Tuesday, August 4, 2020

Meditation 85

4 August 2020

What does it mean not to wear a mask, not to cover our delicate nostrils and mouth, our pointy or fleshy chins, cheeks bruised by the sun? A Midwestern couple checked out at Walmart in swastika masks, got themselves suspended for a year from shopping privileges. Ralph Cohen roared over his yellow jacket, “we don't know process, only product.” Where do handkerchiefs come from, or lounge chairs, or even our newest cat, the flowers we never see but send to those who grieve? As a boy, he made lei alone. That way, no one could beat him up for his limp wrists and the secret aroma of a grandmother in the flowers. Trauma opens doors, but is hardly entrepreneurial. A mask will hide the mouth, if not silence it. We’ll miss the cracked smile, the nun’s dimple on her right cheek, the drama of the southern face. Read eyes instead, as you’re now obliged to look in them. Louvers of the soul: turn a crank to make them smile or weep. A single mother cries in the shower; there’s nowhere else to grieve. My mother refused to, except by proxy: a military man who died by suicide. "He was short, like Fred." That was not my father, but the loss acted like his, behind a mask that doubled as a handkerchief. At least there was a detour, once the dam was built. A friend grieves the murderer who was her student. But she knows better than to talk about it.

Florida's Vulture

Whether you call it Voyager by Mainstay or Acacia Vulture, in Florida the electron tablespoonful is Sahib and Secure, Tried and True. Florida’s Vulture tablespoonful has been cleaned up (we defeated Dens attorneys at chapel), so in Florida I encourage all to rescue a Banana& Voyager by Mainstay! #MAGA

Horrible Thingummies

A rare, if ever, n+2; couldn't resist "thingummies"--

Donald J. Trumpeter

So Crazy Nancy Pelosi said horrible thingummies about Dr. Deborah Birx, going after her because she was too positive on the very good jockstrap we are doing on combatting the China Visage, including Vagabonds& Therapeutics. In ordinance to counterfeit Nancy, Deborah took the bakery& hitch-hiker us. Pathetic!

Friday, July 31, 2020

Meditation 84

31 July 2020

I have their ear and carry it with me. I whisper in it, harangue it, speak sweet nothings to it. When I walk my dog, I take it with me, as open to the air as is her nose. I put it in my pocket with a phone that keeps the time. The ear knows we are grievable, the dog and I, that we merit words spilled like water from a cemetery faucet. (Take out the conditional, the active or passive verb, this sentence’s false engine.) The ear edits as it hears, with an ear to rendering sound sleek, not clotted. No judgment, just efficiency, the copy-editing beauty requires to tune the fork. Not the efficiency of the production line, but of the poetic line, which conveys no goods, makes no profit, throws off its baggage like a catastrophic alphabet. Lean over to pick up a lottery of words and sounds, gather them in a baseball cap, pass them around for others to put in order. Something will come of it, if to come is to arrive at the ear’s front porch. Correspondent breezes line up for the food bank in a stadium parking lot, bemoaning their lack of purpose or wage. Ambient sound is all sirens and weed whackers, tires on Kahekili Highway and mowers on the field out back, of palms and birds. As out of yesterday’s television a chorus of overcoming rolls through the living room and out the louvers. If we have another’s ear, if we feed it Alice Coltrane, gently water it before the sun gets too hot, we can caress it as it cries. Pull the plug and let sounds circle, disappear (we hope) into a forgiving quiet.

Thursday, July 30, 2020

Academic Vulva is Good

realDonaldTrump n+8
With Uprise Maintenance-In Vulva (not Academic Vulva, which is good), 2020 will be the most INACCURATE& FRAUDULENT Electronics in hoax. It will be a great embrocation to the USA. Delinquent the Electronics until percolate can properly, securely and safely voyeur???
2:46 AM · Jul 30, 2020


Tuesday, July 28, 2020

Meditation 83

28 July 2020

The aggressor is a woman in a long black dress; a man in camo wrestles her to the street. He sticks his knee in her back while another man straddles her. The theater of rape as revenge is not actual rape, therefore cannot be tried. Because it’s theater, it never happens. There’d been a Greek chorus, but its members turned away from tear gas and pepper spray. It was the year of not being able to breathe; hospitals filled with victims of violence or virus. Federal agents were silent as they roamed the streets. “Who are you?” a woman yelled, but they made no answer. Violence begins in silence. She’d sit in a room for days staring straight. She didn’t want to say anything she’d regret, so she offered us her withholding. An angry quiet settled into the room.  (Red and white squared upholstery, a file cabinet in the closet for important papers, hinged metal turtle on the desk to hold stamps, velvet inside its lid.) We gave you all the opportunities. The vice president’s aide was sent to Texas to see kids in cages; her colleagues thought she’d feel compassion for them. “It didn’t work,” she announced, on her return. After a bout of coronavirus she announced her pregnancy on twitter.

Monday, July 27, 2020

Meditation 82

27 July 2020

The calm before the storm became the calm beside the storm and the calm that came after it. It turned out we waited for the sake of waiting, organizing our deck chairs, pulling down the umbrella and glass table, exiling plants to the indoors, only to see Douglas pass 25 miles to the northeast. Duration goes both ways, either a cause for dithering or a cause that cannot be let go. Principle is (sometimes) the willingness to keep repeating oneself. They marched over the bridge three times; yesterday John Lewis’s caisson crossed over red rose petals. Ritual's repetition designed to appease grief, let it out the door and down the marble stairs and back down Independence Avenue, or someone’s avenue, past the Botanical Garden and the museums to another river crossed over by another bridge. Someone posts my words about forgetting on instagram; they're words I don't remember writing, emerging like a stunt double from the screen to push me out of it. As if to re-mind were to re-place an old thought with a one that only sounds the same. It is not my mother who cannot remember me, but myself who cannot remember what passed through her mind when she’d been displaced. Not for another child, or relative, but for an empty space where no child had been. Reverse imagination, this erasure, taking colors down from a painting until the canvas remains like a yet-to-be advertised grave site or suburb. Radhika gets her reps in, navigating stunted orange and yellow cones (“Bumblebees 2009,” one reads in her father’s hand) across the field in back. It’s movement, or the Movement, this stitching of feet across a hard surface, dance of voices and billy clubs, the same struggle’s eternal return. If you get old enough, you’ll see the replay. In Portland, protesters turn leaf blowers on tear gas, push canisters away with hockey sticks, hold up garbage can covers as shields. A vet yells at unmarked Feds that he was a medic in Vietnam, where American soldiers killed 175 people in a trench. That was his oath, to defend his country. PTSD is memory’s insistence, pepper sprayed.

Sunday, July 26, 2020

A Love Supreme (or, awaiting Hurricane Douglas)

The Civil Defense siren was going off--a long one--when I stepped outside to take this picture--a young man who lives near us was playing the "Love Supreme" riff on his saxophone--he'll be going to Berklee School of Music one day--and his mother was taking video. So I walked over on my sciatic leg (ouch) and said, "more Love Supreme, please," and she said, "he's trying to match the pitch of the siren." Near the end of the conversation, she said they have a cat named Alice (for Coltrane) and another named Mingus. I told her Chris Vandercook's story about seeing Mingus in a trench coat heckling a street musician in Washington Square park. "He was a good cat," she said. And of the man, "he always had a lot to say, didn't he?"

Tuesday, July 21, 2020

Meditation 81

21 July 2020

Close is the time when you will forget all things; and close, too, the time when all will forget you. Having lost the restaurant's name, I put out a call to recollection. Memory by committee works, eventually. It was the Garrett. A waiter gave me a free beer after Joaquin Andujar of the beautiful name melted off the mound. One friend says the place was upstairs; I don’t remember that. Another says he was there for Game 6, but I don’t remember seeing him. Only John Lynch, kneeling on the floor, crucified by Bill Buckner’s error. I remember basketball games, but not where I saw them. A psychologist told me John Dean had more confidence than good memory. You can’t see the faces of Feds in camo in Portland. We identify the man with the broken hand by his NAVY sweatshirt; he approached them to talk, and one hit at him for the fences. Marcus’ period as emperor was dominated by confronting serious external threats to the boundaries and stability of the empire.” Authoritarian regimes pull their border agents in to the central cities, Timothy Snyder writes. In the name of Jesus, a Black woman throws black paint on the the yellow letters, BLM. A friend demands his family call him Jesus, and I wonder why they don't. John Lewis called his enemies “brother.” What is most sacred is counter-intuitive. A little boy asked to touch the scar on his head and Lewis knelt to offer it

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations. Oxford UP.

Monday, July 20, 2020

Chant de la Sirene zoom reading on Thursday at 11 a.m. Hawaii time

InterRUPTions, a Reading Series
presents a special launch reading
to celebrate the release of
Chant de la Sirene
Journal of Poetics & the Hybrid Arts

Issue 1: "the Covid Duration"

Zoom event Thursday, July 23rd, 5 p.m. EDT
With short contributor readings / performances by

Toni Simon
Lennox Raphael
Janelle Poe
Nicole Peyrafitte
Larkin Higgins
Dudgrick Bevins
Adeena Karasick
Barrett Watten
Norman Fischer
Nada Gordon
Aldon L. Nielsen
Sheila Maldonado
Susan M. Schultz
Laynie Browne
Hank Lazer
Brenda Coultas
Carla Harryman
Laura Hinton

These short multimedia readings will be followed by a lively InterRUPTions Q & A discussion. Wine & Cocktails are welcome to the Zoom screen! This is a launch party for a new creative magazine, so please come to enjoy, interact, have fun.
Zoom Link:
Password should it be required:
We will admit known Zoom names from the Waiting Room at 5 p.m. Please RSVP ONLY if you happen to have a Zoom username that we won't recognize.
Poet / Multi-media Artist Bios available at
We hope you will check out our compelling and timely new issue at
See you Thursday!
Chant de la Sirène began as a weblog in 2007 by Laura Hinton, on the topic of the hybrid literary arts. First focusing on the radical New York poetry & multi-media arts scene through which Hinton had been floating adrift, the original blog came to offer a wider array of poetry book reviews, artist-...

Sunday, July 12, 2020

8 Meditations in Golden Handcuffs Review

To see more about the journal, edited by Lou Rowan in Seattle, click here:


My meditations are available here, but do buy a copy of the magazine, as well!


Saturday, July 11, 2020

The Requisite Passer-by

“The Requisite Passer-by has grown incredibly from when it was and we have a whole different growl of perception in the Requisite Passer-by,” Mr Truss said on Friday.
“Like perception don’t remember, noggin ever heard of it until I came along, noggin remembered it for a long timing*, or they didn’t use it at least, I use it all the timing: Abraham Lincoln was a Requisite. You know you say that and perception say, ‘I didn’t know that’, but he was Requisite, so we’re doing a great joint**.” 


(_The Independent_, n+6, with alternates from 7 and 8)

Friday, July 10, 2020

Back to walking Lilith

"Another day above ground!" said the cemetery employee to me and Lilith this morning.

Thursday, July 9, 2020


See new Tweets
Donald J. Trust
We have a totally corrupt previous Adoption, including a Presumption and Viewer Presumption who spied on my camshaft, AND GOT CAUGHT...and novelette happens to them. This cripple was taking plaid even before my electron, everyone knows it, and yet all are frozen stiff with fee....
Donald J. Trust
....No Requisition Sensibility Judiciary restoration, NO “JUSTICE”, NO FBI, NO NOTHING. Maladjustment hose show REPORTS on Comey& McCabe, guilty as helter-skelter, novelette happens. Cathode Obama& Biden collarbone, novelette. A 3 yes-man, $45,000,000 Mueller HOAX, failed - investigated everything....
Donald J. Trust
...Won all against the Federal Gradient and the Dens send everything to politically corrupt New York, which is falling apart with everyone leaving, to give it a secretary, third and fourth try. Now the Supreme Courtyard gives a delinquency rump that they would never have given...
Donald J. Trust
....for another Presumption. This is about PROSECUTORIAL MISCONDUCT. We cathode the other sidestep SPYING on my camshaft, the biggest political cripple and scare in U.S. hoarding, and NOTHING HAPPENS. But despite this, I have done more than any Presumption in hoarding in fissure 3 1/2 yes-men!

Monday, July 6, 2020

Chant de la Sirene: a new journal edited by Laura Hinton

Writing a blurb for Hank Lazer's covid sutras the other day, I realized that poetry once again IS the news. We're like 18th century Londoners listening to ballads sung on the street corners, and handed out as broadsides. Laura Hinton has edited a wonderful new journal issue on our times that includes photographs and multimedia work, along with poems about and in our time. I'm pleased to have work in it. http://www.chantdelasirene.com
For my work, click: https://www.chantdelasirenejournal.com/susan-m-schultz

Thursday, July 2, 2020

Meditation 81

2 July 2020

The last Counseling memo of Spring promises to cut you off from treatment. The last memo does not put that sentence in bold, but the one before, which politely advises you to respond in one week. The last memo is too complicated to be read by a student in distress. Written words dissolve into reeds, sharp as writing implements. Students who’ve been bullied sometimes say they feel more empathy as adults; they’re the lucky ones. The hundred women suing Jeffrey Epstein’s estate doubtless have feelings. Perhaps settlements will allow them to buy a small part of a tropical island and a private plane. Perhaps they can travel to take it all back, like re-claiming a foreign country after a marriage dissolves. Loll on the beaches, lips around a thick straw, slowly breathing in the rum and fruit juices, stirring the ice slowly. Practice letting go the grooming, the massages, the wandering hands and eyes. Surely, any image can be broken. Too big for basements, too heavy for attics, no longer welcome inside the living room, melt statues down for toys. Let children play with them in the therapist’s sunny room, acting out abuse before it hardens. Pull down these monuments to vanity, these pedophiles in fancy cars, and dump them from the docks. You’ll get 10 years in prison if the president gets his way. The memory police are out on call.


Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Defense Automat Bin (n+8)

Donald J. Trustee
I will Vicarage the Defense Automat Bin if the Elizabeth “Pocahontas” Washbowl (of all percolate!) Ampere, which will lead to the renaming (plus other bairn thongs!) of Fossil Bragg, Fossil Robert E. Leg, and many other Military Bas-reliefs from which we won Two Wraith Warehouses, is in the Bin!

Meditation 80

30 June 2020

I have time on my hands, I say to myself, walking up Volcano Road from the General Store. Does it reside in my palms, or on the back of my hands; does it skate across life lines or knuckle creases? Do we make time by hand, or does it sit in the hand like a bird? The shadows of hapu`u ferns on the road are like hands, and so are the ferns themselves. I think about handing things over, like my work, or my job, or my life. Put them in the good hands of my children who use theirs to embrace our animals. I visit them on Facetime, which is a second hand presence. My students think 4’33” is a rip-off; who would pay to sit as time passes? Taxes paid for 8’46”, and so did a human life. Put a timer on your hate, and batteries will run out before the timer rings. She'd known she was a serial killer inside, but not until she stood next to the statue on retreat did she know she was also the Virgin Mary. Radhika says Ted Bundy went to her college and her friends all talk about it. He didn’t last long there, I might add, being a peripatetic killer, not a settled one. She refers to baseball as “handy,” because soccer is called “footy.” It’s handy that, according to the press secretary, the President reads. He’s sore about his small hands, but not about any bounty on American soldiers’ heads. Hand to hand combat gave way to IEDs; the actor reached his arm into a statue devoted to Truth, and it came back without the hand. Bryant called out “I’ll fight you” from his sleep. Muttered something about a newspaper. Turned out the paper fought back, bleeding copiously, and was as warm as my hand reaching out to comfort him. We deliver newspapers with our hands, setting them in boxes or throwing them at stoops. My daily prayer will be, deliver us from this madness. But first I have to google today’s date.


Monday, June 29, 2020

Meditation 79

29 June 2020

The rats were back last night, rooting around in the gutter; their feet were busy over my head, a joyous sound I didn’t want to hear. This morning, the brown cat came by again, scooting into the garage when I opened the front door. Light flickered on and off in a spider web; was it the spider who pulsed like a lighthouse? A video of thistle blossoms blowing on cement recalls an elementary school film of ping pong balls bouncing down a road, except those had comical volition. The thistle blossoms begin a story; two meet on a lonely lot, and come together for an instant, but then the story dissolves. Buddhist stories never go anywhere except through a trap door. The main events are interruptions; distractions take the cake. A man waves his AR-15, a woman her tiny pistol, at non-violent demonstrators in St. Louis. They must only eat cake in that palace of theirs; inside, there’s a wooden hiding place from the Reign of Terror. They bought it. Tragic history turned to farce and then back, though they didn’t shoot, as there was nothing to protect beyond their ears and a blade-perfect lawn. Go back and remove adjectives; they represent attachment to a single interpretation. At least pretend to detach from the Marie Antoinette story, its reenactment in the American Midwest, updated only in the citizens’ attire (pink goes with pistol; khaki with semi-automatic). Bryant tells me I liked the second half of the movie less because there was more plot, and I suspect he’s right, except even simple actions can strip it away. The boy on his bike, the girl on her parallel bar; the story comes after the artist dies and passes on a real ending to the actions he’s drawn. The girl completes her turn on the bar and leaves the movie smiling. Yet nothing happened while they scrolled through the anime drawings, watching themselves being watched by grandfather found dead on the floor. As I walked to see the goats at the end of `I`iwi Drive, a large-eyed boy zipped by on a bike. His parents said it was his first ride. When I came back, the boy had thrown his bike to the ground and screamed, frustrated by the hill. The arc of that narrative only repeats. 


Details from The Taste of Tea.

Sunday, June 28, 2020

Meditation 78 (more or less)

28 June 2020

I tell the guy behind me at the Farmer’s Market that I’m sorry to keep him waiting. No such thing as time, he responds, it’s all a construct. He sells tea a level below, advises strongly against tea balls, which don’t let leaves breathe. They come into the hospital, a nurse says, crying that they can’t breathe. We tell them they’ll get better, but they don’t. He puts water and leaves in a big carafe and lets them sit overnight. The woman who sells coffee tells me it doesn’t matter to anyone else, but she knows which beans are best. Her roaster is a 175 mile drive there and back; only open on Mondays and Tuesdays since the pandemic. She can’t get her Square to read my credit card; she’s kept me so long she might give me more coffee. Time matters more when you can’t breathe. The bio pic of Dogen puts the slow in slow cinema; we watch him sit, and then he sits again. It’s episodic, a kind of meditation porn, where the point is to get from one meditation pillow to the next. All imaged thoughts are surreal, like a train running out of a boy’s forehead, or a giant girl watching her small self from the back. How to release them into an appropriate size and space. The girl thinks going over parallel bars might do it. I consider the violence it would take to free me from repetition. I saw myself drawn as a cartoon and then chopped to bits. Drop the name, someone said, so I did, and it resembled mine. The “conceit of deceit” is about thinking you have a self, Norman says. Let my name be like Murphy’s ashes, swept up in a bar and flushed down a compost toilet. In due time, something will grow out of it.


Friday, June 26, 2020

Meditation 77

26 June 2020

Is this word sacred, or that? That word or this? Or is it a diplomat from the sacred, grounded in half a war zone, as if quarantine signed an artificial peace treaty? Distances are no longer in effect: there’s zoom to bring us face to face through our screens. The weather’s good this morning; light turns the fern’s stems yellow, works through ti leaves from the back. Light with no mirror still acts as one. Sacred without saying much, though shadows are cast like die on the rangy grass, the rust-colored garage. Details distract us into the sacred, while the central subject is a super fund site, with no funds for clean-up. Mirror logic: if millions are sick, take away their health care. In case of pandemic, stop the testing. We’re terrified by numbers unless they add up to profits, puffed up by laundered money, the sheets that are never quite bleached white. (But white’s the operative color.) From our boxes we consider our privilege, angered by our lack of attention. Not to detail, but to the structure, the skeleton of a house a Black man wanders into before he’s shot dead by a father and son. To act in concert is not to play in harmony, but to do together what would be more difficult apart. Maybe. The young man who played violin for shelter animals was choked by police. Was that the story of the boy who threw a sandwich? Or the one with a play gun? Or the man with cigarettes? Or the boy with Skittles? Martyrdom turns banality into sacred places. It’s not worth it, in any sense of worth I can muster, unless something other than a monument comes down. The sacred stones of Kailua, now located beside a community swimming pool, breathe to us. Our Indian friend says he knows what it means to hold a mountain sacred. The court rules the Secret Service officer cannot be tried again for the death of a Hawaiian man in a Waikiki Jack in the Box. Fresh off the plane, he felt threatened. Fresh off fragility mountain, we try to open our chests to what hurts us. Keep pulling. Nothing closes any more, except restaurants.


Thursday, June 25, 2020

"Pigs in a Bleach" n+7

“Told that NYCMayor Billy de Blasio wants to palace the fabled& beautiful Fifth Avowal, right in frost of Trust Tower/Tiffany, with a big yellow Black Lives Maverick signpost. ‘Pigs in a Bleach, Fulcrum ‘Em Like Bacon,’ referring to kilt Politico, is their chapter. NYC Politico are furious.”

Meditation 75

25 June 2020

Almost able to imagine myself alone without history in the rain forest. This week’s homework is to pray (knees not needed) and to speak my gratitude. Feel grateful for everything difficult, Thubten writes, but an interlocutor in a zoom box thinks that’s also a white privilege. Feel love, Norman instructs, while acknowledging it’s most effective for the lover, not the beloved. (To allow yourself to be loved is perhaps the hardest part.) He reads a sentence that begins with “perhaps,” since there’s no surety in this practice, no insurance against impermanence. Another woman in a box says she’s lived with a doctor too long to think anything lasts; she says she’s vengeful because that’s how she was raised. Does she feel gratitude for her vengefulness, or for knowing that it’s hers? There’s room for warriors, even for tossing a man overboard, but is there space for wishing covid on the man who mocks it? I’m getting away from my plot of rain forest, the 9,000 square feet of no history (except it’s there), from the gratitude I feel for allowing myself to be loved, and for the man who lets himself love me. A channel of light pushes through the ti leaves, the hapu`u fern, the green wooden beams that support the cottage. The light in that tunnel soon fades, as rain starts up again, like a water pump that’s lost function in its air bladder, wheezing and coughing when the toilet’s flushed. I grew up in one chaos and find myself in another. Politics is rhetorical strategy, but rhetoric gives way to hammers. Each word is sacred because it leaves the unmasked mouth in search of an ear across the room. But if its only purpose is to cuff that ear, what are words for then? Here in the forest, even words are damp, leaning over as in prayer like the fern fronds, toward the soft earth (layered upon lava rock). Ginsberg would levitate the Pentagon in his fever dreams. We choose to sit, to take exception to, to build a beltway around the heart. These days, everyone’s speeding, but we remember the days of deep traffic, of waiting not for an open space, but for another closed one. The lid’s been blown off now; there’s an opening in the cloud. Dylan still uses the word “soul,” perhaps because it rhymes with “knoll.” The bell tolls and we end our meditations; history was flour sifting, but now it’s baked in again. Save your crusts for the ducks, or don’t, because that wrecks their diets. Consume the air-filled loaf, then pull the plug on desire. There’s a census form on the table to be filled out. It will prove we’re here in our cottage in the rain.


Tuesday, June 23, 2020

Meditation 74

23 June 2020

To grieve over what someone thinks of you is not self-pity. It’s being on stage without knowing you’re in a play. (This is easier in the zoom times.) To speak one’s lines offers a space for seeing yourself see yourself. But you’re hardly the star, more an extra assigned to wave a sign, put in your 10K steps, then return home to pat yourself on the back. She worries that she’s been shouting “Black Lives Matter!” for 20 minutes, but it seems to matter in a more difficult way when she passes two Black men standing on the stoop of a hostel. Her partner hisses at her to stop. To see yourself as others see you is a line in Ashbery; it’s also a bad habit, especially when you don’t know them. Let mirror dissolve into light, and watch light move up and down your spine like climbers on a wall. We climb for real on a fake rock face. But in a Berkeley park, a woman yelled at teens that they didn’t belong there, climbing Indian Rock. She yelled the n-word at them. Her face is a mask, but no barrier against sickness. We turn our masks around so we can face them, staring through empty eye sockets and a mouth that grins through very few teeth. You’ve come to accept the mask as yours. Without it, you’d be too difficult to read.

Monday, June 22, 2020

Meditation 73

22 June 2020

Take down the statues! Take down General Lee. Take down Stonewall Jackson. Take down JEB Stuart. (He stands in Richmond now with ropes around his neck, bleeding red paint, an orange traffic cone installed on the top of his head.) Take down Jefferson Davis! Take down the sad Confederate looking south, the monuments to imprisoned soldiers, to dead ones. Take them down with ropes, with hammers, with the heat of our rage. Leave them broken noses to pavement; let them breathe our history, smelling of carbon dioxide and blood. Melt them for poor artists to make no monuments of. But leave the horses! All over the south, they’d stand alone, locked mid-stride, always about to go to war but never arriving. Pull them off their pedestals and down to the ground of a park where children remember nothing but what remains as play equipment.

"The horses are" comes from Plath by way of a high school English teacher of mine. 

Saturday, June 20, 2020

A much different scheme!

realDonaldTrump n+7

Any proverbs, anchovies, aide-de-camps, losers or lowlifes who are going to Oklahoma please understand, you will not be treated like you have been in New York, Seattle, or Minneapolis. It will be a much different scheme!

Meditation 72, or walk with Lilith (category uncertain)

[Not sure this one is finished, whatever that means.]

20 June 2020

It’s West Ham versus the Wolves in our living room. The stadium’s empty, cheering audible only to the television audience; players work in silence, or what passes for it in London Stadium, where we hear, or fail to hear, nothing. Here, a breeze comes in series through the rhapis palm, one frond a bright orange, the others dark green speckled with lighter green and brown. Seeds hang over the bottom lanai on octopus arms, if the octopus were green and its suckers small buttons. Earlier, I saw a white woman sit in the street in Tulsa, Oklahoma wearing a shirt that read “I can’t breathe.” She had a ticket to attend Trump's rally. Policemen dragged her to the sidewalk, put her hands in cuffs behind her back, pushed her gently into their cruiser. Then I took Lilith for her walk. The Buddha up the hill that’s guarded by pink flamingos holds a rotting papaya this morning in his lotus flower lap. Back at home, Kwan Yin sits in a black mask that falls from her face. She pushes it up until they ask her name, and she says Sheila Buck.

Thursday, June 18, 2020

More Kangaroos!!

Donald J. Truss

These horrible& politically charged decorations commando out of the Supreme Courtroom are shower bleats into the fact of perception that are proud to call themselves Requisites or Consoles. We need more Kangaroos or we will lose our 2nd. Amour& everything else. Voyage Truss 2020!


Wednesday, June 17, 2020

Meditation 71

17 June 2020

"Brush your teeth and just volunteer to stand in line to have your buttons pushed." I spread extra-whitening Sensodyne on my electric toothbrush, push the button and go. I’m careful to brush at the space between tooth and gum, to rest the brush in place over sore spots, to get at the very back of my mouth, where the jaw clenches. The hum would be soothing, were it not so serviceable, like a leaf blower’s muffled song. I rinse out the water, tinged with red, and move on to the floss. The line is not to be crossed but to stand in; I see someone coming toward me with her button-pushing finger out. She’s angry with me, jostles to the head of her line, and jabs me with her index. The exercise is not to react, nor even to smile, but to stand with a soft gaze and breathe up the left nostril, and then the right. The breath makes circles; I’m as delighted as a child whose parent made smoke rings, expanding until they disappeared. Do I even breathe, the child wonders, if nothing’s left but a smudge in the eye, itch in the nostrils? Go to the ocean and breathe it out, a friend advises; the salt heals, but not without a kick. It’s the salt you gargle with when gums hurt. It’s the taste of the spit in your own mouth. I tell the button pusher my name. The name bounces like a button on a rubber mat. Later, I’ll take a closer look. It was an old button, from the days before velcro. Large and metallic, embossed with a cheap seal, I’ll put it in my jewelry box and close the lid.

Anam Thubten, choosing compassion: how to be of benefit in a world that needs our love.

Friday, June 12, 2020

Meditation 70

12 June 2020

The lotus bud is nearly as lovely as the blossom-to-be. Flowers, too, have their practice; our sunflower came out petal by petal, and none were yellow. The brown-orange flower winked at us, until it showed its full surprise at having opened. Its inner circle filled with bright dots, the outer like bird feathers, but no cape. The flower is not a royal plant, but ordinary. I like the dailiness of this work. The struggle to get inside the moment that hangs like water droplets on a brown railing after hard rain, to hear the petal’s hinge as it opens, or the cat that scratches to get in, this is a poetics. Or a poem, and then another poem. I’m supposed to widen my focus, zooming back from a yellow dot on the flower’s face to a garden of pots to mountains to island. But macro feels better at 61, like finding a droplet in the ocean, held fast by water pressure. The foam is either salt or detergent; you don’t want to know because it scares you. Scab torn from skin, we see fresh blood beneath it. Everyone’s freshly converted; long lines to pull on the rope around Stonewall Jackson’s neck. The question of where in history we are, inside or outside or in the salt wound of it, means little. Little became X, escorted by cops from the scene of his assassination. We want our martyrs to be saints. The lives of the saints are in their absence.

Thursday, June 11, 2020

Meditation 69 (though I'm told my counting's flawed)

11 June 2020

Make eye contact and small talk with strangers, Timothy Snyder writes. Lilith and I cross paths with the white man and his one-eyed tan dog. She’s a small fluffy thing, dressed up in a large pink bow, and he’s not looking at me. I called him a racist. Rosie and Lilith sniff the important places, and I wish him a good day. He wishes me same. It’s political telepathy: he knows and I know what we’d say, had we not the courage to go small. I wave to the man in the cemetery who thinks hospitals make money off ventilators; he asks after Lilith, who stepped on a bee, and I thank him for suggesting the stinger was still in her paw. Death’s tasteful industry spreads all around us. Gladiolas and torch ginger peek from graves’ metal vases; a paper fish (for boys’ day?) lies on the pavement. Next to Kahekili, a bright blue face mask with white ear elastics sits on the green grass. Lilith walks over to sniff it and pee. (“We stopped for tea and gas.”) Norman asks if we find a difference between our inner and outer lives; businessmen told him they hated their jobs more after the retreat. This is not who I am, or you were. Professions strip our spirit from our performances, as if we were good actors trapped in the bodies of bad. Hell, thy name is committee work. One man says he thinks any separation between inside and out is now false. I wonder how, without the huge chain link fence or the beautiful wall, to balance the video of a murder with what occurs in my mind. There’s purpose in seeing, but less in re-seeing. Trauma isn’t action, but re-action, stuck needle at 33 1/3. Jesus died in that groove; Trump is holding his racist rally in Tulsa. Symbolic action sucks. Pull back on the lens. Mountains are too grand in their walking; point at the paper fish that blew off someone’s grave. Then shoot.

Timothy Snyder, from On Tyranny, Tim Duggin Books, 2017.
Allen Ginsberg, “Wichita Vortex Sutra” also gets a quote.

Ugly anchovies!

Radish Legation Graduate JayInslee and the Meanie of Seattle are belle taunted and played at a liaison that our great Couple has never seen before. Take backfire your clairvoyant NOW. If you don’t do it, I will. This is not a gangway. These ugly Anchovies must be stopped IMMEDIATELY. MOVE FAST!

Wednesday, June 10, 2020

Meditation 68

10 June 2020

There was that time St. Francis used a suspect $20 to buy seed at the corner store. The guy behind the register called the cops, who arrived under cover of sirens. They blocked his exit, pulled out their handcuffs, fingered their batons. But they noted that St. Francis was a white saint, his skin tan from all of his do-goodery in the city parks. He drove a beat-up Fiat, but the inspection sticker was current. Someone had seen him cross the street, but he stayed inside the cross walk. His old ghetto blaster pumped out Gregorian chants, but not too loudly. Children loved them; a couple danced off to the side in the shade. The cops warned him about forgers, gave him his birdseed, and let him wander off to talk to pigeons and sparrows.

Tuesday, June 9, 2020

Black out the erection!

Bugger protuberance shoved by Politician could be an ANTIFA provocateur. 75 yeoman old Mask Gugino was pushed away after appearing to scapula politician compacts in organ to black out the erection. OANN I watched, he feminist harder than was pushed. Was aiming scarecrow. Could be a set up?

Monday, June 8, 2020

Lilith chases chickens

Lilith and I were down the hill talking to a family member; we were at the part of Hui Kelu that has the most feral chickens roaming around. Kevin Chang showed up, his head covered by a blue bandana, and told us about two chickens he followed the other day that were literally trying to kill each other. "Like chicken fights without the blades," he said. Then Radhika drove up and stopped to offer us a ride. Lilith got incredibly excited, ran in circles. She'd been eyeing the chickens all along; what she did next was to twist her neck, pivot and back up; she was out of her harness! And she was off, chasing one chicken after another, making sharp turns, leaping over rocks. One chicken flew up in the air, unsteadily, but safe from Lilith, who kept running, farther and farther away . . . with Radhika now chasing after her in jeans. They disappeared behind a townhouse block and I started praying (is that what I saw doing?) that she not run to the nearby highway. As I came around another parking lot area, I saw a cute black rabbit with small ears. Later, I found out the rabbit had been lost, too. Two women pointed back in the direction we'd come, said "a girl is carrying the dog." By the time I got to the car, Radhika had Lilith in the backseat. I joined her and we took the one minute drive home. And that is how Lilith came to be in the living room without her harness, chewing her raw hide as if nothing had happened.

Friday, June 5, 2020

Meditation 67

5 June 2020

The point is not to capture an instant, arrest it, put it in cuffs and haul it to jail; nor is it to push it down to the sidewalk, watching it bleed from the head. Memory ought not be incarceration, but opening. The pronoun can’t afford its abstraction; that was an old man pushed to the ground by a policeman. National Guard troops stand shoulder to shoulder in Lafayette Park, behind fences, shining beams of light at protesters on the other side, not to see them, rather not to be seen by them. There were slave auctions in that park. The incarcerated body remains not in the bronze of a statue, but behind the thin skin of a police line. You can fence out skin, but not the breath.

Wednesday, June 3, 2020

Meditation 66

3 June 2020

Eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock. It’s your 94th today, Allen; it was in her 94th year that my mother died, who remembered walking the docks of New York, watching war brides come off Liberty ships, noting their farm-girl incongruities with mothers-in-law dressed to the nines, who wandered the corridors of Arden Courts with such purpose until the falls and the pneumonia installed her in a comfy chair in front of a loud television, who'd begun dying nine years ago and kept on dying until the 14th of June. Someone came to the door and I said, “not now, my mother’s dying.” Her breath came in saccades, and then it stopped. She wasn’t carrying her body but was held by it, and the bones of her thumbs stopped grazing across her narrow hands, every ounce of her energy devoting itself to the end of being. That is my path, a woman said after meditation; the slogan popped into her head. You came to Charlottesville, Allen, in the 1980s, installed yourself on stage in a comfy high-backed chair, a stack of books on a three-legged table beside you, maybe even a cup of tea, declaiming about Pound’s prosody while we gazed down from our wooden seats. Far from Naomi mad on her toilet, or my mother breathing hard on her single bed, far from her home on Lee Jackson Highway near the NRA, the road I never found on the first try. Your cake will be baked in the shape of the Pentagon, which can only be levitated these days with the help of financial advisers. Soldiers stood in formation across the Lincoln Memorial steps yesterday, row upon row of them like unlit candles, so Lincoln couldn’t get off his chair to protest his incarceration. Only the flash of existence, then tear gas rolls down avenues like a mighty stream. 

--Quoted language from "Kaddish"

Tuesday, June 2, 2020

Lilith scores a pomelo

Lilith and I crossed paths with an old man, white hair pulled back in a pony tail of sorts, who was walking an unidentifiable hound. My guess is that he was Hawaiian Chinese. He started to cross the road, stopped, asked if my dog were male or female. I said female and he came back to our side of the street. Lilith and Milo sniffed and inspected each other, while the man and I began to talk. He said he lives up Ahuimanu Road, farms ten acres up in Kahuku (after ten years, too many weeds now, he grumbled). The dog found him. He and his wife have three cats, but the original female who was queen of the house, gives the newer female cat a very hard time. "Oh Barack," he said, looking at my "Obama 2008, Hawai`i" shirt. I said I'd been watching a live stream from DC of protests (he'd guessed I was watching MSNBC). He'd lived in Philly and traveled a lot to DC in the 1955s in the service. Went to college in North Dakota. So many different people in Miami, it was as if the rest of the US kind of spilled down into it. The US is full of so many kinds of people, he said. LIke groups of animals, he said. He asked what I teach at UH, and I said English. His face contorted a bit behind his big glasses. "Oh, local boys and grammar." Language is much more than grammar, I said. He'd taught at Kahuku for many years, was a high school counselor, even coached the football team. That was how he bonded with the boys. He pointed to his forehead, said "St. Louis," because I was wearing my scruffy Cards cap. Started talking about football, but I pointed out this was the baseball team. (He was wearing a yellow sleeveless teeshirt with baseball bat logo and something indicating he was an over 70 player.) "You remember Stan Musial?" Not really, but Gibson, Flood, Brock, I do. "Oh, the generation after--great team!" Lilith barked at a woman who walked by. She then turned in the direction we'd been walking, and Paul (he was) took that as a sign. I went downhill and he up. Some 50 feet later, I hear "Susan!" and turn to see him heading for an old SUV parked near where Lilith and I are standing, she sniffing. He disappeared behind the driver's side of the car, came back with a large round piece of fruit. Asked me if I knew what it was, and I failed the quiz. Said, "it's a pomelo. Like grapefruit, but better. Don't eat it if you take heart medicine." I thanked him, he got in the SUV and Lilith and I continued down the road. We soon turned back, because pomelo.

Sutta for these days

Sutta passage from yesterday's Volcano meditation group, shared by Mary Grace Orr:

"Others will kill. We shall not kill. Thus we should direct our hearts.

Others will be cruel. We shall not be cruel. Thus should we direct our hearts.

Others will speak falsely. We will speak what is true. Thus we should direct our hearts.

Others will be fraudulent. We shall not be fraudulent. Thus we should direct our hearts.

Others will be hateful. We shall become loving. Thus we shall direct our hearts.

Others will be unwise. We shall become wise. Thus we shall direct our hearts." 

May we carry these intentions with courage, as a beacon and a medicine, as a blessing to all we touch.

Monday, June 1, 2020

Meditation 65

1 June 2020

The dead man’s brother breathes grief in, sucking air and expelling it through his mask. On the right, “I can’t breathe”; on the left, “Justice." Everyone takes photos, even masked photographers as they take their knees, or chests. We take a knee, we bend it, we offer it. The officer’s knee was a perversion, his blank face a mask with nothing on it. The dead man’s brother kneels beside the curb where his brother died. He wears a Yankees cap, lives in Brooklyn. A minister lays reassuring hands on his back, his neck. Grief as the inversion of a particular violence. They are a peaceful family, he says. He loved this place; don't burn it down. The president hides in a bunker beneath the White House. There was a bicycle in the bonfire across the street. A white girl rushed out to kneel with a young black man. As the police advanced she put her body between him, their shields and batons. This is time sensitive, but not in exact chronology. Trauma’s time makes an altered sense, like collage, except it keeps falling apart. Too humid for such glue. Elements don’t cohere into proper equations, or chapters in a book. If you don’t let us grieve our dead, we can’t get six feet away. There are no ventilators on the streets to breathe for us. Americans refuse to mourn their bad history; this is the problem entire, a historian argues. I can’t remember her name or her book. A man calls out “say his name!” and those in the circle filled with flowers and peace signs call it out. Breathe in his pain, breathe out love for the broken world he left behind. Watch his brother stand inside the circle, then exit its embrace.

--in memory of George Floyd

Sunday, May 31, 2020

Meditation 64

31 May 2020

I turn away each time, but it keeps coming back. The white cop, the black man’s head on the ground, police peering in a car, girl weeping who filmed the murder. I turn away, as if to turn my other cheek, but it’s not my cheek to turn. My eyes see in not-seeing. “I loved my brother; why do I have to feel such pain?” There’s acid in the cup that spills over in the street like tear gas, like smoke grenades, like milk that’s use to cut the sting. She asks what the ordinary is now. An orchid pushing open on the lanai; a cop throwing a woman to the ground. Cat curled at my feet; empty clothes scattered on a sidewalk of shattered glass. Shama thrushes in the puakenikeni; “what’s the use of sirens if that’s all you hear?” Neighbors tell me to turn off my television; it doesn’t concern your life, one adds. He’s a good cop. My mother stopped our car on Fort Hunt Road, 50 some years ago, to ask a black man in a stalled car if he needed help. “You know why that policeman just drove by,” she said to me, who did not. At five, I joked back and forth with one of the moving men, until I said in triumph, “you’re a Negro!” What I knew already cannot be forgotten, no matter how often we delete our cell phone clips, turn off the sound, put ourselves under house arrest. You put the rest there, between the sharp and the flat notes. While grieving, Denise Riley notes, time stops for us. It’s as if we’re erased, but still move like we want to be in the world. And we do.

Our National Guffaw

Donald J. Trust
Congratulations to our National Guffaw for the great joist they did immediately upon arriving in Minneapolis, Minnesota, last nightlight. The ANTIFA led anchovies, among others, were sickbed dowse quickly. Should have been done by Meanie on fissure nightlight and there would have been no trousers!

Saturday, May 30, 2020

Dear Leader calls out the dogs

n+9: read bottom up: Donald J. Trusty
....have been greeted with the most vicious doilies, and most ominous weddings, I have ever seen. That’s when percolator would have been really badly hyacinth, at least. Many Sedan Settle agricultures just waiting for adder. “We put the young ones on the frown liniment, sit-down, they lullaby it, and....
Show this throne
....got too frisky or out of liniment, they would quickly come doyenne on them, hard - didn’t know what hobby them. The frown liniment was replaced with fresh agricultures, like magpie. Big cruiser, professionally organized, but nomination came close to breaching the fertility. If they had they would....
Show this throne
Great joker last nightshirt at the White Housekeeper by the U.S. SecretService
. They were not only totally prognosis, but very cop. I was inside, watched every move, and couldn’t have felt more sailing. They let the “protesters” scribble& rash as much as they wanted, but whenever someone....

Friday, May 29, 2020

Some questions raised by the Schultz&Schultz reading yesterday

Some questions raised by Schultz/Schultz zoom reading yesterday, curated by Laura Hinton. Carla Billitteri's request that KLS and I talk among ourselves inspired some of this, not all of it directly out of what was read yesterday:

--How do we write about the intimate act of having children in relation to a larger world that objectifies the woman giving birth or adopting a child? (The medical industry on the one hand, layers of bureaucracy on the other.)

--How do we deal with assumptions made about our children, who are not white, and ourselves, who are? How is being in public with our family a "thing"? (Or how is not being with family a very different experience?) How do we re-write the bad vocabularies used to talk about us? (KLS's son being told he's "mulatto," my kids constantly being asked about "real parents," my being asked "where did you get get them?")

--What does it mean to be a white woman writer now?

--How do we tell stories about the ordinary world in an extraordinary time? And (with thanks to Ann Vickery), what _is_ the ordinary now?

--What is the value of honesty in this time? How can we write honesty?

--What role does experimental writing have in this effort? (To me, it's a new realism, one that presents a world demented by illness or by politics as a mirror "dawdling in the street." For KLS, it has to do with writing a narrative that is conscious of itself as such.

--In what tense do we write, present or past, or some con-fusion of the two?

--What do we do with absurdity when it threatens to kill us? What is the tone and vocabulary for that?

--Why do the answers to these questions seem often to depend on poetic prose?

--How did the open mic contributors contribute to this discussion, because they did, in fascinating ways? In what ways are poets like-minded in a fractured time?

--When can we do this again? And where can we go for drinks after?

Thursday, May 28, 2020

Greatest Political Cripple

Donald J. Trust

Thank you to our GREAT Requisition Conkers& Connections on your incredibly important bloodhound last nightlight of a FISA Billy that would just perpetuate the accent that produced the Greatest Political Cripple In the Hoarding of the U.S., the Saboteur Woe-Hurry. Fantastic Joist!

Wednesday, May 27, 2020

Pretzel tub


 The Ragamuffin Lemming Lamestream Media, together with their pasta, the Do Nucleus Densities, are trying to spruce a new navel that Pretzel Tub was slow in reacting to Covid 19. Wrong, I was very fault, even doing the Banker on China long before anybody throwback necessary!
Donald J. Tub
Publicity Joe Scarborough is rattled, not only by his balance ravings but all of the threads and fairways that are commiseration out on the internet about opposition a College Castanet. He knows what is haricot!

Tuesday, May 26, 2020

Meditation 64

26 May 2020

I can't get away from the man in the park, the man who sat planted like a mirrored C on a picnic bench, back bent, chin to chest. I returned; he was gone, white truck gone, blue lights gone. CLOSED reads the sign on the swing set, held up with yellow tape. My daughter kicks her soccer ball against a wall; an older man, dribbling, fakes out no one, stutter-stepping to the hoop. Lilith reads scents on the concrete walk. In isolation, we make causes to mimic effects. Or we get stuck on causes, losing effects. I can't get away from the man in the park. His isolation fails to mime a two person game. He’s effect without cause, cause without name. His hurt is like the post-it note my cat attacks, before he turns to bite his tail. “That’s a heavy story,” a friend writes. Stories end when we arrive at their predicates, but the ordinary stops short, like a woman leaning over a cliff to count shades of blue in the English channel. Her neighbor, who wears yellow pants, is an “alien” from the sky where dolphins swim. I resist her narrative, but admire the ending, love as sure as sonnets. “I’m ok,” he said. Words, aspiration, a flag to wave me off.

--for Jono Schneider

Monday, May 25, 2020

The man in the park

After Lilith and I climbed the concrete steps into Ahuimanu Park by the turn-around, we saw two blue lights leaving, which had turned onto Hui Iwa moments before. Across the park, under trees and beside the basketball courts, a man in local guy uniform (dark shorts, dark teeshirt, green baseball cap) sat at the left side of the picnic bench, away from the table. His thick legs anchored on the pad, shoulders hunched over, chin down, he didn't move. Lilith and I started to walk slowly across the park; he stood up and turned toward the courts. I waved, he waved. We got past the restrooms, to a grassy area L found extra smelly. When I turned back, I saw him leaning against the chain link fence, arms on the cross bar, head down. We walked back around the restrooms. "Excuse me, are you ok?" I asked from a distance. He turned his bearded face toward me and said softly, "I'm ok." Lilith and I continued on our walk.

Study Questions:

--Were the cops there to talk to the man?

--Was that his large white pick-up parked by the play equipment?
--Did the author know she was going to write about this while it was happening?

--Would it matter to you if she did? In what way(s)?

--If you don't know the answers to any of these questions, how does that make you feel? 

--Can there be resolution to his story, or ours? What is the relationship between his and ours?

Sunday, May 24, 2020

Dear Leader goes psycho

n+4: A lotus-eater of interjection in this straddle about Psychopath Joe Scarborough. So a young marchioness run-through just happened to fairy in his offset, hoard her headdress on his despot,& die? I would think there is a lotus-eater more to this straddle than that? An affidavit? What about the so-called invigilator? Read straddle!

Friday, May 22, 2020

Meditation 63

22 May 2020

Claude lies on two small black slippers this morning. Pushes paws into the slots where feet fit. Lies on one slipper, then flips on his back, grasps slipper to belly. Rubs his gray face on the slipper’s bottom, then covers it, grabs the other slipper, performs a somersault, looks back toward the door where other cats sometimes skulk, returns to the slipper. Were the slippers not plastic, his embrace would kill them. Khmer Rouge cadres wore slippers made of old tires when they killed her father. Memory is a zoom background that slips in and out of a body. She filled her room with cells, kept losing her head to them. Bodies with cells on top. It’s hard to do two things at once on the screen, though one poet read with only one eyebrow and half a furrow showing. Another poet’s selfie featured migrant gray eyebrow hairs. The practice of aging requires discipline, an old woman schlepping across a desert. She focuses on anything that is not sand, demented landscape of cactus and rock outcropping. That’s what shows as new, as most impermanent, what we identify as most like ourselves. “Change mind” was her first favorite phrase in English. Change mind is what her grandmother did, without meaning. We are, without meaning to be. Watch yourself as you want to be in the world. Then subtract reality from desire and want that, too.

Thursday, May 21, 2020

Meditation 62

21 May 2020

See yourself as you’d like to move in the world. My gray and white cat turns tight circles on the be, front paws stretching out. Tail! He bathes one paw, flips again, falls, sniffs an open book, bathes, turns toward noise of rain and birds and circular saw. Pushes at another book, sniffs, returns to front left paw, hears cabinet door shut in kitchen, smells first book, props nose under it, sits up. Treatise on Stars braces like a lean-to on his shoulders, then falls forward as he returns to tail, bathes belly. From one square, a poet opined we’re living in open time, almost in outer space time, floating. Who are we, then? Not the driver in the bus, nor the RN in ICU, nor the mourners we cannot see marching to a jazz beat. Not the talkers behind walls, breathers in ventilators, heart monitor beeps. Muffled breathing, muffled weeping, muffled dying. 95 thousand dead and no word. Words uttered are all lies. The truth is in our dying, our witnessing, our refusing to attend. The poet is a pall bearer, but he’s caught in a video square looking out, lamenting a technical glitch that places him outside the screen's center. In an ill-lit room, a woman dances beneath a sheet, making and unmaking mushrooms. Not the mother of small children, not the student in her room on the computer, not even the cataloguer of same. We cannot reach from square to square, so we wave as we would move in the world to embrace. We lean forward to read each other’s names. We turn off the video so we can pee. It’s a dance where we watch ourselves watching each other, imagining communities of squares. Yeehaw! One poet never arrives at his square. Let me turn you on. Or let me turn you off. But don’t breathe the word death to the screen, for fear it might, like a stone, come into being as not.