MIEUX QUE PARLER

EARTH SCHOOL

you can pretend

not to hear

the messages

in the wind

there was whip in there

a push - a pull - a slap

discernment muscle on flex

remembering the sweetness of excited breath

a set setting, watching branches blanch

opening up, to surrender

here to grow things

who taught you to seek

this great mystery

every person you meet, an introduction to yourself

perspectives previously unseen

the paths that lead you back

the original juice

change doesn’t happen in a tidy arch

TOWARDS THE SUN

prolonged period of failure

what was it that met that intimacy in you

damage, singing in the dark together

how do we tilt the way towards love and away from fear

tossed against sudden storms

small, constipated communication

we got beaten. low. lit from within

what you wanted, was the worst thing for you

undercurrent of this story is defiance

a faucet on full all the time

the dance between being altered

while maintaining a sense of integrity

the heart of all community, relationship

these marked moments

minds disturbed

STICKY BRAIDS

practised temptation, tripping
ungovernable thoughts on a loop
couldn't have conjured it up better
complicated concentrate

you're woven of clearly spun thread
feasting on transient agitations
still i question

an appearance of, in the kinda rush we make
have mercy if i hesitate

all i know came before, before this i was mine

audience

tried not to stare

or think too much about

the timbred hues

you moved, in the air,

around peoples bodies

and i was listening

i heard everything

bore space, enough for
something to reside

what this could be about...

Woolfgang Tillmans - Zero Gravity IV

STALE, MATE

the surface

where you drew me

outlined, kohl'd, heavy

weighted for you

waited only for what felt

like, what forever must be

crazy with an idea of

normal interactions between

now normal just tastes like

something that maybe you'd once

had a chance of at being

ripe + so sweet, now's grainy and bruised

and definitely, too touched
and too used to

and then here, like in pace

our stomachs get tired

together, for-longing, for-giving

skin falling from their bones

falling over here and under where

we could talk and fight and fall and fuck

could study, inch by inch

for hours for days for weeks for months

as long as longing takes

a lifetime, i guess

i know, i know

there is no sanctity in this

never did have patience for chess

never would another have lasted

this second or third or fourth glass

and still, i wreck the sheets for you

turned in every direction

except, the one you were heading

confidently, i

know where we reside

Artwork by Ryan Tippery

LIVING.ROOM

all these bits i keep

lately, can't carry weight

don't cast shadows on, even, a broken frame

not-a-thing worth keeping

together

so i'll fix the hard-wear'd

punched nails & lifted screws

change the dirty filters

take snapshots of cloudy views

it's like it's something, but it's not

maybe, distracted in moments i've thought

that if i were a better person...

but here, abstractions don't make for

anything more

than participation

shingo yoshida 'voyage to the centre of the earth'

SUMMER ON

(three hour slice)

legs crossed at creases, skin-on-skin

deep in conversation

skinny pool between my thighs

exert a laboured, rhythmic force

through the city obstacled course

tickling lines lick my spine

up three storied flights

where day has cooked the air to ripe

bare, full glowed-up body shine

study clouds and reclined stems

wavy, dehydrated delirium

air meets neck beads, shiver-blind

Robert Canali, Wake, 2011 (Archival Pigment Print)

(( PLANET EARTH ))

read extendable prose

written on plateaus

outdated negotiations

on grounds faded, dislocated

where bluffs once rose straight

and rivers would thread through

perhaps just a photo

from peripheral view

like pebble broken skin

echo'd waves diminishing

from a weight

once held in your palm

worship landscapes askew

body-made, sculptural

a skirting muse

who lives just to break a spell

Laddie John Dill (Sand & Light Installation), Untitled, 1971

LIFE / GOALS

ANYTHING NOT GROWING IS DEAD

DEEP ROOTS AND WIDE BRANCHES

Lourdes Sanchez via vauxvintage

PLAYING DISCIPLINE BALL

peel, pick & pick, peel
trophies drawn from wavy lines

and thick, tangy skin

sip, suck & suck, sip
ripe, flush with thirsting thoughts of

fingers in my mouth

image by Stephanie Sarley

RESTORATIVE

space between thoughts

time between actions

seeing ourselves impartially

again and again

this space

extends

past your body

Artwork: Georges Collignon, Structure absolue, 1966

BITING INTO THE ROCK OF FAITH

Juan Osorno: A Little "Internal Estudies" series. Decembrer 2015

you hold space, composed
cradled in an unmarked palm
whispering "trust"
to old bruises, precise

never concerned with
a flinch or recoil
dismissed, perhaps
as something you think
you've seen before

wretched little thing, so-like
nerves coming back to life
compelled, stoked
by a jaw-locked audience
pretending to sleep

we bump into each other
stars that swoon in concert
sprouting, born quiet
woke postures align
coming into this mouth
constellational guide

I WANT TO WORSHIP YOUR BODY. EVERYDAY, DRENCHED IN SPRING

mud, vaguely defined

wet sand stuck on eachother

gets hard, after spring

ALEUTIAN BOND

Joan Mitchell, Untitled, 1969 (Oil on canvas)

i was turned

living through the body
listening, constrained creativity
this space, a yawning chasm
emerges and subsides

animated,

when actually connecting

that man, no discipline

spread thin over continents

drenched thick in substances

maybe it doesn't matter

suspended possibilities

this shared island of

plasticine permissions

presence is always felt

the thick-weave, first surge
no guile, no hidden agendas
never covering anything with mystery
allowing ourselves
to see and be seen

EVERYTHING ELSE IS DEBRIS

pay attention to the things that capture your attention

how the experience of wanting it feels on your skin

we fail to notice things we aren't expecting

like the consequences to your recognition

in a hole that has become, the transparent presence

evidence of you having been lived in

some modest little shift, the notion of another universe

everything else is debris

two concentrations

experiences, woven threads

weaving words, ideas and substances

pulled from our bodies

a commonly exotic tapestry

Mary McDonnell, Untitled, 2007

BUOY

I feel envious of people who are comfortable proclaiming 'I am an artist'.
Art is what they eat, breath, shit and admire fully. It's in vogue. It makes me sick.
It's reserved for the children of privilege and the ones unfamiliar with failure.

I am reluctant. I don't believe in the sanctity of this path.
That in which reward comes from having certain people admire or hate you.

I grew up dirt poor. I don't want to feel that way again.

So, I try to find a way
the only way I know how
to work, to build something strong
something that will be able to support and sustain
a place to thrive

Still, after everything
small successes. hard decisions. countless rejections.

When all else has been battered away
the first thing I see in the distance
like a buoy after being punished
by 365 days of salty, debilitating waves
is the promise of being born again
through a hunger to create

It is the only thing that can revive me

Each time I forget, I get broken down so that I can see again