What Are They Doing in the Next Room by Bruce Smith

Are they unmaking everything?
Are they tuning the world sitar?
Are they taking an ice pick to being?
Are they enduring freedom in Kandahar?

Sounds, at this distance, like field hollers,
sounds like they’ll be needing CPR.
Sounds like the old complaint of love and dollars.
Sounds like when Coltrane met Ravi Shankar

and the raga met the rag and hearing
became different and you needed CPR
after listening and tearing was tearing
and love was a binary star—

distant bodies eclipsing each other
with versions of gravity and light.
Sounds like someone’s trying to smother
the other—a homicide or a wedding night.

The television derives the half-full hours.
Time exists as mostly what’s to come.
Losing also is ours…
I meant that as a question.

Is I the insomniac’s question?
Are you a dendrite or a dream?
Between oblivion and affection,
which one is fear and which protection?

Are they transitive or in?
Are they process or product?
Are they peeling off the skin?
Are they Paris or the abducted?

They’re reading something after Joyce,
post modern stuff that can be read
but not understood except as voices
rising and falling from the dead.

Do they invent me
as I invent their faces?
I see surveillance gray wasted
with bliss at having thieved identities.

In the AM, when turns to usted,
the sun clocks in to overwrite the night
with hues and saturations and the red
hesitates for a second to be incarnate.

Artist :   Michael OswaldWork  :   Soul SearchingLink   :    http://bit.ly/WUdNLC

Artist :   Michael Oswald
Work  :   Soul Searching
Link   :    http://bit.ly/WUdNLC

1 note

Love in the Morning by Annie Finch

Morning’s a new bird
stirring against me
out of a quiet nest,
coming to flight—

breath-filling body,

clean as clear water,

kindling companion,

mystery and mountain,


A human brain dissection 

The pictures show how professor Steve Gentleman dissects a brain at the Brain Bank. This research helps scientists to learn more about little-understood and devastating conditions from Parkinson’s disease to Alzheimer’s and multiple sclerosis

The Guardian

2,983 notes

Closer by Peter Covino

In the end there was
       a certain grace

splayed on the table

our beloved (pup)

five sedated on
       a manual respirator


overdose in wait
       human hair

not fur its smell
       and luster

in spite of a final
       breath-less episode

just minutes before
       we arrived for our

nightly visit the ex and I
       he from across country

in case of the worst
       sweet pup

earlier in the day
       recognizing his hide

and seek whistle
       paw shake of recognition

cone headed oxygen
       tubes stapled to her nose

the ex fearing our last
       link too expiring

yes, a certain grace
       to release this spirit

from the metal
       vet emergency room cages

to sniff her hair
       in the last shallow

horror of breath
       a stopped baby-like

heart all muscle
       and miles of hiking

reduced to toneless
       aspiration pneumonia

complication of—
       the ominous seriousness

released spirit etherized
       in the lingering smell

of the keepsake collar
       and blanket on the bed

at my feet where
       nightly she tried

to creep up
       pawing me still

You Make Love Like the Last Snow Leopard Paige Taggart

You make love like the last
snow leopard. Time hunts your shadows.
Your grooves dip a real x of an arc.
I love your shadow. It’s performance on the wall.

Your white hair flocked. It’s old age that makes
you kill for food. You bring a long blank to
bed in, the weight draws out.

You need someone with skill for the excursion.
Ride through the reservoir of sour peaches.
Your name meanders through the grass. Tall
people are in the way. I crowd surf to get to you.

You spill me into the flood. Water rushes out your sides.

You make a mystery of playing political love.
I could kill for you. I’d bring you an eagle stuffed
with finches. It’s pouch growing large and groaning
in your palm. A cliff of umbrellas and memory
shaping your every move.

Prayer for a Birthday by Mark Wunderlich

My privilege and my proof, pressing your eternal skin to mine— 
I feel your fingers touching down on the crown of my head 
where I pray they remain during this life and in the next. 
The intricacies of your world astound me. 
You flickered through the rooms where my mother dwelt, 
when I was naked and formless as a seal, sensitive 
to the tides of her body. I did not come too early onto land, 
did not emerge until my days were written 
on the translucent pages of your enormous book. 
The great lid of your eye peeled back to see I was not yet whole. 
I remember today the day of my birth. 
Your words washed that which clung to me from the other side, 
bound to me the promised ghost. 
I was dipped and sponged, cut free, 
delivered as I was like a lamb lodged in his dam. Tears and pain 
were her price, and I was handed over to be wiped with straw. 
You built me, bone by bone, counting 
the hairs that would one day thatch my crown, 
building cleverness in my hands, weakness in my knees, 
a squint and a taste for cake. You showed me 
the dip of a man’s clavicle, arrow of ankle and calf, 
weaving in me a love of those bodies like my own, 
yet not mine. When you turned to your next task 
a shadow crossed the room stirred from the muddy banks 
rimed with ice. In the spot where my skull was soft 
it set down its stylus and inked a bruise— 
a scrap used to blot a leaking pen. Since then 
my mind has raced toward the brink, spun 
and knit and torn out the same silvery threads 
only to wind them up again. Still, the bargain 
you made without my consent has left me 
here to ponder your airy limbs striding through the sky, 
the red rustle of your gown. A season ago, I looked out upon the verdure 
of the small meadow below the house—boggy in parts— 
the pollard willows gnarling and sipping from gnat-speckled pools, 
the turkeys scratching under the sweep of green 
as it prepared to die back for another year, littered with mute papery tongues. 
You are easier to see when you denude your world with decay. 
And so I saw you there, flashed in the shallow water, 
parting the curtain of the willow fronds and warming my face with light. 
My mother and father call me and sing, 
sweet and tuneless, their voices worn down by your turning wheel. 
You have kept us together for half a man’s natural years, 
these last the tenderest as their bodies 
break and their minds dip deeper into dust 
to bring forth the features of distance. 
My day will be spent here, in the middle of things, 
feeding split logs into the stove, cats coiling through rooms 
as the snow ticks at the windows’ double panes. 
I will read a book with snow at its center, 
in a forest lost inside a forest in the north, the sun 
an afterthought in the darkest days of the year. 
I am thankful for all that buffers me from the cold, 
all that binds me to my clan, 
though I see a future strange and tuneless 
as I push forward into the mind’s blinding field of white.

When a man thinks he is reading the character of another, he is often unconsciously betraying his own.
Joseph Farrell