how it is

the wind blows
the clouds are scuttling 
    across the sky
  tonight   and I am 
thinking about love
and you know   because of this
I am thinking about  you

you know   that    all the goddesses
   wily and warm   as they are
provoke me   into love     

prompt the chittering of my tongue
  and its   languid moments
touching upon you

you know I am taking you
 into the haven of my arms
 into the wet dark  of me
where miracles of the moment
 happen  and happen

and I am drunk on love
  and touch
and you___

this is the meaning of body
this is  the meaning of spirit

this is the meaning   of  
   mind     merging with mind

my words hiss through my teeth
this is a sign of intensity

time is short
shorter than it’s been in the past
and I no longer  have  time
for  so-so

that is why my teeth are clenched
and my feelings are sieving through
the spaces between my teeth
as I draw breath   to fuel
this moment    of
 experienced life

I have been touched  today
  with love
and I am touching you
  wih love

because my words are possible
my sensate thought  wrapping
around you  the way    my  cunt 
    wraps around you and holds
you tight  even as you move   within
   me    I want you  I want
you  I want    give  
   me your    thinking   your dreams
imaginings
I want   I want    I want to
fill you  full fill you

this is the moment

now.

let’s call it “the blues of loss”

my current apathy to writing blog entries
which I ascribe to the Journalspace blog loss

I know   I know
MOVE ON, suzie-Q
move on

blog postings and poetry
have been scarce as hen's teeth hereabouts
since the start of the new year

in part because I've been thinking PROSE
in my writerly moments

hopefully I'll come to my senses soon
and get back to poetry
since 
concluding from past experience
we all know     that I am not 
what you could call    a prose writer

still   I have this idea
worth exploring . . . 

and so I sit
(getting now to the other writing abeyance factor)
knitting   knitting
knitting away  more furiously than 
Madame LaFarge

it's like this:
I was thinking 
as I knit 
about
what, of a person, lasts
beyond her lifespan

and as I sat knitting away
I noted my feet propped on the ottoman
which was covered with a small coverlet 
my mother (dead now 13 years)
had knit   some 45 years ago or so . . .

my words will last
if my literary executors,
i.e., those who receive my hard drives)
keep backing them up  !!!!!!
and perhaps there will be some chapbooks
or even a full length collection of poems
before too long

but what I know lasts 
aside from those   are 
recipes and knitting

so I have decided to knit something
wondrous for each person I care about
and I'm also thinking of
knitting or weaving
(as I still have weaving to get around to doing)
a shroud for myself

a thing of great magnificence
to be put in the fire with this well used
body of mine when it ceases to be my home

and of course my shroud will be an elaborate  item
of great complexity and beauty
which will take FOREVER to knit (or weave)
and which   the burning of 
will elicit as much weeping 
as the end of me will elicit
but there's power in the 
ever being made and still incompleted
piecework . . .

just ask Penelope
just ask Arachne

making thread
and making from thread
are honored actions
from close to the beginning of  
we   the sapient species

I came into the world
at one  end of a chord
and I have been making my way
through the labyrinth of life
thread in hand
and no doubt
so it will go util
my thread is   snip   snippt
measured and     clipt

happenstance

a happenstance
  when silence screams
 
dirt brown
six feet down
even in the swelter of summer
is cool to the touch
where the worms turn
flesh into dust

a frenzy of thoughts
 (a murder of crows)

speaking the language of
 ears and parts    growing 
slowly slowly  old

there will be fruit   on the table
by dusk  and we will eat
  juice running down our chins
  licking each other’s fingers clean

until our hearts  
seeds planted there
explode
 in flowerings