Friday, April 14, 2017


It's the very distance of the thing that makes it a thing.

Upon a hill there is a pot. This is no jar in Tennessee, although there is a blackbird. Later.

The different shades of day illuminate it, change its color and perhaps shape. I cannot really be sure of it from the distance I am at. How old is it? I go closer to it to see. Did I make this pot? Did I not just do that by using one word that contains multitudes?

In this creation, I understand the pot as container. I know it is two feet tall: that it is not really an ellipse because I am only seeing it that way. Everything is brown. The clay is now a deeper sienna, a flash of memory like hands tending to the drying linen. Could anything be so beautiful? Terra cotta is cooked again as I remember the words.

I am in a modality that changes the pot, myself and the hill. Metaphorically concentric, and therefore actually covalent to the actual modality, which could be called April—a single word of time that promises some sort of precision.

But isn't really.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

The Dream of Language

I’m waking through a lingering dream. This often happens when the garbage trucks are breaking rules and bang-bang-gungh-ghungh-bang-bang-crash, doing their holy work before 7:00 AM.

My husband had just slammed the door on his way out. He had been stressed out a lot lately because he was publishing a paper in Science that maintained that all the world’s languages could be tracked back to a single mother tongue in Africa. Spoken by Eve. No doubt, I wanted to say over coffee and oranges, but he was gone.

Even his smell in the bed was different. Not the rich pungency I loved, but rather a thin, acrid one. He’d been smoking again. Not that it mattered too much. We hadn’t been having much sex lately, and I hardly ever saw him. When he was at home, he would sit in the dining room and curse at the peers who reviewed him

Yet I knew this was important. This publication would ensure his tenure at the University. He’d have a steady job, benefits… His reputation and future, our future rested on it

You may be wondering why I put up with him, well, I knew that I loved him. That’s what marriage is about: the worse and the better. Lately it had been worse. He had spoken of nothing but phonemes, counting them across the world, comparing them because it was all for Science.


I am totally awake and glad I’m single. I know what seeded the dream. A PRI article began with “Scientists say.” This is how most scripture begins where I live. I look at the ceiling and think about this phrase and what it means.

It means I am an apostate. No, not because I adhere to a religion. I abandoned Catholicism a long time ago and with it the rest of Christianity. I find it hard to trust God or Induction. The ceiling seems certain enough, and it is enough. I can see it. I am sheltered beneath it. No, I don’t say it shelters me because that is an active verb, perilously close to ascribing living motive to an inanimate concept arranged by my often faulty sensory-conceptual framework—a world where certainty is something I have to learn.

I wonder if Eve thought about that when she was speaking the first words. Was it simply a game of phonemes she uttered to her children and it sort of took off from there in ways she didn’t really intend? Even though I am not a mother, I know that can happen with children. But why am I burdening her?

Why does there always have to be an Eve or a single origin for anything? What good does it really do. I guess it keeps my dream husband employed and a dream roof—with concomitant ceiling—over our dream heads. I could further question that, since we didn’t see much of each other. I couldn’t even have dream sex with him. 

I consider getting a dream divorce.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Bright Eyes

In the surf, I'm pushing out again. I hope She was right about all of this. I am not sure I trust this raft.

Thirsty, hungry in my dream. I awake and She has put a peach in my hand.

Long ago She warned me against his insolent stupidity, his pride in ignorance and bigotry and prerogative.  Now, She whispers: "Ask him: 'When was the last time you saw your wife or listened to Cassandra?' It will unmake him."

In Pacific Place, She and I watch the Children of the Sun, their brown eyes like sloes: trusting, herbivorous, doomed. "Don't worry. I don’t have any children either. They would be the terror of the earth."

At Elliott Bay Books, I can almost smell the copper in her bronze. I drift and she puts the right constellations in my hands for purchase. She has a keen eye in the remainders.

When I was younger, and found myself trapped on a barstool listening to his or his convincing lies, She always leaned over the bar and whispered. "And do you believe that?" "It depends" I sometimes answered.

She suggests turning the tables. "Go ahead, Drug him. Sharpen the stake in the fire. Gouge out his eye to get out of his bedroom."

She gets on the bus first and chooses a seat for us away from the man who peed himself.

The Horse was actually her idea.