coin of the realm

Once I saw a fox leap inside the morning light and made the same shape of myself.

Homecoming Cistern Alien Vessel

Oh, my planet, how beautiful 
you are. Little curve that leads me 
to the lakeside. Let me step out

of the sack of skin I wore 
on earth. It’s good to be home. 
No more need to name me. No more 

need to make the shape of a machete
with my mouth. Pushing up up up the tired 
sides that want to drop below my teeth.

Lord, I’ve missed you. The streets
covered all day in light from the moons. 
I was confused all the time. I wanted so much.

My hole felt like a gut with an antler
rammed through it. So lonely and strange
and always trying to smile. Coin of the realm.

And my arms open and my life
coming in and out of the “ATM.”
Once I saw a fox leap inside the morning

light and made the same shape
of myself. Once I watched the boats
and also rocked back and forth.

How does every person not cry out 
all the time? Yes, it was good to eat 
doughnuts. Yes. I was blessed by many 

days of joy. A rabbit in the driveway.
A rosemary bush with a sorcerer’s cloak
of spider webs. Brian Eno. 

The Hammond B3 Organ that never asked
me who I knew. But that body.
Like a factory. That mind like a ship

built to pile in other bodies. Skin like a
sow without any of the sow’s equanimity.
It reflected nothing. Pink skin. Blue eyes

hard as an anvil. Like a window with covering
that refuses the passerby’s gaze. I loved 
the bully power some days. Oh my pleasure 

in not causing harm. My pride. I’m not like 
so-and-so. My pink skin preaching, my pink skin 
yawping out my other hole, “I did not choke 

the man with my elbow!” “Would never!” 
“I let all the boys in hoodies walk
through dark streets.” “I did not shoot

them with my guns!” The ship rising
up inside me. As if the fox felt pride 
for not tearing the bird to pieces. As if 

the owl’s heart grew large from not 
wrecking the squirrel’s nest. My pink skin 
a sail full of indignation. My eyes pitching

across the feed. It is so good to be home
and yet. I have a ship inside. How can 
the organ welcome me? I’m not a sow 

on her worst day. Which would be what? 
Breaking from the barn? Eating all the acorns
and rolling in the mud? No.

Her worst would be at my hands 
and on my plate for supper. Grow
like the tree, the man who heals

the bodies said. In every way I became
the ship rising in the harbor. 
How can I be welcomed after that?
Credit:

Copyright © 2018 by Gabrielle Calvocoressi. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 9, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem:

“I am attempting to look frankly at the damage that echoes through me, the grief that evokes, and the possibility for change. I am trying to quit thinking of simple human decency as a form of heroism, both in my poems and in the world.”
—Gabrielle Calvocoressi

derrida plato’s pharmacy notes

432  a logos indebted to the father

Pater (in Greek) the chief, the capital, the good(s)-means all 3 at once

435  In all the cycles of Egyptian mythology, Thoth presides over the organization of death

Thoth extends or opposes by repeating or replacing- this messenger-god is truly a god of the absolute passage between opposites

“This god of resurrection is less interested in life or death than in death as a repetition of life and life as a rehearsal of death, in the awakening of life and in the recommencement of death.”

 

the visitation

The Visitation
Brigit Pegeen Kelly

God sends his tasks
and one does
them or not, but the sky
delivers its gifts
at the appointed
times: With spit and sigh,
with that improbable
burst of flame, the balloon
comes over
the cornfield, bringing
another country
with it, bringing
from a long way off
those colors that are at first
the low sound
of a horn, but soon
are many horns, and clocks,
and bells, and clappers
and your heart
rising to the silence
in all of them, a silence
so complete that
the heads of the corn
bow back before it
and the dog flees in terror
down the road
and you alone are left
gazing up
at three solemn visitors
swinging
in a golden cage
beneath that unbelievable chorus of red
and white, swinging
so close you cannot move
or speak, so close
the road grows wet with light,
as when the sun flares,
after an evening storm
and you become weightless, falling
back in the air
before the giant oak
that with a fiery burst
the balloon
just clears.

From To the Place of Trumpets, published by Yale University Press, 1988. Copyright © 1988 by Brigit Pegeen Kelly. Reproduced by permission of Yale University Press.

nietzsche’s on truth and lies

4  to be truthful means to employ the usual metaphors.  thus, to express it morally, this is the duty to lie according to a fixed convention, to lie with the herd and in a manner binding upon everyone.

8  There exists no word for these intuitions; when man sees them he grows dumb, or else he speaks only in forbidden metaphors and in unheard-of combinations of concepts.  He does this so that by shattering and mocking the old conceptual barriers he may at least correspond creatively to the impression of the powerful present intuition.

There are ages in which the rational man and the intuitive man stand side by side, the one in fear of intuition, the other with scorn for abstraction. The latter is just as irrational as the former is inartistic.

house of leaves notes

47 sound + time = acoustic light (=acoustic touch)

50 and where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love.  there is only silence.

73 “What do you want to play?”  “I don’t know,” she shrugs.  “Always.”  “What’s always?”

…Then again, “always” slightly mispronounces “hallways.”  It also echoes it.

74 pragmatic space  Pragmatics is a sub field of linguistics and semiotics that studies the ways in which context contributes to meaning

104 The air was almost too bright to breathe.

175 Leonard’s psychological dimensions of space “a feeling about that particular place” (“Humanizing Space,” Progressive Architecture, April 1969)

387 discoverer of Blue Skia Cavern:  Darkness is impossible to remember.  Consequently cavers desire to return to those unseen depths where they have just been.  It is an addiction.  No one is ever satisfied.  Darkness never satisfies.  Especially if it takes something away which it almost always invariably does. Continue reading “house of leaves notes”

Advaitam Speaks Literary – Volume 2. Issue 1 :

#beingisseeing #prosepoetry

Advaitam Speaks Literary

Advaitam Speaks Literary Volume 2. Issue 1 is now available online for our readers and well wishers. We are really honoured to present this grand issue with some really talented poets and artists.
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We are happy to inform that we are celebrating 2018 as the year of India-Serbia friendship towards cultural exchange and creativity. We are publishing minimum 3 poets from Serbia and the Balkan region in general.
 
The Issue features :
Darren C. Demaree, Nadija Rebronja, Mark Hudson, Claudine Nash, Nyamu KJ, Chani Zwibel Butler, Huguette Bertrand, L Noelle McLaughlin, Lidia Chiarelli, Michael Lee Johnson , Peter Magliocco, Vladimir Konieczny, Rajnishmishravns Varanasi, Linda Imbler, Matthew kausch, Joan McNerney, Deepa Onkar, Ndifreke George, Mendes Biondo, Wafula P’Khisa, Anitha Devi Pillaii in General Poetry.
 
Besides, Poetry in Translation by Danijela Trajković, Ranco…

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Happy Mid-February

Mirror Theory
Lucia LoTempio

How-to
with a wolf head
in it: magic

says rub
tooth to your gum, sleep
with cheek
matted to your

sweat—first you
must kill it.
Post

a letter of carved
wood that sings
like howl.

What happens after
the cast—where
to dispose
of used up

fur coil
and red.

Kept saying
new when I had

looked for nothing.
There’s a whole

word for wind
in France,
northeast and dry;

I have not been
given one
to say how

canvas cuts
a tree’s bottom
and top
with grey poplars.

My stretch of cells
still repeating.

The nuns
made my body
a holy cathedral,
impenetrable—yet

a temple is a widest
entrance; place
of herded into.

Still have
a wolf and it’s still
breathing. From its mouth
crawls another.

Then from that,
it happens again; throat
combed by teeth.

It became
we and I was

a portrait
with many hearts in it.