A run will clear your heart

Film of water on sidewalks
this morning was still
though drops are falling
in the heat thickend air.

You are a poem I wanted
to write without the word I.
I couldn’t do it, so now
I am running, feet falling

in puddles to break this
silence; with each shoe fall,
the world hears our name, you
and I, and you. It’s always

full circle. I start at my front
door, and even the cars passing
are silent, the sun rises silently as I run
away from home, into the circus

that is you circling in my mind.
I think about the trees, rocks,
water falling in fat crystal droplets
from powerlines, but the poem of you
without an I keeps coming back
into focus. When I run, I run away

from my house and to a trail full
of other people and ducks, rabbits and mud.
I run away and it feels like I’ll never
come back, I’ll never be done, until I turn around
and return. Coming back is just like leaving

in reverse. And I am coming back
to the poem of I with no you in it.

Archival work

She worked in the archives of a small college university for a year. At first, she used a little vacuum to clean the dust from the delicate pages of ancient, crumbling books for eight hours a day. She loved teh work, carefully, slowly hovering over a wealth of knowledge, having the power to destroy it all. For hours on end, she would stand in the little ladder and wave the wand over those closed pages, holding information and history so beautiful that they books could never be opened again. When she finished the very last shelf it was time to vacuum the first one again.

This lasted for weeks and becams a meditation. And then a geology professor died. Box upon box of letters, notes, and maps were delivered. Specimens of limestone, quartz, igneous formations from the American north.

She put it all in order, reading his carbon copies of letters sent out, reading the calls and answers of old students, women he had slept with, fellow esteemed rock hounds. She finished the last box and was ready to vacuum again, to go back to where there were no words.

But then came the poet’s death. Even more boxes, more letters. She sorted and sorted, until his life became hers. She read and was nourished, findign victory in cronographically sorting the drafts of famous poems, book proofs. Suddenly, all of this became her voice, and she quit longing for the drone of the vacuum, the repetition of the wand.

a note

I love the image of a cheap plywood altar railing, I must do more with that, don’t you think?

Larry’s Reading

Last night, I arrived late to the party at Larry’s Poetry Forum, as per usual. there was no featured reader going thru his or her words, standing underneath the spotlight, in front of the very nice mic, though. I was confused. I ordered my wine (1.50) tipped the poetry-reading bar tender. I sat down, and over heard the new crop of college kids. The featured reader had cancelled. It would all be open mic. three to four poems each. I signed up. I read three.

There are always good readers for the short open mic portion of this reading. Last night was very nice. A lot of people read a lot of passionate poetry. There was also a lot of political poetry. I tend to be more subversive than the other readers with political poetry. While they might read something that is directly about “fuck Bush”, I might read my letter to an ex-lover who is stationed in Iraq, or letter to my friend Alison in Italy, which opens at a protest. I don’t do this because I find the direct poetry artless. I do it because I am not skilled enough to write that poetry myself and make it as artful as many of my contemporaries can. They have ways with rythm and meter that I just don’t have.

I got an interesting compliment, though. I was told after wards that I, “have a wicked sense of humor, but it’s dark at the same time.” So, yeagh, I think that’s what I usually go for.

I read “what I learned from zombie porn,” which people were unsure of at first and then warmed up to. (the cringes at the line about severed limbs were phenominal) Also, “The Cardiologist” and “Anxiety”. I love reading, but I shake the whole time. Grrr.

A need…

I need a little more rythm, a little more of a schedule to my writing. I’m working on mapping it all out, balancing social life, work, and insanity. Here’s where I want to be

Monday
Poetry readings at Larry’s Bar

Tuesday
a little revision time, if I want it

Wednesday
off

Thursday
two new poems

Friday
revise those fuckers

Saturday
Work on poetry over breakfast

Sunday
9-noon, all poetry, all the time…

But this is my current schedule

Monday
work on a little poetry at the office when I shouldn’t be

Tuesday
Nada

Wednesday
nada

Thursday
guilty office poetisizing

Friday
get drunk and listen to bad bands

Saturday
plan on writing tomorrow. Go for a long walk with puppy and think about poetry

Sunday
clean and pretend I will write next week.

Oh, me, Oh, my.

PS. look up Agent Ribbons on Myspace. They rock my world. They were and actual GOOD band I went to see a while ago.

GAAAA!

It’s summer. It’s nice and hot outside. I’ve been tired lately, looking for a new begenning. I’ve been pooling thoughts for new poems. This usually happens to me. Winter is very productive, summer is slow. There’s too much going on, and I can’t focus to write about things.

I’ve been pooling ideas for a poem:

a woman gives birth to a crystal ball
a marble heart in an actual chest cavity
finding things
vortexes, whirlpools, black holes

in other words, I’m getting nothing done. I have been applying for new jobs, though. Jobs working in grants. We’ll see…

Please send out HOPE

Last night, a co-worker of mine collapsed in a class that she takes after work every day. She had had a brain annurism and is now in the hospital on life support. She is bleeding into her brain and they can’t figure out where it is coming from. My thoughts are with her today, and I am asking all 20 or so of you to think about her and wish for her and her family in what ever way that you do, as well.

This woman has been in social services for a lot of her career, and has worked hard to make the lives of others better. Stress hit her hard, but she never let it stop her from doing her best provide services to people who really needed them. I am praying today that I will be able to continue learning from her for years to come.

Monday

Today is Monday. I wanted to tell everyone that this is the day for new begennings. Today is the day that some of us started or restarted diets. Today is the day that some of us started looking for a new job. Today is the day that some of us admitted that our lives were suddenly partially mapped out, that there are things that we know are lasting in a scary sort of way.

Today, my class and I mapped out our work values. Everyone just wanted to leave. What is more important, variety on the job, or being respected? What is more important, working in your field of interest, or pay? I was being stared at as if I was giving instructions for eating babies. Why might an individual value job security over variety over leisure time? What is the point of school work that has no right or wrong answer.

Some people do not care for self discovery.

Meanwhile, last night, I lay in my lover’s arms and cried after having sex. Actually, bawled is a better terminology. And now I need to run.

Hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey

Today, every time I turned around, someone wanted something from me. “Hey Slynne, I need…”
“Hey, do this”
“Hey, where’s the paper I left for you”

I’m checking, and I still have hair.

A day of change

I woke this morning feeling… Distant. And then my day began. I weighed myself and discovered that I am still losing weight too fast (goddamn stress). I flirted with the coffee shop girl (one of these days, I’ll go in not early and give her my number). I wrote a poem in my head. I made a serious dent in my case notes. I helped a person realize that she can write her own resume. I made another realize that the whole world was not set against her, and helped her get her welfare case straightened out. I lead another person in her quest to lose her fear of technology. I directed another to books that could tempt his teenage son back into reading. I began to see the evolution of my career. I came home early, I did yoga. I wrote letters. I got a call from a friend and met her at the north market. I fell in insta-love with a chocolatier with the most sensously joyful eyes I’ve ever seen.

With every instant, I was brought closer back to myself. I think I’ve arrived. Tomorrow, I will be getting up early… at 4:30 am. I will be calling a client at 5 and then driving to her house. I will look at what she is wearing. I will take her out for coffee. I will check her breath for alcahol, I will look at her eyes for dialation. I will be discreet. I will ask her where she needs to report to work at within the store. I will ask her what she needs to accomplish today. I will drop her off at the door at 6. Tomorrow, I will not just be an instructor. I will be a job coach.