Barnacled

I dreamed barnacles were responsible for creating and destroying universes. Each universe was cast out into spacetime like one of the nebula projectors Bo Burnham uses in his performances. I was part of a group that was combing intertidal zones all over the world looking for the barnacle that was casting our universe. We needed to figure out how to make that barnacle live forever or how to transfer our universe to another barnacle before the current barnacle died.

The barnacles had been doing this handoff successfully on their own up to this point for the past 500 million years but, because of climate change, their ability to keep our universe, and therefore all the universes that our universe made possible through other barnacles, was in jeopardy. I know this makes no sense. It was a dream. There’s a lot more to the dream that I don’t remember. I did think, This is the most amazing dream ever, and I can’t wait to tell everyone about it, as I was having the dream. I’m pretty sure the parts of the dream I’ve forgotten wouldn’t make it make more sense.

Yes, I know barnacles are younger than the universe. That’s one big problem with my dream. Maybe some other system was in place before the barnacles took over. Or maybe the barnacles weren’t the whole story but rather a subset of a larger experiential phenomenon organized like a social network with an infinite number of dense, centralized, and fragmented components that are loosely tied to one another and maybe even jostle loose from time to time.

Maybe the barnacles were dreaming worlds much the way humans dream worlds while asleep and awake. Maybe every living thing is casting out universes every moment, ones that either do or do not die when they do.

Image: Acorn Barnacle Anatomy #1, a photograph by Science Photo Library that was uploaded July 12, 2016. Link in comments.

A Pound of Honey

There are black vultures in parts of Oklahoma. Tell me that’s not a reason to move back there.

Your near rain is my far rain. You, there. Me, here. Native sparrows gather in the wildlands behind my house as winter surrounds yours. They say what you won’t, what you can only feel. Cold, they say. Seed. Wind, they say. Wind.

Something happened a couple of days ago that has me so shaken I woke in tears this morning. It’s related to poetry, to poets. Of course it is. For my health, for my life, for my future, I need to limit who I’m intacting with, where I’m publishing my work, and where I’m spending my time in poetry and as a poet. I support kind, generous, compassionate poets and the journals and presses they run. I will continue to support those poets, journals, and presses. But all the rest? It doesn’t have a place in my life. I’ve seen enough. I choose a different approach to writing, a different community, a different way of being in the world.

Watching a baby goat take a shower is how I am.

For only $69.99, you can send a bag of mystery bones to someone you love. So there’s that.

I’m spending Thanksgiving with my loved ones: the life partner, our dog, and Bo Burnham.

Despite everything, I’m thankful for everything.

My poems are like webs I weave under every bridge, every cliff, here in canyon country. They’re not just for me. They’re for everyone who lives here and needs something to catch the light when they look down, when they find themselves leaning forward.

Ironically, I really need a paperweight right now.

In a stunning turn of events, I don’t like handblown glass paperweights as much as I thought I did.

I dreamed I was made of cotton and kept pulling parts of myself from myself until there was no me left.

Marbles are so emotional. One member of the marble-identification group shared a note a woman wrote about the marbles she played with when she was a child in the early 1900s. Her name was Lulu. She kept her marbles and note in a face-powder box. Another person found a coin purse at an estate sale with three wheat pennies and a single marble inside. The poster writes: This was somebody’s treasure.

I dreamed I married my husband’s brothers, even the dead one, and was also an evil clown is how I am.

I just joined a marble-identification group on Facebook is how I am.

The life partner woke me up eating a pickle on the other side of the house is how I am.

I don’t have a lot of words right now. It took me twelve hours to get out of bed and onto the sofa today and another two to make it to my desk. Now, I’m headed back to the sofa and then back to bed. It is very hard to be outside of language. It means I’m outside of hope. It’s going to take some time to come to terms with that feeling, if that’s even possible.

I don’t know who Facebook thinks I am, but it’s trying to send me a vacuum-packed cow brain in the mail. Also, a pig heart in its pericardium. A sheep-organ set. A turkey gizzard. Petrfied snapping turtle feet. A cat in a box, a skinned cat, an economy cat, a pregnant cat, a small cat, and a cat skull. A cut-open dogfish shark. A sea squirt. Half a sheep’s head.

I just misread something as Mr. Bananajeans, and now I need to find an animal I can call Mr. Bananajeans.

The life partner saw the two-person steam sauna I put in our Amazon cart and removed it is how I am.

In my despair, I put a two-person steam sauna in my Amazon cart is how I am.

Lines from my dream: Alive to the moment, / unaffected by the heat, / penetrated by the Midwestern sun / pocked with chicken-laden pastures, / I wait for a rapture that never comes.

I’m a little bit grumpy. The life partner and I are having a funeral tonight for the part of me that can no longer live safely in the world, but he keeps saying mixed weenies over and over because, hours ago, that’s what he thought I was saying when I actually said McSweeney’s.

Grammarly says I wrote 122,765 words last week. Really? Where are they?

I live in poetry. I survive in prose.

Maybe I cast light on poetry’s shadow. Maybe that’s part of the problem. Come to terms with that shadow and with what you are in response to it. That’s the work that must be done before understanding and integration can occur at the individual and collective levels. Don’t blame me for the shadow. I didn’t create it. I am not it. You’ve conflated me with a system, with you.

I dreamed my ex told me he couldn’t choose me because all choice is limitation and restricts freedom. I’ll take you for now, he said. But I don’t choose you and never will. He said this as I cleaned the dirt from his boots off his favorite ottoman.

Ten years is nothing to eternity.

I don’t think I’m ever going to heal. I don’t know if I’m even going to survive.

My love is in my feet today so it can hit the ground as I walk.

My neighbor blows all the dust down the street and back into the wildlands.

As hard as it is at times to live with empathy, I wouldn’t want to live without it.

During the election coverage, I rubbed my boobs on the TV.

While you sleep, bees will honey your lips the way they did when Plato was an infant. Then you will kiss me sweet, love me sweet. I will die sweet on your vine. Oh, sugar. Oh, conjecture turned confection. Do not tell me why you are bad for me. Waggle. Buzz. Make my whole body vibrate. There, there, little love, little bee. Feed me.

              Two million flowers
              make a pound of honey
              a riot of blossoms

If those who are being harmed refuse all collective language to describe those who are being harmed, those who harm will continue to harm. Collective language leads to being seen collectively. Being seen collectively leads to acting collectively. Acting collectively leads to change.

              Sand at the foot
              of the mountain forgets
              it was ever part mountain

Backer-Bryom

For two decades, I’ve maintained a list of quotes I like by poets, writers, and thinkers I find interesting. This post is part of that series. All posts in the series are organized alphabetically. Some poets and writers have their own dedicated pages.

My birds of prey are not bomb / droppers, but my broken immune system clawing / and pecking inside my body’s basement. — Sara Backer

Are we willing to put love into action even if we ourselves don’t physically survive? — Carolyn Baker

If the answer is ‘yes,’ then two things are essential. First, bearing witness to the deepening horrors of climate chaos; and second, committing ourselves to compassionate service to all other living beings—since they are going to suffer with us. — Carolyn Baker

Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain

The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.

by Li Bai, translated By Sam Hamill

To be disabled is to have a minority body, but not to have a broken or defective body. — Elizabeth Barnes

Midfield,
attached to nothing,
the skylark singing.

— Basho

Wherever we are in life, whatever people we are responding to, let us be witnesses to those who are most abandoned, who need our care. — Father Michael Bassano

I think nature is personal. — Jan Beatty

On this thoroughly unique and irreplaceable Saturday morning, it was like this. This is my inadequate attempt to capture it, even though it can’t be captured, can’t be preserved. — Lynn Behrendt

This is my inadequate attempt to capture it, even though it can’t be captured, can’t be preserved. — Lynn Behrendt

It is silly: this constant falling, this ebullient animal / tumble, this dizzy, over-worded, breathless groping / to some place only named in ancient, unknown tongues. — John Belk

When the hot air fades / when the dampness comes / in sleep / in waking / when I am ancient in my movements / a humming corpse / resting on / pillows / How will I be found / will they feed me the coins I will need / Who will kiss my falling / when I fall — Chase Berggrun

I give my best to the shape / of clouds and the dead / in their resting places — Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

I give my best to the shape / of clouds and the dead / in their resting places — Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

There are four channels on the black and white TV which seem swept from the cosmic corners of an emptiness you’re learning about in school, along with Sex Ed and its ragged chalkboard diagrams of ungainly organs deployed with all the dignity of trying to smuggle accordions across state lines. — Simeon Berry

There are no unsacred places; / there are only sacred places / and desecrated places. — Wendell Berry

Even after we called the neighbors for water, more water, and the volunteer fire department came to mist the dying herd, cattle kept falling. They died all day long until even the sun grew tired of watching. — Darla Biel

Each moment / builds a new universe / and I need to find / you there. — Simeon Berry

The only way people can be writers is if they feel like they can be one. — Lisa Bickmore

When you memorize a poem, it inhabits you, and you inhabit it. — Kim Blaeser

Writing is not language, but merely a way of recording language by visible marks. — Leonard Bloomfield, Language (1933)

A cocktail dress achieves its effect through elegant abbreviation; shouldn’t the poem do the same? — Dave Bonta

And in any case the whole notion of luck represents an absurd attempt to project consistent, self-centered narratives onto chaotic, impersonal events. — Dave Bonta

We are little more than large and awkward guests in a world of insects, I sometimes think.— Dave Bonta

we bought it all / the cheat and the war / and the nothing / but night tomorrow — Dave Bonta

The subject of pain is the business I am in. To give meaning and shape to frustration and suffering. The existence of pain cannot be denied. I propose no remedies or excuses. — Louise Bourgeois

What modern art means is that you have to keep finding new ways to express yourself, to express the problems, that there are no settled ways, no fixed approach. This is a painful situation, and modern art is about this painful situation of having no absolutely definite way of expressing yourself. — Louise Bourgeois

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart, I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat. ― Jorge Luis Borges

Something signals me / to skulk the pasture with the soft paw / of the body, to snap the hasp / and climb inside the kitchen window. / A wolf’s no scavenger. / Hunger licks its tongue / across the danger of my teeth. — Ash Bowen

It seems illogical to preserve a social order when the social order is itself only a false dilemma of death. — Anne Boyer

Emotions … continue to cause suffering until we experience them where they live in our body. — Tara Brach

Sensations in the body are ground zero, the place where we directly experience the entire play of life. — Tara Brach

When we leave our bodies, we leave home. — Tara Brach

When you’re with fear and befriending it, the who you are enlarges, and [the fear] becomes like a wave in your ocean. — Tara Brach

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. — Ray Bradbury

The comfort / of unhealthy patterns blushing harder than rubies. / I would do what I couldn’t as a child and turn from you. — Traci Brimhall

We gender people as soon as we see them. That’s just the American way. — KB Brookins

Dying or illness is a kind of poetry. It’s a derangement. — Anatole Broyard

Accessibility wasn’t one of the virtues I learned coming up. Great poems are rough, crude, loud, gnarled, hermetic. They are thinking great ideas but they aren’t talking to you about it. — Sharon Bryan

When you know what a poem is trying to do and understand how it is working, then you become useful. The poem has every clue you’re ever going to get. Stop worrying about what’s not there. You can do what you want with a poem, but it’s only OK if you take it back to the poem and the poem says, Yeah, that’s OK. — Sharon Bryan

We are all born in Oklahoma, in a certain way. — Andrew Brusletten

and when people come to visit and / shoot my hours through the head they / offer nothing interesting or constructive. / I find myself resenting them and / their chatter / their idle ways / since I am always fighting for each minute — Charles Bukowski

Like a hummingbird in our hands, we must hold our convictions with a relaxed fist — Laura Caitlin Burke

You can tell them anything if you just make it funny, make it rhyme. And if they still don’t understand you, then you run it one more time. — Bo Burnham

We grow wings to fly but have roots to return to and there, and there, for the grace of God, go I. — Mark Burns

One very important aspect of art is that it makes people aware of what they know and don’t know they know. … Once the breakthrough is made, there is a permanent expansion of awareness. But there is always a reaction of rage, of outrage, at the first breakthrough. … So the artist, then, expands awareness. And once the breakthrough is made, this becomes part of the general awareness. — William S. Burroughs

it takes me 10 minutes / to write a poem / sometimes / & then / I want to whisper or / shout it about / town — Mairead Byrne

With our thoughts we make the world. — from the Dhammapada, as translated by Thomas Byrom