them
even if you want to, which you don’t,
because all important knowledge
comes this way, as breath behind closed doors,
or between women after dinner,
packing the meat and Jello away.
This is education, when conversation ceases.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
R U A Visual-Spatial Learner?
Visual-Spatial Learners have gifts that are not understood by many. Do you come at things a different way than many people you know? Check out this site, especially if you are creatively gifted. The Adult Giftedness link is particularly interesting.
http://www.gifteddevelopment.com/Visual_Spatial_Learner/vsl.htm
http://www.gifteddevelopment.com/Visual_Spatial_Learner/vsl.htm
Validation 101
Validation: One of the most misunderstood of basic human needs.
Invalidation: May be the single most damaging form of psychological abuse.
Check out these links
http://eqi.org/valid.htm
http://eqi.org/invalid.htm
Invalidation: May be the single most damaging form of psychological abuse.
Check out these links
http://eqi.org/valid.htm
http://eqi.org/invalid.htm
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Epicenter of Desire
She never said how God fell out
but she bore his impression
like a mattress seldom turned
testifies to the lover’s absence.
She tried diversion, eastern philosophy
and the state of being fully present
as the ultimate gesture of affection.
Of course, it was affection few could return
so her advice was to, with every breath
exhale thank you, and let it go.
Maybe you know that hunger.
Maybe the gnawing is a molecular code
that, because of blood on the lintel
natural selection passed over. That said
just being is evidence you were chosen
strand by strand
to occupy this moment, this space.
Michelangelo tattooed
the epicenter of desire
on the ceiling, safe
from our greasy, egg-salad fingers
God and Adam reaching for each other.
More than anything we want God
or we don’t. There is little middle ground.
When we lie on our backs and reach upward
our hands are as large as Adam’s
as electric as God’s.
At some point, maybe vacuuming
she found where she’d lost God
and reset him like a stone in her ring.
Thank you, she exhaled.
We seem to be born with negative space
into which God might fit.
Origin of Me is the great question
not the science of creation
but the creation story that works.
God is preserved in the heavens
of the Sistine by ducting
and a conditioned atmosphere.
Are we so different
believing we are the center
of our own narratives,
that our mythologies matter more?
What I do know of God is this:
there are children
in cutoffs and tattered boat shoes
who come to the wild place
at the back of the field
and rearrange the world.
They dam and bridge the creek
to shape little oceans.
They breach the dams and howl
as floods crash through.
They braid baling twine
with whatever drifts downstream
into mats and furniture
and lash swings into trees
too tender to hold anything
but the world’s smallest creatures.
They leave a shovel and take a rake.
When I walk to that wild place
I know immediately—
a piece of lumber bridging
a new section of the creek,
a bit of twine in a tree—
that the little gods have been here.
but she bore his impression
like a mattress seldom turned
testifies to the lover’s absence.
She tried diversion, eastern philosophy
and the state of being fully present
as the ultimate gesture of affection.
Of course, it was affection few could return
so her advice was to, with every breath
exhale thank you, and let it go.
Maybe you know that hunger.
Maybe the gnawing is a molecular code
that, because of blood on the lintel
natural selection passed over. That said
just being is evidence you were chosen
strand by strand
to occupy this moment, this space.
Michelangelo tattooed
the epicenter of desire
on the ceiling, safe
from our greasy, egg-salad fingers
God and Adam reaching for each other.
More than anything we want God
or we don’t. There is little middle ground.
When we lie on our backs and reach upward
our hands are as large as Adam’s
as electric as God’s.
At some point, maybe vacuuming
she found where she’d lost God
and reset him like a stone in her ring.
Thank you, she exhaled.
We seem to be born with negative space
into which God might fit.
Origin of Me is the great question
not the science of creation
but the creation story that works.
God is preserved in the heavens
of the Sistine by ducting
and a conditioned atmosphere.
Are we so different
believing we are the center
of our own narratives,
that our mythologies matter more?
What I do know of God is this:
there are children
in cutoffs and tattered boat shoes
who come to the wild place
at the back of the field
and rearrange the world.
They dam and bridge the creek
to shape little oceans.
They breach the dams and howl
as floods crash through.
They braid baling twine
with whatever drifts downstream
into mats and furniture
and lash swings into trees
too tender to hold anything
but the world’s smallest creatures.
They leave a shovel and take a rake.
When I walk to that wild place
I know immediately—
a piece of lumber bridging
a new section of the creek,
a bit of twine in a tree—
that the little gods have been here.
At Gethsemane
My friend DeAnn knows a little about trauma. And living in the moment. She pays attention, a sensory sponge taking in the wonder of everything God has created, as though he created it specifically for her, every opportunity a brass ring He holds out for her. She honors His gifts and His wisdom for giving her growth opportunities by diving in, taking part, and truly engaging in the world around her. Thinking of her thrust upon the grief cycle because of a horrific accident that took her mother's life, I think of the Savior at Gethsemane, and how it was okay for Him to grieve our sins and afflictions. He stayed present and felt everything, processed all the pain in such a way that blood appeared from his pores. There is a cultural misunderstanding about optimism. "Fake it until you make it," is a toxic social pressure that keeps people in dis-ease. "Being positive" does not mean avoiding being fully present in troubling times. It needs to be okay to grieve loss, all kinds of loss, and to be supported in processing pain. Only then can we begin to comprehend joy. I am sorry, De, and know that you will honor your mother by engaging yourself in remembering her, learning new things about what she has meant to your family, and feeling what you are entitled to feel at her passing. I feel heavy for you each time you enter my thoughts, and I feel joy knowing that you will take full advantagous of this experience to add another incredible dimension to who you are. Time to read Refuge again and dribble some marigold petals into the Great Salt Lake, or another body of water your mother loves.
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