Ars poetica

Aorta Spice

Suck it in,
now let it swirl around inside for a bit.
Once you feel it has left its stain,
just let it out.

See how the smoke lingers in the air,
how it curls and twists.
Let it writhe around,
fold in and out on itself.
Trace its patterns with your eyes.
Once you have had your way with it,
fan it out the window,
so that it may join the rest
in the great smoke collective.

Place poem

Backseat

My troubles, they
sprout,

like bad acne;

plant,

like the warts on my feet;

rise,
like the standing water as I shower;
linger,
like pot smoke in my living room,

and I long for them to pass over me,
much like the long orange glow
of streelights in my youth, washing over me
as I sit in the quietude of the backseat.

Witness poem

Morel

S’nice out! Come hunting with me!
Stay close,
don’t wander too far,
and oh, you found some!
Yes, yes!
that’s the right kind.

Back at home,
I’ll cut them into pieces.
Crack these eggs;
let me heat up the butter.
Eggs stirred? Toss ‘em in!
Coat ‘em real good, now;
I got the cracker crumbs.
Cook ‘em up real nice, now,
just like that.

This is a memory I like to keep,
even though I wouldn’t eat those mushrooms;
I was simply happy to have found them.

Harjo poem

Joy, or maybe Equus

With all her tired horses in the sun,
how’m I s’posed to get any writin’ done?

Shadow poem

Mammoth Blue

Welcome to soundless, expansive,
turbid void, drifting in solitude,
caught in mammoth blue.

Something massive and
silent creeps over;
that deep, low rumble swallows.
Heart, the glass elevator,
it does its best to remain
always in the opposite corner of the room.

Where is that bird outside the window,
that wind against the ear?
Wake up, already!
Where are the sputters of passing motorcycles,
those rattling bottles on the fridge?

Workshop poem

らせん階段

A spiral staircase,
it will lead me in circles
as I climb upward.

Brenda Jones poem

Stepping back

I stepped into the gallery
and was taken back to cubiculō Caligulae,
quī bacchationem habebat,
ac phasmates plebum vīdī,
spectántia cum libidibus tristibus.

I stopped at one particular painting,
my arms folded,
weight shifted toward one hip,
and I realized I was staring at myself.