Knowing how to Stand

Strong winds buckling fences. Morning is a space in the air, sunlight on snow flakes driven into the sky. Loveliness, a grace, ordinarily so.

A sandwich, a sex romp, a saddle. Tragedies at Little Big Horn, the way history shifts in the present, always a lens, always a filter. Warm shallows through which minnows dart.

Biography is backwards? Morning passes writing, as so many have in this life, and one thinks of grandparents who longed for this freedom and were not allowed to partake. Errors happen, Eros happens.

Silver fish live in the heavens, vast turtles gaze at us in sorrow from beyond the Planck Epoch. She lay her head on the drum and the fire around us burned brighter, all the dancers instantly stilled. Pissing outside means knowing how to stand in the wind, there really is an art to it.

How the cows wept dying. I fired arrows into the sky, I dreamed of friends waiting for me on the moon, in this way my loneliness both intensified and became bearable. A snake is an architect of what emotion?

Carriages, coffins, conformities. The glass jars on the windowsill fill up with quartz, crystals, marbles, prisms. Inside and out are mythological.

Reading the cards is easy once you realize there is only one storyteller and only one story, which tells itself, over and over and over. Family history a narcotic from which the soul struggles to extract itself.