Irretrievable

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Irretrievable

How we grieve the simplest
truths: we are

the scatterings,

relics of
the mind’s
erosions,

less than the sum
of our bodies. I cannot see
the word

but it smokes like
the color green
burning, but not of
flame, and once

the knife enters
you must avoid
its secretion

and peel the flesh
to reveal
what hides within:

the stem’s
purchase, pith,
seeds,

the irretrievable
shape

of a word
my lips cannot
form.

***

“Irretrievable” first appeared in a slightly different form in Vayavya, in December 2013.

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Video of April 15th Reading

Tupelo Press Reading

Left to right: Christine Beck, Katy Chrisler, Robert Okaji, D.G. Geis, Pamela Paek, Ronnie K. Stephens, d. ellis phelps

I was so pleased to read with this group of incredible poets, and to meet in person Kirsten Miles, the Tupelo Press National Director for the 30-30 Project. She is an insightful, multi-talented and absolutely delightful person. I wish we’d had more time to chat. My portion starts about four minutes in, but please take the time to hear Kirsten’s introduction. There are six other videos (poets have their own videos), and I urge you to watch them all.

Tupelo Press 30/30 Reading, Austin

Thank you to the staff at Malvern Books, and to Jeff, Cate and Plain Jane for sponsoring these poems last August.

For more information on the Tupelo Press 30-30 Project, go to the 30/30 site, or feel free to contact me for a participant’s viewpoint.

 

 

End of the Road

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End of the Road (2002)

Neither expected nor sought, truth arrives.
One phrase, a minute turn of the

wrist, and the beginning reverses itself, becomes
vessel versus point, illuminating

the reach: one sign, two paths. The agave.
How far we’ve come to affect this place.

Last season the flowers were gray and we knew nothing.
Even the stones quivered with laughter.

And then it rained. And the creeks rose, and the bedrock
appeared as if to say your efforts lack

substance. Look underfoot. There lies the truth.
Neither expected nor sought, it arrives.

 

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Icarus

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Icarus

Currents of breath, the slight curve and lift
within a single motion, once

poised then released as if to say
the wind is mine, or wait,
I am alone –

the story we most fear, not height nor gravity’s
fist, but to exist apart, shadow and

mouth, rain and smile, feather
and sun, all denials reciprocal,

each tied fast and renewed.

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Your Armpits Smell Like Heaven

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Your Armpits Smell Like Heaven

But your breath could melt a glacier at three
miles, she says, and then we might consider
the dirt under your nails, the way you slur
your sibilants, and how you seldom see

the cracked eggs in a carton, a downed tree
branch in front of you, the ripened blister
of paint in the bedroom, or your sister
lying drunk on the floor in her own pee.

Back to your armpits. Do you realize
we could bottle that aroma and make
a fortune? I inhale it and forgive

your many faults. The odor provokes sighs
and tingles, blushes I could never fake.
Ain’t love grand? Elevate those arms. Let’s live!

 

Never in my wildest dreams did I envision writing a poem about armpits. But the Tupelo Press 30-30 challenge, and Plain Jane, the title sponsor, provided that opportunity. I’ll be reading this poem, and several others from last August’s challenge, at Malvern Books in Austin this Friday evening. Join us if you’re able.

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April 15 Tupelo Press Poetry Reading

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TUPELO PRESS POETRY READING

MALVERN BOOKS
FRIDAY, APRIL 15
7:00 – 8:30

Join Tupelo Press 30-30 and Conference Alums for an evening of poetry. Featured readers include Christine Beck, Katy Chrisler, D.G. Geis, Robert Okaji, Pamela Paek, D. Ellis Phelps and Ronnie K. Stephens.

Theory and Practice of Tension (duet for guitar and mandolin)

Aging Guitar

Theory and Practice of Tension (duet for guitar and mandolin)

By compromise I mean the gap between desire and
ability, the difference between mist and fog, cold air
and warmer water. Held taut, the line remains constant,
reciprocated energy observing Hooke’s Law. Though
inadequate in our attempts, in singing we often express
more than words convey, a bridging of music and lyric,
the extension commensurable to the force, as in the
bended A string trilling at dusk, words shimmering
nearby: equilibrium in thought and deed, in body and
intent. And what is the yield strength of need, of want
and notion? The fertile tremolo, plying note upon note,
peace through constant velocity. Presuming failure,
I limit my attentions and compress. When the sum of all
forces equals zero, we attain balance, owing no one.
Proportional to distance: the strings and bridge.

***

My friend Chuck and I get together on occasion to make noise with guitar and mandolin. We are not musicians. But we laugh, sing tunes written for better voices, drink good beer, and enjoy ourselves. Occasionally the sound we achieve transcends our abilities. I live for those moments.

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In Praise of Rain

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In Praise of Rain

Which is not to say lightning or hail.
Sometimes I forget to open the umbrella

until my glasses remind me: Wake up, you’re
wet! If scarcity breeds

value, what is a thunderhead worth
in July? A light shower in August?

Even spreadsheets can’t tell us.

***

“In Praise of Rain” made its first appearance in September 2014.

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If We Burn

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If We Burn

What flares instead to replace our
privileged nights? And which

assemblage of words could reorder these
deaths into comprehension,

change I can’t breathe from epitaph
to actuated plea for help?

Are words ever enough?
Can we stack our indifference and fear

into a mile-high pyre, and torching it
watch them rise to nothingness,

disappearing through the clouds
into the streaming light of cold, dark stars?

Raise your hands and sing. Blow softly
upon the ember. Inhale and recall.

Do you still feel? Will you breathe?
Every fire needs oxygen.

“If We Burn” first appeared on this blog in December, 2014. It’s also included in my chapbook, If Your Matter Could Reform.

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Poem Swallowing Itself

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Poem Swallowing Itself

Reading aloud—
people turn their heads
and step back, never

imagining what lies behind,
expecting neither snakes
nor bear traps nor other ambush.

Beginning where one ends, or
continuing a conversation
over decades, the truth

rises then subsides,
like soaring vultures or
cubes in scotch whiskey.

Measuring volume by
glance, the poem shivers,
opens its mouth wide.

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