infinity on repeat

"It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.”

Tag: poem

Poem (the spirit likes to dress up) by Mary Oliver

The spirit
  likes to dress up like this:
   ten fingers,
   ten toes,
shoulders, and all the rest
  at night
   in the black branches,
     in the morning
in the blue branches
  of the world.
   It could float, of course,
     but would rather
plumb rough matter.
  Airy and shapeless thing,
   it needs
     the metaphor of the body,
lime and appetite,
  the oceanic fluids;
   it needs the body’s world,
and imagination
  and the dark hug of time,
     and tangibility,
to be understood,
  to be more than pure light
   that burns
     where no one is —
so it enters us —
  in the morning
   shines from brute comfort
     like a stitch of lightning;
and at night
  lights up the deep and wondrous
   drownings of the body
     like a star.

A list—

every library should have at least one gargoyle to protect the books inside
all wrapped up in the immortality of the soul.
opposite of love is indifference ,
be the first human to have a psychedelic trip on the moon
the beautiful weird / amen

the fairest of seasons, up on melancholy hill  ː
where the ground is a scroll leaking possible reincarnation
and some billion footsteps hammer out the next line of poetic ruin.
A sanctuary with no purpose at all, save being led

“I would love to have a cat’s vision, but then I won’t be able to drive.. as neither can cats..”
—strange email from boy who takes his dark roast with 3 raw sugars and a tiny bit of cream

kissing fishes

this is how mise en scene goes on
behind shut eyes. maybe a hologram
solidifying, a still picture of my grandfather
kissing a strange woman.
but the focus begins shifting shapes and both
begin to look like fishes.
a soft milky blob of light hovers
over their fish lips I swim into that halo
to touch the one small everything nucleus
the catapult of nascent darkness


Girl must meander surreptitiously.

Girl is very blurry.

Girl meandered forever.

Must gray and fog meander still?

They meander here every day.

Girl softly tastes aluminum.

once or twice or three times, i saw something~ marie howe


Once or twice or three times, I saw something
rise from the dust in the yard, like the soul
of the dust, or from the field, the soul-body
of the field – rise and hover like a veil in the sun
billowing – as if I could see the wind itself.
I thought I did it – squinting – but I didn’t.
As if the edges of things blurred – so what was in
bled out, breathed up and mingled: bush and cow
and dust and well: breathed a field I walked through
waist high, as through high grass or water, my fingers
swirling through it – or it through me. I saw it.
It was thing and spirit both: the real
world: evident, invisible.

a love note to albert goldbarth and swimming

your name sounds like a goldfish
abandoned for the ferris wheel
you were only a prize until
the line wasn’t too long
so someone hurried off without
you accidentally or maybe knowing
a stranger would see
a little clear baggie
full of water and stop
to ask how your fan-fin pulls
from the soft invisible sunlight
a slow unraveling track
trains would crystallize all around you

and i said yes


The Way by The New Yorker

The sky is random. Even calling it “sky”
is an attempt to make a meaning, say,
a shape, from the humanly visible part
of shapelessness in endlessness. It’s what
we do, in some ways it’s entirely what
we do—and so the devastating rose
of a galaxy’s being born, the fatal lamé
of another’s being torn and dying, we frame
in the lenses of our super-duper telescopes the way
we would those other completely incomprehensible
fecund and dying subjects at a family picnic.
Making them “subjects.” “Rose.” “Lamé.” The way
our language scissors the enormity to scales
we can tolerate. The way we gild and rubricate
in memory, or edit out selectively.
An infant’s gentle snoring, even, apportions
the eternal. When they moved to the boonies,
Dorothy Wordsworth measured their walk
to Crewkerne—then the nearest town—
by pushing a device invented especially
for such a project, a “perambulator”: seven miles.
Her brother William pottered at his daffodils poem.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance: by which he meant
too many to count, but could only say it in counting.