Poet In Process

More about the Process; Less about the Product


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filling

first,
the needle
a long
narrow
relief
and next
the drill
with its
many min-
ature bits
not sharp
but whirring
singing
like a light
sings on the
eye, brightly.
They hand me
sun-glasses
to numb the
intensities.

I am reminded
of diamonds
with two sets
of hands
in my mouth,
the assistant
dexterous,
takes and
offers tools
with her
littlest finger
while the doctor
wields the drill/
diamonds are cut
by other
diamonds
the strongest bones
in my body
are cut like
diamonds,
slightly, just
a little at a time.

I could fall
asleep if not
for the drill
and the vacuum
and the banter
above me,
over which
porceline
makes for the
strongest
molars.
A chuckle,
a shrug,
were they
flirting?
the assistant
and her pinky,
the doctor
and his drill
in my mouth
bite down
he says
measuring
either side
does it
feel any
different?
–ECW


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the beetle and the bean

Fog came, higher up,
      despite midday sun,
the trees wore cloud-
cover and light rain,
      threads of sacred
ceremonies, the coffee
on the mountain ripens
as it grows, seasonless
relentless, each tree yields
for a human lifetime and
             recedes.

The island is the mountain.
Even the mossy pockets
forged from volcanic rage
      are quiet and fruitful,
      the coffee is steeped
in the seeds of meatier flora
in the pitch songs of Pele
who at the center of the island
churns a fearsome
              storm.

I come not for the mountain,
which is young
         like we are, but
the seeds and their companion
an invasive species of beetle
no larger than a grain,
             bore
with little instance of failure
into the belly if the bean
when it is young
          like we are
and together they grow
the fruit from the tree
the bug from the seed

It is a frivolous love
that eats its own bed
and sleeps in a pithy tomb
but the beetle is bound to it
as are we,
       newly wed
        freshly bathed
wandering through coffee groves
under the modesty of clouds
revealing in this yield a wet black
                   companion.

—ECW


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inter.library.loans I

paperwork for strangers
is best left unfolded

since you don’t know how it’s filed
–whether in folios
          upright like reeds
–or envelopes
          dangling like wind-chimes
          from clotheslines

whose to say,
        the way
a stranger might file paperwork
        or not file it,
they might just pile it, up! up!
until it shifts under its own importance
        creating layers in eras
          we might discover
   after the roots have grown stiff
 and words are sap and honey.

paperwork for strangers
is intimate that way
      personal/impersonal
vital, lifelike, removed
written in secret–in a way–and not so
rushed. It takes time to say
  exactly what you mean
        to a stranger
        out of context
without clarification
  to say exactly what you mean
is best left unfolded
so as not to imply
            or assume
            or limit
the life of a document
      which you have sent away.

–ECW


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With Aura

How can I simplify
the set of lines running,
binding what is perhaps
a probability, to the reality
of me. Nerves that never
cross come in contact
with pulses, which are,
perhaps, thoughts or maybe
words that carry with them
the weight of language,
empathy.

This roots my migraines.

I cannot fathom the mind
with my mind. Maybe this
is the true hope of computing
to see through object
lenses a sense of human
unburdened by ourselves.
I would not imagine
that each cell is itself
a star, but I have heard that,
in passing, that the brain
lights up more connections
than stars, even though
we are uncertain how many
that might be.

This fuels my migraine.

Still I am uncertain of the soul
but have most certainly
seen it from the left side
washing over what is real,
perhaps, or maybe not real
in the least, a gesture
of light that beckons away
or might not beckon at all,
I just see it that way. I have
seen the soul, or maybe
my own soul departing,
returning again and again.

This shapes my migraine.

I know less, it seems,
in the morning
when the narrow
pulses have passed
and even these miniature
symphonies have ceased.
I am quiet.
As is the migraine.
Which is not separate,
as much,
from me ,
as I might have hoped.
I am the migraine.
Which now, it seems,
is not so imminent
to cure.
—ECW


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White men no college

White men no college
never read Virginia Woolf
on the toilet in the morning
early morning, 5 am morning
not having woken up but
never having gone to bed
never having felt that sleep
was safe, or that time was plenty
holding her in hand like a white dove
Mrs. Dalloway on the roof
deck of a bus headed away toward the city
white men no college
will live forever without that scene
will grow old beautifully untouched by ache
dusted with golden flecks of hate;
white men no college
have in their canvas hands
the bald heads of daughter babies
whose eyelashes are infinite
and hold in them a future
empty of trees—perhaps—busy with busses
who might go away, far away, to college
and hold in her pale hands
a borrowed novel, a stream of conscious
a woman she might someday be.

—ECW


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Imports: Middle East

Would you believe me
if I told you once the
carrot was purple
but a sickness came
over them and they
turned the color of curry
and all the carrots in the
world come from the cradle
just like you did—the cradle
and the angel—see, you
said once, see? Where
the angel dips her hands
in the ocean, there lies
the center of the universe
where you are from and
will never return
for fear of war and nitrate
and sickness that comes
not from nature but man
the violent pursuits of
kings and farmers
who dip their hands
in the center of the universe
and create chaos
and call it science,
are we not all on the verge
of utter transformation
teetering between extremes
is it rotten, you asked,
with my teeth halfway
through a purple carrot
not rotten, I said,
just rather old.

–ECW


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9 Types of Intelligence

For anyone who feels like maybe their genius doesn’t fit into any right brain or left brain model, this chart is perfect. As a poet, I see myself on the linguistic-intrapersonal side of intelligence, knowing what I feel and being able to say it in a way that others can appreciate!

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9-types-of-intelligence-infographic

Written by Information Designer, Mark Vital, of Funders and Founders, this post, with an infographic, is enlightening and thought-provoking. Referring to the 9 types of intelligence introduced by Howard Gardener in his 1983 book, Frames of Mind: The Theory of Multiple Intelligences, Vital shines a light on “whether talents other than math and language are indeed types of intelligence or just skills.”

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