I have reviewed two anthologies at Yellow Rabbits: My Lot is a Sky: An Anthology of Poems by Asian Women and Call and Response: A Migrant/Local Poetry Anthology.
My essay, “Poets, Dissidents and Librarians” is now available in the latest issue of Alki, the magazine of the Washington Library Association.
This essay explores some of the people I met, experiences I had, and perspectives I encountered during my trip to Myanmar earlier this year. It’s a nice blend of my library and poetry sides.
Additional Thorough Water videos from May 2019. These collect multiple shots per. Intentional focus on lower-density videos to capture the roughness of the experience. Both can be watched in HD.
My latest collection of poetry is “Green Axis,” and the book as a whole sits at 98 pages. This poetry features Cascadia and beyond. It was written over the course of the last 6 months. It is openly-licensed and can be rehosted/republished with the same license.
Wait for darkness to fill. Dream the songs of coyote. Pack, collective, constellation. Now night’s arrival reflected in mirrors and sickness. People have been here 1000s of years. I can stand to live another day. Fears brace me: crutch of reservation. The thin white-gray memory of playa. Sinking truth like a sinking smile and a yearning heart. In Spanish. Meanwhile there is “while” here. It is a full space, vast with each step. The steppe climate unpredictable. The insects in red light like freckles. The dust in red light: scratched film. Daniel Canty wrote of wind, while I wait for the wind to return and my courage to grow like a flood. Pray for no rain this absence of light and human voices, my own, taking space. When I step outside, reason will return just as the landscape of beating hearts will beat once more. In 7 hours, day will fill and I will chatter with wide eyes.
Reno Vignettes
May 27, 2019
Open Mouth
Like the tongue slashed sideways in death pose Pyramid Lake sloshes fervently nearby. It is an otherwise astounding glare thousands of miles in the praxis of center.
Massacre
Resolution: to arrive at the cover of space and be provided for by cushions of cloud. I step out, breathe in the smell of frozen sage. The Steppe is Massacre Rim on a good day.
A Retribute
Wingfield Park figures standing staring straight. And later: a man prepares to fish. And earlier: two women search the grass. What I would do to be as fixed as the stature of our public as statues bleeding and sweating.
447
The horror of stumbling upon a corpse captured in full daylight with no one nearby to hear a gasp. Empty are its eye sockets. As empty as the street.
447 #2
Eagleville is the place time won’t forget. I dream of a banner of American propaganda. I dream of nowhere to flee toward. In it the corpses smile in mirth. In it the corpses smell of new grass.
The Cedar
Unstilled by the awe of life, she carries white bread across the kitchen, smears a thickness of pale, yellow butter, and places, mouth ajar, the bread on the pan. I stare, hands in my pockets, and there is the subtle, dehumanizing swelter.
Chokehold on 34
Sliding across dozens of miles of mud, I question existence before a single pair of antelope (pronghorn) deapproach. The floor mats will need to be washed of more than the dried clay.
Gerlach #1
The visiting woman overheard at the mechanic’s: “And then it hailed, and it was real hail.” The male mechanic nodded. Very Nevada. Clear sky overhead. Playa beyond. Is it nonsense to the locals? Or is it all sense, ignorance and everything else?
Gerlach #2
I’d been encouraged to visit Bruno’s in any event. Especially the unforeseen weather. I visited first, before the weather. The next day, 36 hours later, I drove by. Passing, I could hear the buzz of subduction through the antique walls.
Adel
It was here in Reno I discovered Harjo’s quote: “Some world travelers learn nothing.” What is to be gained from arriving, and immediately turning around? Disambiguation on Wikipedia. The situation of a place barely inhabited for 1000s of years: its strength in the silence of a few for a few.
Calico
Fortifications are not completely designed. They are not meant to be scaled. What is the meaning that haunts in full daylight and entirely horrifying when beyond full view? Donnelly has as much a name as a voice. It courses beyond space its chorus vibrating and choking in inquiry and dying life.
Waves Sequenced
The order of a stabilization. The incredible order. Headache and bastardization. Reality is cold-hearted. Otherhood is principle. Warmth. Entrancing. Alive. An earning. Just to be alive to say hello to act to participate. It exists. As do we. As we meet and part and destabilize across High Canyon’s shadowy periphery.
Deer Jumper
Enter the twinkling last stance. We will meet again. The weather may be warmer, may be boiling heartbeats. Black Rock Coyote Under the assumption of familial fealty, under the assumption of cordial chaos. Song start breathes life as interrogation. Or celebration: placement is lone and true.
Death and Taxes
It hurts less in the meantime. I don’t know what you mean. Baby’s breath crown to a walk in the clouds. Meanwhile: tone death and tone waiting. Meanwhile: tone as a crucial behemoth. And back to realism, adigital, tonal: the champions are the ones that exit to exist. Never the opposite until a calcifying of tears.
Sparks, Nevada
The first visit I felt nothing. I’d been as. I’d seen through. I’d evicted from. The second visit I tripped upon more nothing. More exquisite and more erroneous the truth. Forgot to apologize for the judgment. Returned to the mites with doubtful numbers.
Unstoppable
Massacre Lake returns to me. Petroglyphic and a rising sputter. Breathless and altogether amesmer. What massacre this derailing sky? Back home the sun plasters beauty and Jason steps forward strongly through time. Thousands of moments across hundreds of miles. The red and green and brown and gray smear into their eternity of perception.
Absinthe Sugar
A crucial dream is the fervor of wake. A wake is green and crucial. The green of the smile comes rightly. Pressure tightly in this shadow presence. Surrounded there’s the black of the counter, black of the walls, of the leather seats, and whatever else is performative and clear.
El Grackle
Greetings, eyes that shoot out like daggers. Reservations before the noon’s silence. One becomes infinite of black and purple, a translucence equal parts obedience and rebellion. The auditory inquiry is as situational as precious. I wonder of nearby cravings and graves.
stumbling from one periphery to the next
I slipped and spread meat
it was meat and it was me across the floor
the light buzzed
the noises flushed into
the familiar haze flashed
it was the challenge of morning
sweet with dearth of life and of death
it continued with fragility
across rooms and halls
a dampening effect
dampening quintessential
collapse
stumbling from one peripheral to the next
I slipped and spread meat across the floor
the light buzzed
the noises flushed into the familiar haze
it was the challenge of the morning
sweet with dearth or scatter of life and of death
and it continued with fragility across rooms and halls
a dampening effect of the quintessential collapse
home where hearts bend
and break to grow
home where mice hide in the rain
and rats come eat the sweets
the rats the sighs of rooms rarely heard
home: I left the cherry blossoms
they bloomed like filthy children
home takes in the deep breath of yesterday
looks comatose
exquiz—
tinted blue
blue in memory can’t you tell
home where hearts bend and break to grow
where the mice hide in the rain
and the rats come eat the sweets
where the sighs of rooms are rarely heard
where I left the cherry blossoms bloomed like filthy children
home takes in the deep breath of yesterday
looks comatose and tinted blue in my memory
the screams and crackles and the shades of the present—
how they rumble like shadow quake and brittle skyscrapers—
how they reach us, slice off our tongues, set fire to our beds—
no more walls of the bedrooms—
intimacy floodlit with guillotine spark—
decapitated home of the decapitated—
screams and crackles and the shades of the present—
how they rumble like shadow quake and skyscraper brittling—
how they reach us, slice off our tongues, set fire to our beds—
no more walls of the bedrooms, intimacy floodlit with guillotine spark—
decapitated home / of the decapitated /
splits open the image
let the bastards come
let the twinklingly literate arrive
we are ready with our grunts and moans
we are ready to ejaculate and spasm
like spines diced to neural mush
we await letting out the long mouth of pause
this world in its infinite fireworks, channeled energy
broken windows and new gardens
train tracks and gory investments
the reflection on the screen and mutualism
dead and gone, spiritual quagmire
(and it can be discussed globally over the Pacific Island
and its kingdom of invisible plastics)
an aerodynamic thirst
splits open the image
let the bastards come
let the twinklingly literate arrive
social in media
we are ready with our grunts and moans
are ready to ejaculate and spasm
like a spine–diced to neural mush
we await and we are ready
we are letting out the long pause
we who have mouths
this world in its infinite fireworks is dim
the root cause!
the channeled energy!
broken windows and new gardens
with views
train tracks and gored investments
memories of lots revisited
transport of bottles, bags, bins
the reflection on the screen mutual
dead
the reflection on the screen mutual
gone
hint of the spiritual
discussed globally over and over
Great Pacific Garbage Patch
kingdom of invisible plastics
quagmire rotten and sweet
Ellen and the convulsive heart
Let rip be rip and polish be polish
I dream of the expressions of joy
I dream of the resolute distancing
Fantasy and projection
of the long walk through warmth
If you could have it disturbingly clear
would you live dutifully and terrified?
The last bird I saw: either a crow or a chickadee
Some common creature flitting across a common scene
This realm really, really is the fullest sense
Bold and interrogative and bloodied with experience
Healed, bruised, unreleased to the currents of air
I dream of the expressions of concern
Drop me into thinking there is a reasonable explanation waiting for us
Allow me to hit my head, break my neck, and convulse freely
(And allow, please, to exist faded, like mist or breath)
For Ellen
Ellen and the convulsive heart
Let rip be rip and polish be polish
Dreams and expressions
Resolutions and distances
Fantasies and projections
The long walk to warmth
If you could have it disturbingly clear
would you live dutifully and terrified?
The last bird I saw: either a crow or a chickadee.
Some common creature
alive and flitting across a common scene.
This realm really, really is the fullest sense.
Bold and interrogative and bloodied with experience.
Healed, bruised, unreleased to the currents of air.
I dream of the expressions of concern.
Drop me into thinking there is a reasonable explanation waiting for us
Allow me to hit my head, break my neck, and convulse freely
(And allow, please, her to see, and to say her piece, her whole self,
and fade thoroughly, like mist or breath)
Homicidal or domicile within a tarnished translation
Domestic blues in the whip and whorl above the sea
Who wouldn’t be blue with the grand eloquent you?
You and you and you and you
A trumpet of rocket fire
Flare as face, facial nation
Skipping forward embracing feelings
I hold up my palm with the cut from the bowl
I remember the slash and the immediate shock
I think, therefore I am sitting here and writing thoughts
Dharma as blisters
Phalanx as workshop
Within the eye of an echo is the karmic release
homicidal and domicile
tarnished translation
domestic blues in the whip
in a whorl above the sea
who wouldn’t be blue
with the grand and eloquent
with the you and you and you and you?
You and you and you and you.
But the trumpet of rocket fire
Flared face
Facial nation
A skipping past the embrace
I hold up my palm with the cut from the bowl
I remember the slash and the immediate shock
I think therefore I am sitting here
I think therefore I am writing thoughts
Dharma as blisters
phalanx of pain as workshop
Within the eye of an echo is the karmic release
Within the slump and the trudge and the embrace of the laughing system
This weeping is of joy, not disappointment
And retroactive they could be watching from the curb
the dust collecting in the corners of their ancient eyes
The fullest sentiments of a modest Wednesday vision
Imaginative scolding of the scalding-hot conceptualism
Drinking the slurps of a poetry poised in a cup brimming poison
Purplish-rose tones rising to the lips of the weakened
It’s grave the gravely nature of those last lips of survival
Photographed before the decades-long smash in a single full moon
We and our resilience capsized by the weight and stalling
The dead stop is the stop of death and it’s placeless and warm
The specialists are returning with their urges toward upkeep
The grizzly, speckled ashes are pouring over the skull-shaped urns
Coffers are the fulcrum moving masses into the slay
An aftermath of ruinous lisps lingers like an aftersex or afterbirth
(after visiting Tacoma)
And retroactive they could be watching from the curb
The dust collecting in the corners of their ancient eyes
The fullest sentiments of a modest Wednesday vision
Imaginative scolding of the scalding hot conceptualism
Drinking the slurps of a poetry that’s poised in a cup brimming poison
Purplish rose tones rising to the lips of the weakened
It’s grave, this gravely nature of those last lips of survival
Photographed before the decades long smash in a single full moon
We and our resilience capsized by the weight and stalling
The dead stop is the stop of death and it’s placeless and warm
The specialists are returning with their urges toward upkeep
The grizzly, speckled ashes are pouring over the skull-shaped urns.
Coffers are the fulcrum moving masses into the slay.
An aftermath of ruinous lisps lingers like an aftersex or afterbirth.
(Yangon, day 2)
upkeep. clandestine. the whirlpool. the fanblade. the festivities. the chants. the sirens. the caws. the ambient buzz. the reclining ignorance. the best foot forward. the champions. the realities. the furthest. the photobombs. the incorrections. the misperceptions. the masses. the proclivities. the belting out. the bulging in. the foray into time. the chiseled grin. the phallic gold. the rosy intonation. the spirit. the stunts. the trespass. the complacency. the waiting. the movement. the race toward a single emerging experience.
The dust settles like ink
Therein lies the problem:
more ink than I know what to do—
the interruptions are like radiation.
They settle. We get used to the poison.
Come to expect it.
Prose minded. Swinging across lanes.
The changing of the guard of the path.
Lights on or off with the motorbike customs.
Come to expect it.
A long way from home at Mt. Popa.
A long way from home at the banks of the Irrawaddy.
Steel Fighter adornment on the side of a truck.
They know what they’re saying, we just find it funny.
At what intersection between time and place,
between birth and death,
between the act of creation
and the creation.
Explosive. Plosive.
The long walk home is drifting in and out of—
Remembering Libby on a road trip.
But here with the sleepy dogs, cats, lizards, birds, etc—
here with the monkeys, cows, goats, horses, etc—
here with the clamor of footsteps (pilgrimage)
and the blast of fallen rocks (or coconut husks)—
damn the monkeys and our reliance on them.
We as audience and we as sellers.
Me and my own unmystical definition.
Where capitalism and mysticism meet
there is a finely-grained instance of expectation.
The fan blades thicken and the stomach loosens.
The motor of the bike grows closer even to this very spot.
Fallen.
I have eaten the goodness of the vegetarian
and am currently digesting,
thinking about war, independence, the fundamental will towards liberty—
is that what this visit, in all its luxury, affords?
A visitation of the random acts of sentiment.
Enticing acts of glass splinters of vision.
Exposed roots within the panatha-leaking rouge.
Melancholy of the poor with their outstretched arms.
A void in place of indecision and inward sludge.
Laziness is godlessness to some.
In sum:
a tract of lessons that can be foraged and before that be forgotten.
The spirit of Bagan and its ancestral quadrangle of pagodas.
The leniency of my own swiftly-blistered ambitions.
Thorough acts of gaudiness with windows open and moans invisible, muted.
Update: this title is now available as an eBook through Amazon.com.
Newly released. Limited run of chapbook Like salt. Like a spine. Handmade in Seattle. Created for release in Yangon, Myanmar in March 2019. Featuring poetry by Maung Day and myself. Translated between Burmese and English. Email me if you’d like to request a copy or have comments. Digital edition may be forthcoming (still undetermined).
On 4/24/19, poets and artists gathered to read poems at the Myanm/art Gallery’s last event. This event was in conjunction of the release of the poetry chapbook Like salt. Like a spine. (An eBook version of this text is forthcoming.) The video recordings are here. As is an audio recording version via YouTube. The reader list is as follows:
The list of the poets in order: Greg Bem with Maung Day, Maung Yu Pie, Moe Way with Susan Gray, Saung Win Hlaing, Susan Gray, Soe Lu Htet, Nay A Di, Lwan Tay Cho, and A-Whee.
Many thanks to Myanmar poet and translator Maung Day for translating my own works, and emceeing the evening.
