afternoon

 

Rain seeps through the skylight.

A centipede I found

turns round upon itself and

dies.

Outside, 

wet oranges ripen

on trees.

 

 

 

street signs (prose poems)

 1

deus vêtudo etu nem o vez

god knows you and you don't even see it

 

2

Sim a em órbita dualas causam caos cultural

Yes dual orbits cause cultural chaos

 

d o g s

Dappled light, and trout.

Ants spilling sand onto brick.

Thick trees.

 

Cars throbbing

with

bass frequencies.

 

Where are they?

I am searching for them.

 

Dogs.

 

I'm above the sea, 

sitting on a stone bench.

Masks on the ground.

I wear mine outdoors.

 

Sickness is again spreading.

I find dead birds,

kill carpenter bees.

 

Children die,

buildings collapse, 

villages wash away.

None of these are signs.

Not one, none.

 

Planes

plow rows of sound,

like birds in bushes, 

and as hidden.

 

No dogs.

 

Cicadas have brought heat,

and with heat, 

aspects of elevation.

 

Still no dogs.

 

Dog days have passed.

We remain high,

dragonflies 

darning through

cool cloudless blue.

 

Up here,

in the returning chill,

evening caws.

 

But no dogs.

 

Where the dogs are

I think of as lapses in consciousness,

warnings -

the world's next sedition.

 

Listen.

 

A bark?

Long shadows now.

Colder.

Dark.

 

Just out of eyesight, 

legged shades, 

dissembling,

move closer.

 

 

 

1

 You, crows, pass

sea onsen, baths

spilling oil.

Culls crow,

those

slippages.

 

2

How relieved trees are

that we

live

short lives.

3

July morning -

dew on my ankle, 

waxwings coupling in the elm.

4

An aspect of cardinal calls -

stone seconds,

the presence of closed.

 

5

 

 

 

things to remember

1

Stones

chinked with clumps of string -

walls reminded remember.

 

2

Birds singing

in spring bring

soulful overflow.

 

3

Father's land

isn't what you're thinking.

Ho!

Know swamp and field,

are America's gardens, 

yield

last hickories

and snakes

 

4

Mother's

pies were

shale crusted

thick creeks,

with apple shores.

 

 

arvores ( digoweli )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there are more to trees than leaves

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dee go way lee

 

um ou mais/ one or more

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cannot think of a park, a lark, a person,

as a single cell

or a book

as insular bacterium.

What is one,

or 

more?

 

meeting dogs

 

her, brindled pup, and he, night's Labrador

we three speechless

like the sun midday

above the orange trees

 

 

rainy season planes water,

alters sense of self.

 

Common and folk

are atavistic words 

bloated with hurt  

I never wanted them to have.

That might be a lie.

Once very drunk, 

I mimicked a working class accent,

stung three of the nicest people I'd ever met. 

They forgave me, 

and shunned me,

the desperate, rejected lover,

jealous,

bullied, 

and miserable.

 

To master the chaos of oneself. (Nietzsche)

 

 

I haven't the youse of my mother, or her knife and fork dinner duet. I lack the soft "ya" of my sisters, their mother hen togetherness, their Mom-spooned vowel melodies, and their fork and knife right-handedness. I wanted to be like them, safe in their language, united, fearless - quick thinking, fast talking, voweled together, deft of hand.

I've been led instead to use the word "you" like a desert bird, standing on one utensil, unbalanced.

Lift a fork, lower the knife. 

I think slowly, with the deliberation I need to follow through sounds, not drop silverware.

When I open my mouth, the oh sound doesn't ah, remains round.

I believe mother felt disappointment in my vowels. She knew I knew I'd move words away from her someday. 

Her forethought.

Mother knew what lay below the sounds I'd choose, words I'd lose.

What, she wondered, will she keep?

Didn't weep, mother, for me, but set a table place, in case my singular, my alone, drove me home.

This morning 

calls to India

and Spain -

a filmmaker, a writer,

two friends weighting worlds,

speaking in other tongues, and

we three in English.

I am amazed at the Portuguese

slipping through cracks -

oivir

os netos do meu vizinho 

um gato 

um pega -

atenção, por favor!

 

 

 

 

Darkness.
An old wall
has captured an orange tree,
but not the oranges - they belong to the owls and streets.

Trevas.
É véspera ou noite?
Há
um poste de luz,
um bom carro.
Uma velha parede
capturou uma laranjeira,
mas não as laranjas - elas pertencem às corujas e às ruas.

 

 

 

 

porto flowers

 

aranha

barata 

centopéia

Noites quando você caça

iludindo as estrelas.

Eu

a
grande corpa
cheio de água
flutuando ao sol
com olhos fracos
incapaz de entender
seu medo da luz.

Eu sou

 

aquela noite cega
animal
quem
liberta mariposas
cria abelhaschora,

chora por borboletas.

 ____________________

spider

cockroach

house centipede

Nights when you hunt,

eluding the stars.

I am

a
big body
full of water
floating in the sun
with weak eyes
unable to understand
your fear of light.

I am

 

that night-blind

animal

who

frees moths

raises bees,

weeps for butterflies.

 

 nothing so much as

the sun

in the tenth month,

a red admiral's

ascent,

a

morning's glory

columbine, crine

salt

birthday

large

if a place can't be found

close to lagoon, river, sound

she will mark her route

out

of,

over bridge,

understanding

that

this time

there will be

no

going

back.

the motion of oranges

and a cat fight

first

First,

the 

color,

after black,

and

an estuary.

Then too many people,

too few wildflowers,

broken tiles.

She, steeply ascending

after dark,

looks up.

Planets there

where 

invisible

cat's eyes

azulejo glow green under lamplight.

Second,

color after morning,

and tidal.

Emptied streets.

Fresh blood splats

and camomile.

 

Wealth isn't measured by old stones,

but in morning glories

and ripening  apples.

 

 

Third,

the color 

midday over

a garden,

and falling.

Steps.

 

I keep count.

the colors of.

the colors of.