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Paul Nelson


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Now I too, am within, amber.

Within where the last glacier scrapes all in its way.

Slides past pheromones (a strange but brief attractor) polishes.

Here is the thicket where the dense work of ancestral excavation occurs;
          who was the ancestor engineer worked for coolies, who
          the seed in the mouth blocks the tongue from proper
          function as the heart's outlet, a colony of ants be
          damned (amber?) the honey stuck in the rock
          the cat hangs on the ledge seeking entry.

I seek entreaty (José'd say súplica) a dragonfly I learned won't hassle
          humans but in a dream might mean swiftness, summer, re-
          generation, unreliability. Here is where memory fades in
          its place a more raw urge almost stays in confines culture
          may have made for it. I watch from above, notice how
          the lungs swell with each breath, grateful not to be under
          water, the breath deep seemingly only in morning &
          from here there is an odorless aura (I see them he sd),
          and they were billowing from our places on the stage.
          This is worth nothing. (Nothing) but there is a process
          enacted (isn't that what self is she asked she who was
          not watching the pot boil. She who was content to ever
          move inwards. Clean the hospital floors. Abort twins.

Not near the point of leaving, still, moving inwards.

Higher yet, above the mechanic chop of another helicopter I see
          in the era of global climate disruption the robins no
          longer a reliable sign of Spring, will scotch broom
          (gorse, Charlie says) be late? How the woodfrogs,
          How the connection made via animal eye ovoids
          (How the ancestors work (sometimes) through meat
          intermediaries how matter's bent for our passage.
          No officer, I did not know I was going 80. I did not
          see the no left turn sign. My tinted windows are no
          reflection. My father's rage was stird by stellar forces.
          Mother driven by the hunger moon.
) When I notice
          the dragonfly, the lungs are full, I could be whistling
          Monk, the taiko has almost stopped reverberating
          in my eardums, my cuticles can wait.

5:31P – 2.10.09


Saint Francis of Assisi

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He (reborn again as a bag lady with riches who keeps soap scraps) feeds
          pigeons in Seward Park.

He (she) calls, they come quick, eat well, shit all over the Audubon Center
          now when some nature is better than others.

He (she)'s a vegan now, (no, pescaterian) knows the best buys of soy
          chorizo, cheap organic beets, a holy diet in this age between
          ages. (Age of the great breakdown.)

God's blessed him (her) w/ pace e bene yet again and again it man
          ifests as a flash page to pitch animal communication, loves
          chatting up Granny & the other Puget Sound J-Pod, loves
          the sassiness of Snake Chief, the bee diva tells him they're
          really fed up with celphones and ALL THAT NOISE.

Yes, she (he) loves the astonished fish on the surface of the miracle
          of seas yes, enjoys an occasional unagi or fish taco, wd bring
          a fresh batch of lima beans to the prisoners but against regulations
          though a soft spot in his heart (her's) for folks doing TIME.

He loves starlings (beyond all common sense) / watches their October
          show, much prefers them over the psychotic maneuvers of Blue
          Angels (the only angels she'd despise if capable of scorn but that
          he (she) lost in prison tho took her (him) four years to get it, still

the beatitude remains fertile and horizontal, but there's something in its
          gold & ochre sheen reflects the best of that hidden in the
          seeming divinity of faces like the wet eyes that mark the true

How otherwise contact higher forces seek the spiral out the material
          realm other than jinn invocation, other than another

Poor Francis (Frances?) she could have been a star meteorologist, sees
          the weather changing more than in the slight arthritis of her
          aging bones. Starlings told her storms are coming, & that no one
          needs a ladder in this unprecedented age
                                                                                    of wings.

11:41A – 4.2.09


Of exaltation

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The latihan approaches. I am not even there yet Sister! I declare, have you
          seen the like? The heart announces its arrival. Dia de la
          corazon. Domingo. Seeking dominion. One as the other.
          The mirror image recalibrated (adjusting the mechanism
          of perception.) The way rain falls over Georgetown. She
          says fog will lift (her pinkened eyes in rain after laughing.)
          Reflections of reflections of some shimmering jewel we
          each are and are connected to. Ramon's here. Soon a
          reason for crows roosting in the thousands. Easy breakfast.
          Strength in numbers. Warding off predators. "To ward off
          disease" Pop sd defending his belly. He breaks down now
          like Dorn did. Now a lifetime of grief settles in. Seeks
          escape. No mourning the little deaths when the big ones
          are motherfuckers of diphtheria, cats and older brothers.
          Motherfuckers of being the one HE put his holy finger on
          & decided survival. Mother of mercy save me. Dominion.
          He who brings his child into the latihan. Mercy… She who
          cleans the cat urp. Reminds me of the architecture of
          divinity. Dominion. The fog always lifts. "All I want to
          know is will you come with me." Prepare for latihan. A
          takeoff. An athletic event. Yes. A decathlon with the
          Divine. Here she is an experience. He is a diver. I'm a
          chipped cup loving the overflow. He's not wandering
          in circles saying "Horseshit. Horseshit." It's worship
          and here is Spring. Here is a daffodil late this year
          sticks out of last night's snow. The women start. Some
          are high-pitched, some we can not hear. Sometimes
          eyes-closed I stand under a beam of light, wish to
          bathe myself in illumination. It's a light bulb. Sometimes
          dominion has a laughing face like last night's late snow
          or the crows in the trees off 15th NW. Some of them. To
          die in snow and cold burning the tires does not work.
          Heat-seeking machines can cut through trees just like
          humans. To give heat is within control of every human
          being, she said & washed floors waiting for better
          weather. And the world remains forever fixed (filled)
          he says. Everything in its place in the waterwheel
          wondering where the lions are. Wondering what
          propels that exalted flow.

3.8 & 3.9.09 – 10:36A


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