the silence means something new (landays)

the silence means something new each day

my hand on the big paper going round and around

my face at the window looking out

we wait at different corners for the same autobus

sanity can be found like spring snow

cold, unexpected, strangely beautiful, till it hurts

sanity can be counted, counted

in every head, in every body, beating the time

there is so much noise until it stops

there is so much life in the counting out of the pulse

minutes to midnight, hours to dawn

days till release, decades until we have learned it all

counting the scars, telling the blessings

shouting them aloud in all God’s languages at once

Comments

I don't know what they want

I don’t know what they want so I offer cookies and lemonade I don’t know what they need so I proffer sleeping bags, toothbrushes I don’t know who they are so we start introductions I don’t know where they came from so we start drawing maps I don’t know what might be useful so I start pulling things out camera bags, wooden trains, tiny Lederhosen, broken easels I don’t know what might be dangerous so I pack things away sharp tables, Ethiopian daggers, rat poison, bleach I don’t know when they’ll be back so I wait I don’t know when they’ll be back so I wonder I don’t know when they’ll be back so I start vaguely doodling I don’t know if they’ll be back so I pack up to go I don’t know why it matters but some things make me mad so I try to remember: one foot, one day I don’t know why it matters but some things make me sad so I look for the music, I wait for the sunshine Oh I am the desert and those thoughts are like tumbleweeds I am the sky and the...

House of My Life (landays)

how can you call this a quiet night when inside the skull there is a ceaseless ricochet? empty your mind, you prophets tell me but do you not know how many would then be homeless? all my bodies are in here with me all my mothers, all the mosquito-bitten evenings we are eating mangoes and guavas we are leaving home, again and again and again we hear the echoes of slamming doors and the quiet shush of pages turning, returning counting out the years, bites, loves, the beats all my children, my selves, the loud repeating futures this is an endless house of my life do not make me tear it down, where would I live and rest?

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...

All is burnt. We rebuild.

Search This Blog