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compressed into outer wings

 

archer compress night like an accordion

usher its scenery into outer wings

the lady wears her black mantilla

 

archer fold nightmares into paper fans

fetch fanned breezes for the mothy air

the lady day dreams.

spring_equinox_2016_qtrsz

 

archer lower your bow

the lady dreams leaves out of bare wood

 

she dreams trees for the forest where

you will have lease to shoot.

 

 

 

 

Welcome, Spring.

–The Odalsisque

exit night. enter light.

I have a long night ahead.    You do, too, if you live north of the equator.

I haven’t always lived north of the equator.  At one time, I lived in a painting which means outside of time.  I left all that for my new life in an oddly-conceived obelisk sticking irrationally out of a marsh by the shore.   My life may be odd but it is not a work of art.  It’s not timeless.  I have to live through long long nights.  Too bad I didn’t wash up near the equator.  Just think of the birds I’d have had as friends!

Stop it, Odalisque!  Stop thinking about what never was.  How easily I fall into fantasy to avoid now.  NOW is the dawn (?) of the LONGEST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.  No, the CUSP of the longest night of the year.  The crepuscular CUSP.

How will you make it through?

I think I will observe my shadow.

If I sit still in the dark it will not be cast, and I can better observe it.

<Black Swan would like me to explain why Black Swan does not cast a white shadow.>

<I say ‘Perhaps your soul shadow is white.  Your soul shadow is not the shadow you see on the wall.”>

<Black swan blinks, uncomprehending.  Black Swan’s shadow is still black on the wall.>

<About swan brains:  They don’t understand that one word means can signify multiple things, especially if one of those things is conceptual.>

I didn’t have much of a shadow when I was art. I was painted to be luminous in a murky dark. If I had a shadow it vanished into the background.

It occurs to me that when I was a work of art I was the light casting someone else’s shadow.

I am very fortunate that my obelisk is well-lit.  I have a shadow and it changes size.  I will see my shadow again in the morning, when my window is passage for the first rays of dawn.

My niche objectifies that blessed event.

Stop Odalisque!  Stop thinking ahead.  First, I must get through tonight.

Maybe a stew of bitter roots and powders.  Sun powders: paprika, tumeric, cayenne, saffron, the colors of heat and warmth ground fine and digestible, enlivening to blood.   Or, foods rich in iron, as if this night is a furnace in which swords and anvils are forged.  Or,  tubers of Helianthus: all summer that plant grew high in the marsh, well over my head.  Whatever sustained stems, leaves, pods, the root has sucked dry and stored, earth-white-crisp, inside.   Let transubstantiation feed shadow tonight.

Drink red wine from a quartz cup.

Beat taut skins of drums or thighs with the palms of hands.

Cover yourself in cloth that catches the littlest light.

Or don’t, and let your eyes sparkle.

If the sun were a king and not a star, if you thought the earth was flat and the sky a dome, tonight the king would almost die.

The king is not dying.  Unless the king is like a shadow:  conceptual.  My bringer-of-light.

Do not let your sun king die.

It is a long night.   The sun is not dying, (at least, not on a human scale).  The earth is just moving like earth-mass moves a sun-scale gravitational field.   Starlings move like starlings in the twilight sky.  Grasses move like dry grasses in night-fall winds.

The king does not die.  Neither does the shadow.  Both will be weak for months now, but come spring, the earth will be pummelled by roots into abundance, solar powered.

 

 

wintersolstice_2015_halfsz_noborder

 

Merry darkness.  Happy soon-to-be dawn.

–The Odalisque

kernel

This is my coast my shore.  The sea crashes, shapes, heaps, carries away.  My coast.  My shore.  Here a wrecked shipman would long for fresh water and hot food.  I weep salt and speak-sputter wet wood.   My house is built apocalyptic on sand there is no rock here.  Shifting sands.  Nomad- I  of miniscules, foot by foot my house moves, between dune and shore.

The jewels of my country are secreted.  Secrete/secret the thick glossies that mollusk thumbs fist.  Spiraled, scalloped, with fishy smells.  A captain landing here would find no treasure except what the ocean will break and cleanse.  My wealth is all paper on a standard of feathers and shell.  I’m worth nothing without irrational faith.

Here no ships but maybe.  Here no sails but maybe, too far for hawk-eye to see, one trawls, nets too knotted and tangled to sail home.  Better to be a boatman in the hollowed trunk of a tree, steadying his gaze, hand to a spear.  Better skim the deep waters armed with knives and spears, sharp and precise, than drag behind a powerful vessel indiscriminate nets.

Feed me.  I will eat gold kernels out of my hands and sea eggs, grey yolked.  No more nets, knotted and tangled, in constant need of mending, They dredge the dark living sea dusts up I will not feed on its bottoms.

Gold grain and grey yolks.  Feed me things that might be born.  Feed me the raw germ of wanting-to-be-born.

shore egg–The Odalisque

steps

steps1-2-3

 

 

steps-1

 

Don’t force.  Little things.  Days.  Hay the heap in which pricker lost,  scintillant sharp-eye.

Pay attention.  A haystack is a stack of needles. Needles of hay.  Stop scouring gold for cold steel.

 

 

 

 

 

steps-2Transmission weak and flatulent, slack-jawed lines on a pole poorly buried.  No electrical ground.

Engage the operative.  Draw the lines taut and subtle like muscle tissue like sinew bow strings, foreleg of deer drawn taut to down the fleeing deer.

The deer enables the hunter.  Without her there is no hunt<h>er.

Or is there?  Her taut-strung sinews string his lyre.  Therefore, he thinks, they commune.

 

steps-3No rest always a space simple let it fill itself with play.

Head too heavy to lift up?

Look down, upon reflective surfaces.

Try cans of spent motor oil.  Try backside of spoons.   Try sphericals.   Try eyes of adoring animals.  Try shiny-ing your shoes.

city dreams

owl_handwriting_owlagain

owl on sill

 

 

 

 

 

ODALISQUE DOES NOT SAY HELLO NO SHE DOES NOT.

I AM SORRY.

I AM TRYING TO RECORD HER DREAMS IT IS VERY HARD.

MAYBE I WILL SHARE ONE SOON.

I AM SORRY SHE HAS NOTHING TO SAY.

I HAVE THINGS TO SAY.

HELLO I AM OWL.

I SAY

in a dark and dated hotel room with the boy you tried to kiss his name the name of greek statues the ones that hold up temple porches

get ready.  before a plate glass mirror get ready

to fly north for an event.

planes to catch in metallic hangars it is so hard to get to these planes.

city streets treacherous they all drop down into round-a-bout  bottoms like the bottoms of bowls.  bowl bottom is stable equilibrium says math class.  no catching a plane in the bottom of a bowl without a dose of irrational energy.

intellectual inadequacy.

i fly.  afraid to lose the earth.  no worries.  boy and girl are bound to earth.  i bear them.

skateboard sky.

sidewalk man in suspenders makes chalk mandalas on the concrete very colorful they are.

maybe he is the one.

that girl has fantastic boots.  red cross-stitched.

maybe she is the one.

will the bicycle make it up the hill, out of the city, to that dark road running home?  see road slope and curve beneath o’erhanging trees shadow trees where insects sing.

OWL sings.

we / land / ground / earth on a paved plaza.

event hotel!  off-center lobby.  elevators to rooms where folded schedules are forgotten.  long brown halls.  stumble upon an intimate, semi-circular hall where businesspeople in frumpy suits karaoke made-up lyrics to classic rock songs.  in one room girl having an argument with staff about what she knows to be true.  time to go home.  surely the event is practically over time to catch another plane.  for vacation.  girl can’t find keys to room where her things are and can’t remember where her room is but

look a forest.  a cube of forest bounded by glass. stunning concept.  balanced with fore-thought / but wild.  red leaves / peacock blues of ever-greens.  deep deep ground forest sunk so to see into canopy

technicolor forest caged between glass viewing corridors of event hotel.

here was well thought-out.  here is worthy of contemplation.  here be still.

owl_handwriting_thankyousigningoff

 

 

 

quiet please quiet

Quiet, please, quiet.

Let me sleep.

Let me pull this darkness (this darkness that is still natural in many places of this world) over my face like a black hood wrung in cool water.

Let me be blind inside it.

Let me sleep as deeply as sleepers in the dark regions.

Let me sleep, fists curled like a skinned animal who dreams of the moldy earth, of thick plush fur.

A dream that closes on waking like a heavy door heaved against a beast who wants to tear my bones away from themselves with its jeweled claws.

(Odalisque dreaming recorded here)

a tree is cut down and paper made. I then write on it.

handwriting if a tree is cut down

If a tree is cut down and paper or pencil made, and I then write with them?

If you were a tree

would you be my pencil?

my blank page?

my unblank page?

If you were a tree would you be the page preserved in an archive, its climate controlled with combustion, the burning of ferny compression we call fossil fuels?

Would you be my paper, my pencil, preserved?

handwriting a tree would prefer

A tree would prefer I crumple this page, throw pencil away.

Better yet, would I please bury both in dirt?

handwriting if you were a tree you would want

When I fall something shoot its pale cusp from the trunk that was me.

transparent barit begins

Come back wild moment from far before
I took up my sword call it pencil say paper or page.
Killing impulse, I took up pencil and page.
I ruined everything.

my dream

Owl recorded my dream.  Listen:  cosmic dream radio.

I woke up yesterday.  This is what I remember:

bird's shadow blackensleave 2 candles burning/ do i go out again

I can’t help but think that some of this was due to one of phoenix’ flaming billet doux.

But there was no ash on my pillow when I woke up?

why does the phoenix (billet 2)

Wake up.  The phoenix staked another billet-doux through my pillow with a splinter of arrowwood.

It is on fire.

Wake up.

Fizzling like a sparkler.

Burning Door

Billets hard to hold through waking.   They sizzle at the edge of dream.   Wake up.   They burn themselves out.  Pillow ash brings intense, peripheral feelings, mis-sequenced, uncertain, numinous.

(click to read the first billet-doux)

***
BURNING DOOR.  IN AND OUT AND IN
LET US BE WITH EACH OTHER
THE DAYS COUNT THEM]S[?]
STAND  BESIDE
PULL CLOSE
IT IS NICE TO BURN
(  OH
INTOXICATING THE LIGHT

crushed cans v/s broken shells

Cans and shells are both abandoned when no longer useful.

One, when empty (by man). One, when full (by glob-footed organisms).

Glob-footed organisms cannot live inside aluminum cans.

Shells do not litter the streets of major cities.

Broken shells can mulch flower beds.

Crushed cans cannot be flower vases.

Neither makes a tasteful ashtray.

Neither illustrates prayers or sells in tourist shops.

Neither is likely to be gilded, to impress ladies at a luncheon party, or to evoke true love.

Either might evoke memories of an ex.

Neither can nor shell should be clutched too tightly to the bosom.

Neither is an apt metaphor for the muse.  Neither inspires odes.  O cracked bit of shell O crushed aluminum can

And so forth.

The shell, broken, reveals a lustrous encapsulation of roseate dawn.  It is pleasing to the thumb.

The can, crushed, is  illegible.  Its crinkled lip flashes in the sun like a razor.

More sea trash (read bones, candy wrappers, a winnowing basket here).

–The Odalisque

be what (text excavation)

moon.  across.  sun.

seize [   ]

breath

startle.  her

flock scatters

breath [   ]  swells

[  ]  [   ]  [   ]

be what.    rush of feathers

thousand-fold

my refrigerator

When cicadas hum and green things spoil themselves for autumn,

let’s go to the kitchen and stand contemplatively in the light of the refrigerator door.

Let’s grab leaves and roots and pulpy ovaries, throw them on the counter and make choices.

Let’s use sharp knives and pull with our fingers.

Let’s put things in pots and boil them.

Let’s stir and sizzle and poke until they’re done.

When they are, bring out the earthenware and a bottle of something intoxicating!

Let the night burn like sugar!

Let the days be warm and crisp as a salad!

Let us be bountiful with each other and sharp.

Let us labor and be well fed.      (    oh

it’s  nice to smell oil burning

to cut into gourds and hearts

to come inside when the sun gets all teary-eyed

and sit close in the last bit of warmth.)

my refrigerator

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