There is a door to the lonesome,
You get used to it,
Get used to everything—
Dust in the corners,
Old medicine jars,
A broken bicycle,
What not, hearing
Finally one figures
Wakefulness and dream
Are just the rain.
O happy birthday!
You forgot long ago,
Your splinter of sunlight.
Broken skate beside the pond
The children have gone home
Something of dream
In this ordinary evening
I’m sorry for breaking your heart
Long ago now
Lights in windows
No name for this
A hymn really
Since poetry says so, I bring my father back from the dead and then my mother with her broken laugh. My brother, gone since infancy, he comes along, though not in human form, he’s like the northern lights. “There’s nothing to be astonished about,” I tell them. “Let’s leave off where we were.” So we fall together like leaves in wind and sweep across the velvet ditch of fictive life—you know, the one we imagined we’d live and live.
Late morning, winter, dancing alone in the kitchen
Solo entertainment of a grown child
Just now he shucks off his cruel father
Who taunted him for being blind
A wind blows his torso dips
The father ghost retreats
To its covert—and his raving mother
She follows, carried by shadows
Dancing alone, not a poem,
Nothing literary about it
It was a long day, blazoned with hints from cumulous,
Forebodings—blackness in my wrists,
A fancy concerning self-harm—
As if customary sky may purchase
Or sell a life, in this case mine.
I’ve questions and no one to ask,
This static American business,
Bleaching yourself clear in public,
Being silent, a green chill
For a tongue. I was powerless
Today, strung across
My thirst with no one
The sun as strong as always.
Yesterday I watched a Youtube video of disability activist and poet Leroy Moore. Mr. Moore is the founder of Sins Invalid—an arts program by and for the disabled and which promotes engagement with disability and black identity among other intersections. He is also the inventor of Krip-Hop, a poetics of spoken word poetry with powerful rhythms—a poetry of urgency and truth.
I’m just a white blind dude. I’m a white blind dude poet and nonfiction writer. Me? I’ve got broad interests. More than a few of my concerns have to do with trans-progressivism, which is to say I believe that oppression isn’t identical across diversity intersections but many of its mechanism are the same.
Here is Mr. Moore, reciting a poem after a black man with a prosthetic leg was brutally wrestled to the ground by police in San Francisco. Here’s to Krip-Hop Nation.
A ploughman comes to me in my dream—synesthesia—his odor is of wine, the taste of wine, ripened cherries and earth and when he speaks I hear only syllables as I do not know his language. Even in dreams there’s something of the ironist, the upper hand of the subconscious, and I know this is a Finno-Ugrian tongue, Altaic and not calibrated to contemporary joy. Each sound is sorrow. We meet on a plain of losses and the sun is amber like Russian tea in a glass and soon it will be gone and the ploughman says things I do not understand but in my dream-like way I take to mean: sun-sorrow; course-sorrow; child-loss; deep-hunger; long shadows.