Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
Jul 1, 2024
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In my closet, I discovered a hidden door that led to a new room—I guess the door was in plain sight all along; I could just never bring myself to look and see what was behind it.
The first time I opened the door, the room was filled with men’s clothing and belongings that had been abandoned; I got the sense that they had been there a long time, but they just as easily could have last been touched yesterday. He told me to leave everything alone in the room, not to touch anything; that it wasn’t mine to take. I looked around, lingering for a long moment—everything somehow looked familiar. I closed the door shut. I wondered how anyone could have left so many beautiful things behind.
Secretly, I returned again to the room when I had some time alone and found it filled with women’s things now: little treasures and mementos and knick-knacks (he hates my knick-knacks because they are so frivolous and take up space and needlessly create clutter, he says in waking life, ever cold and rational) of a life well-lived; fabulous stylish accoutrements that would perfectly elevate an outfit; glamorous gowns that seemed like they would fit me and hug my curves just right.
In the corner, I found a wedding dress made of delicate shimmering off-white silk and organza, flowers hand-embroidered onto it with care. I ran my hands over it. It took my breath away.
I woke up with the song I had been listening to last night playing in my head.
Mar 1, 2025
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Bring forth to mind, if you will, the ill-fortuned Orpheus; Odysseus, ill-fortuned but cruel- and cleverest-enough to make it forward; now lovely Inanna; loving Dante; Fritti and Ida and so many other brothers and sisters; so many poems, songs; yes, meet me tonight in Atlantic City; I’m in love with a dying man, yes, yes; now the post-midnight train to Coney Island, smiling in the summer, tears in November; a minivan to Cape May one grey day; prison-taxi down to Long Beach with the sun coming up; one thousand leaps into the East River and the Danube and the Seine and then… this is just what comes to mind. Oil pipelines. Black licorice. Oh, coincidentally, have you yet read the fiction-piece One Hundred by brilliant blonde Zans Brady Krohn? (printed, of course, in Heavy Traffic 1 — where else?) Yes, that too comes to mind, naturally, yes, I think so… Terrific story. Atlantic City story. So, katabasis story. In more ways than one, really … And following: certain buildings, certain seasons of mood. I’m running dry. Greenlight on the edge of the dock. Absinthe and stolen vodka. “Curiousity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back.” That’s half anabasis. I’m just spitballing. Trying to remember.
May 10, 2023
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This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bear’s Winter Of The Salamander, “When We Assume Life Will Go Well For Us”. Ray’s work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me.
From His Dream
the air hadn’t changed
since she last saw her mother.
the land was cover with frozen
rain. she knew a couple of days
ahead that the spring would disappear.
she kept reminding to her husband,
it’ll have to come back.
i don’t think it’s really over with,
but he always seemed disinterested.
a look of worry in his eyes.
even as it was snowing,
thunder rolled across the roof
of their home and they couldn’t
help glancing at each other
with puzzled faces. bodies
of disemboweled animals flashed
in their minds,
the children ran about in play
but when they ran into their father’s
eyes, they could see the light
of their rooms, the changing contrast
of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning in
the figure of seals on a tree.
the second time they ran,
the wind made sounds as if
there were people with their mouths
up against the house, talking.
as it grew colder, the snow made
more noise against the plastics
coverings over the windows.
when the children looked outside
they could see the clouds piling up
on top of each other, each group
darker than the other.
across the room where their mother
sat they could distinctly visualize
the changing color of her lips.
teeth biting into her skin.
they followed as she circled
the room, spitting the chewed willow
all around the windows.
their son has been gone most
of the day. it wasn’t unusual for him
to hunt alone. he always seemed to know
what to do. old enough to be gifted
naturally to keep away from flowing women,
he had spoken about sliding down hills
on his knees, picking up the snow
to his ears and hearing the thoughts
of deer, bringing packed bodies
of muskrat and duck, the different
crusts of blood on his shoulder bag.
from a distance, his father
could see his tracks heading
into the thickets. small owls guided
their way through brush by the touch
in their wings. he remembered a dream
he had that morning of giant fish
and coral snakes submerged in the icy waters
of a river he had never seen.
he and his son cornering a small horse
covered with fish scales, bearing
the head of a frightened man.
its thin legs and cracked hooves.
somewhere in this land he knew
there was a place where these creatures
existed. he had also been told of a hole
where the spirits spent their days,
watching the people before they crawled
out, traveling through their arcs
in the sky towards evening like birds.
on the way back home, thinking his son
had circled the forest, he crawled
across a section of river which was still
covered with ice and fish entrails,
previous spots where he had taught
his son to use a blanket to block
out the daylight to lie there
with his barbed spear, waiting
for catfish to lumber out from the roots
of fallen trees under the ice.
although he felt a desire to crawl
straight across without looking
down into the river bottom through
the clear ice, something caught his eye,
as he peered into the bubbling water,
he saw the severed head of his son,
the hoof from his dream,
bouncing along the sandy bottom.
Jan 19, 2025
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Does anyone else keep memory boxes?
These are old shoe boxes full of keep sakes which could be as silly as receipts from a holiday, letters from old friends, gig tickets, set lists from memorable shows, photos etc
I have quite a few of them now and am aware that if I keep on going like this, I’ll probably have an entire room full of boxes of these objects that possess a sentimental value. But will that be practical?
So I came up with an idea, an archival undertaking of sorts called ’Debris Of a Life’, where I whittle down my boxes to just one box to rule them all and with the keepsakes that don’t make the cut being scanned and documented via a zine. I’d imagine this could end up being a few volumes worth of material but there is something that has really caught my imagination with this style of scrapbooking being presented in my most favourite of all formats; the zine.
I will post more about this idea as it develops.
Apr 6, 2025
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Don ’t you think that PI FYI is a bit like Wendy Cope’s poem The Orange if it was a social media platform? Everyone sharing and recommending the things that bring them meaning and joy in life. It’s so wholesome.
It’s been a minute but I have some time off this weekend so I will likely indulge some more of my thoughts and recs for the benefit of journaling.
Feb 22, 2025
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Not always complicity
Apr 12, 2025