into page, into paper,
she tears the stairs with her steps, tears her hair, doesn’t care, scared, there…look no hands, no lifeboat, eyes with tears, down, no flare, no red lights in air, steps kept twisting into her missing, him missing somewhere, mist rises nowhere, tears down, turning comes black steps of night, comes back steps of light, look again look, eyes form eyes, more, beyond her beyond there, beyond, her beyond, there.
–the things you do for your passions…
You haven’t scaled any volcanos. You go to work with a group of software engineers. In some ways this is definitely as much of a challenge, dangerous to your soul. In some ways, a volcano might be a better option.
The day he went missing Craig writes: “[Angelica] The plant takes its name from the angel who is supposed to have revealed its medicinal properties to a dozing monk. Or St. Michael the Archangel, around whose feast-day, May 8, it blooms.” You would definitely be happy if Craig comes home before that. You barely know him, but he is a peer, and a better poet than you.
“…May the angels bright
Watch you tonight
And keep you while you sleep” – pogues, lullaby of london
In case of fire, do not use elevators.
You despise stairs.
LUCY IN LOVE
Bright white ice, everything
quiet as our breath on the balcony,
the stillness between us, brilliant
as the falling snow against the streetlight
aching like bitter cold fingers.
Every second with you is a million snowflakes, or one,
clear and beautiful, melting into the heat of our hands.
The plow glitters on the highway,
tomorrow that far away. Tomorrow like spring.
Somewhere, protected, deep, the softest petals
prepare their journey. We are a time-lapse photo,
drops in a pond, rippling into each other.
“Compadre! ¿Donde está, díme?¿Donde está tu niña amarga?
“Friend! Where is she? Where is the bitter girl?
And from Neruda the sexiest line ever (courtesy Sheila) :
Quiero hacer contigo
lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Elevator Safari. You suppose this is the journal of an imaginary journey, between imaginary floors. You can just keep riding, you take your chances on what happens when you step out into the world.
Well, so, is the world random, or is there some order to all this coincidence? You become a fan of Bukowski on Facebook, and so do your friends. You make a little ripple with them…and so on, and so on, etc.
I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
this thing that moved once
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
they will not
give her back to me.
You’re starting with randomness. Cinco de Mayo is always two days before your birthday. You don’t feel like celebrating.
Craig Arnold is missing on some island in Japan. Because of Craig’s disappearance, you’re finally starting a blog. On April 26th, the day he disappeared, he wrote this: “Danger has a way of cutting through melancholy, the real fear blinding you to the fear dimly imagined. If you could only always just have escaped death, you would never be sad again.” Craig’s blog is here: Volcano Pilgrim ..it’s like he knew, like he saw it coming.
It’s been a crazy week, but “crazy” isn’t the right word. Strange is better: the Kentucky Derby – a 50:1 shot, Shannon’s death from breast cancer, Kevin’s plans to move to New Mexico…Greg’s email out of the blue as always…
The main thing is, you’re writing again.