Undertow

It’s a wonder…

Convinced

It’s all related,

As if we were

Fused together,

A tale of two:

Cosmic fusions,

Underwater lights

From life above,

Eyes retract,

Your heart slips

Into brain deep,

Caught and no way out,

Even when desire

Can’t set you free,

And, all I want

Is to stay with you.

Low Tide

for L

Some times, the personable is unexplainable. Personal perception (through experience) is just that...a personal thing. You can't change perception for someone, and as much as you want the light to reach them, they may be in an unyielding position, submerged by their personal history. 


Every moment we fall deeper, not in love, but into the narrative. If words can cut like a knife, then what's the potential for silence? 


I can see the horizon; and yet, there's nothing. I can't point this out to you, not the sea or moon; I am incapable of lifting your eyes. You're lost to a microcurrent of delusional borders. A tide pool is just that--a separate entity, existing only at low tide.


John Steinback once said, "It is advisable to look from the tide pool to the stars and then back to the pool again." I wonder if you'll get it. You may have already turned your back to the sea...

The Case of Too Many Frogs

In light of this case, someone recently told me:

In order to detect counterfeit money, you study the real thing, not the counterfeit, so when the impostors come, it quickly becomes evident it's not the real thing.

A Book About Light. An Online Magazine Forward.

(Photos by Dalkey Archive Press and/or Numero Cinq Magazine)

One of Poland's most acclaimed writers, Andrzej Stasiuk, publishes "Dukla." (Translated by Bill Johnson)

Andrzej says,


“There’ll be no plot,” Andrzej Stasiuk writes in Dukla, “with its promise of a beginning and hope of an end. A plot is the remission of sins, the mother of fools, but it melts away in the rising light of day. Darkness or blindness give things meaning, when the mind has to seek out a way in the shadows, providing its own light.”


In a recent online article in Numero Cinq Magazine, Jason DeYoung says, "The guiding structure in Dukla rests with his metaphysical ideas, repeated insights, and a desire to write, notably about light"
Andrzej, goes on to say:


"I always wanted to write a book about light. I never could find anything else more reminiscent of eternity. I never was able to imagine things that don’t exist. That always seemed a waste of time to me, just like the stubborn search for the Unknown, when only ever ends up looking like an assemblage of old, familiar things in slightly souped-up form. Events and objects either come to an end, or perish, or collapse under their own weight, and if I observe them and describe them it’s only because they refract the brightness, shape it, and give it a form that we’re capable of comprehending."


To read more about Andrzej or read his essay, Rite of Spring, go to: 
http://numerocinqmagazine.com/2012/04/22/the-resurrection-of-experience-a-review-of-andrzej-stasiuks-dukla-jason-deyoung/

Shadows

I still see you sitting there,

One leg crossed over the other,

While bowls of light surrender

To the pines that lean forward

Sensing your electric anticipation:

Our reunion of spirits, now restless…

Testing the cosmic interferences

Living deep within your soul.

My First Jackknife

Sugar Loaf invites me down a portal. I am free to explore the natural world, this secret garden. I carry a four-inch jackknife with a wooden inlay and brass trim, not because I am cautious, but because the knife used to belong to my father. I accept his gift. I know there will be a story and a set of circumstances in accepting it. He is giving me responsibility. I am the boy he will never have. Instead, I am the first born of two girls—the only children he’d have from his two marriages.

I listen to the rules of owning a jackknife: beware of the pointed tip; where to position my fingers when I safely snap the blade shut, and how to keep it protected from rain. My father makes a full circle with his instructions, and repeating his earlier precautions of “jackknife ownership.” The responsibility in owning a jackknife is like that of any other...your own weapon can sharply turn against you. I carry my doll and the jackknife up the mountain, entering the world armed. I live with exceptions, and born into an era where kids could still run and explore without the worries of being abducted or raped.

You’re never alone on a mountain. I am alive from the moment I enter the trail and climb towards a wooded canopy of trees, my belly sharply puffing in and out. I'm alert, like a blue jay, and my senses are quick from excitement; survival tastes of dust I lick from my lips. Most times, the goal is to reach the top of the mountain and locate the sandstone caves. Once I reach the top, I breathe in the panoramic views of Winona. My father has warned me of snakes, rattlesnakes to be exact, and tells me if one crosses my path to be very still. Neither the rattler, nor myself, may see the other coming, so I am to stay out of the caves. But, caves are inviting. I stand at the entrance to a cave as if it were a house with no permission to enter. I toss a rock inside to see if any animals dart out. If I had to, would I kill a snake with my jackknife and bring its limp body dangling over a stick down the mountain? I watch my steps on the path, and speak aloud, hoping to scare off the summer snakes.

In Each Other's Mirrors

I take the downtown exit, park the car, and find shade under a palm tree at the train platform. Will you recognize me? People change. Right now, I'm talking about the outside: Will you notice I don’t have braces, blonde hair, or that now, my hair flirts with black, and has become a wild stream that runs mid-way down my back? I can't help to wonder if we'll let each other in, take the darkness out of our scars. I imagine we'll confess how life has treated us, and stand like children, anxious to make eye contact. I had no idea, a month later, a puzzling distance would metastasize between us, even after we submersed ourselves in a weekend of infinite colors; and me, blinded by the rays of promise under the southern Yosemite Sierra sun.