when writing in the garden

...it is not me gardening.

It is the gardener in the I
of the storm
testing the air with his finger
budding calligraphy
from his master’s pallet.

When I write, speak, live
from the seat in the center
of The Garden,
it is with either:

The voice of old gods—the riders of Shem;
a trumpeting messenger with news!
Or
The mad squiggled lines left behind
on the path by The Fool
on his way to the upside-down noose;
stuck on the card that played him.

But at the end of the day
when I am
lying in bed, eyes closed,
inside The Wayfarer’s Temple,
it doesn’t matter how the voice comes,
came—
always comes,
all that matters is:
that you read
all the way through to the end.

Let The Gardener’s seeds
from the earth of the sea
take care of the roots and the rest.

All you need to do
is listen to the wind through the trees,
while breathing
in deep,
the cherry scent essence
of words.




© Kristin Reynolds 6 21 2010

Densities 94

why would anyone want to be born?

to be at war

with oneself

or to turn others into a bloody mess?

nothingness

that perfect glove

that fits your hand perfectly

it has its charm school manners

but one must be a cannibal

full of big ideas

eating your enemy's brains raw

you need the stomach of a wild dog

to win a meal at this table

Densities 86

100 billion stars

and beyond them

100 billion galaxies

all held in place

set in motion

in empty space

which has many bodies

in its belly

as many eyes as stars

everything created points

toward the future

whatever I hold in my hands

possesses me

immediately

Densities 78

my experience of delusion and truth

and how to tell the difference

during summer vacation

was my term paper topic in tenth grade

I wonder what it feels like to think behind your eyes

to dream the same dream just once

or fall in step with your steps when you have

nowhere to go

what do you think about the massacres in the fields?

the beautiful horror of it all

night coming on with its nocturnal appetites

who are up with the moon cleaning their teeth

I was badly bitten by ants when I was a child

they were so small I couldn't take it personally

cockroaches however covered the floor walls and ceiling

of the kitchen

the whole room swimming with them moved

around me

pulsating with a life of its own

it was monstrous

it was repulsive standing there in the middle of it

I kept thinking: I wish you could see this!

Densities 59

back to the pogo stick
of a very good poet
if not a friend
or a very popular popinjay
who would rule the world
with clean skin and a clean set of walls
camouflage carpet and desk
I’m still carrying this matchbox steamroller
in my pocket
but I know its got to go
its making me late
goldfinches fly by with invisible ink
the woodpecker laughs then the rain stops

B e // a // t w i N

=//=

K & T
sitting
...........
w i t h i n
long forgotten
j a z z w o r d z
..........................
b r e a t h takingly
.............................
a b s u r d t h r o u g h
a space // time of n…o…t

=\\=

The complexities of the momenT

.

Without further ado,

between themselves, they had discussed,
among matters of importance,
the potential of impotence,
when without further disgust,
between the first and second floors,
they disappeared through open doors,

into the night of KatmandU.

.

The swimming pool storY

.

I remember

p a i n t i n g

the village

g r e e n

.

S h o r t c u T

.

Deep in the art
of a stubborn
graveyard
lies an able
s...t...o...n...e
......................
a magnificently
eccentric memorial
to a magnificent eccentric
who b e c a m e fluent in over
two dozens and seven languageS

.

Densities 10

I will not be disappointed in the outcome

I already did that

I left scratch marks in the well's stone walls

I wrote that story a thousand times

running down the railroad tracks

out of breath on rubber stilts

up the glacial ravine

the vertical leaps

defying gravity

adding more and more

to my true vocabulary

my dumb alphabet

no longer able to scream

in the dark

out loud

Mantra

a dead woman

crowned in nothingness

dry and dead

as dry dead blood

escapes

into Ligeti's concerto

for violin & orchestra

slips out

unnoticed

between skins

of death and breath

like cold air rising

from an empty stair

she floats translucent

as ricepaper, dissolving

into trembling ocarinas

without place

she embraces all places

her voices creep toward the sea

and the wave will take them

space folds

into four angles

into four sides

into scordatura strings

the rite

of the opening

of the mouth

(almost)

she put my shoes out in the trash

a different one called the police

yet another threw my belongings off a balcony

and I watched them smash on the sidewalk

with the neighbors laughing

the first stood accusing me to my face of infidelity

I wished I had commited

the one I married called me a loser

but wouldn't let go for years

somewhere in the middle are echos

of doors slamming

objects smashing against walls

insults and vows of revenge

once or twice there was pulled hair and bruises

I remember blood in a bathtub

my mother would become a monster

once a month

and swear I was not the fruit of her womb

I have no more excuses

for them

or me

the last one shocked with kindness

smiling as she sent me packing

just as long as I kept my mouth shut

I (almost) did

diary of a woman who vanished

bodiless

above a vast night ocean

I dreamed you were lost

in the enormous sadness of water

between the slide of monstrous ships

I called out

but the air grew heavy

with lines, triangles

the endless

creation and dissolution

of inner sky

formless

I woke with eleven

luminous strangers

peeling mandarines by silent windows

for a moment glimpsed

your ravaged lion's head

your bright blackbird eye

but I was mesmerised

by a vase of sun-edged magnolias

by drifts of dust motes falling

in afternoon light

like a thousand

silver egrets

your movement is sharp

precise

and I wake with your hair

wound through my fingers

the smell of burning cloves

in your mouth

you hiss

where are you?

what are you?

but I am

voiceless

except for the language of snakes

the dry rattle of their digestion

you speak and it begins to rain

have you forgotten?

we live only where the breath turns

my left eye closed:

a white horse wades up to its breast in blood

my right eye open:

Sirius rises – ashes return to branchless trees

Get with the Pogrom

we've seen so many...
the Germans put an abstract, mechanistic,
dare we say, "high tech" blue-sky face on it...
but do they compare with 25 million plus in Meso America
under Spanish swords. Of course it took them fifty years...
are we measuring the damn things against time?
If we count the you-row-peon invasions of the Americas North and
South, in 300 years we pretty much wiped the natives out
and subsequent to the end of the Russian/German trip, Americans
got right to it again... not so much ethnic/racial cleansings
as across the board apocalyptic bomber pinpoint mayhem;
mostly by client stooges bought, taught, and paid for
by US of A's happyface consumptive SUV wonders.
I guess for sheer numb_brrrs Hitler's 15 years
takes the prize and the way we paperclipped
his intellectual minions was a damn crime
gettin' in bed with the lot of 'em for 55 years
plantin' 'em in Hunsville Georgia
where nary a soul noticed -
puts a whole new complexion on
consenting adults.

Everyone of us...
ethnicity be damned
paid our taxes, supported the plan;
cheered for our side in SE Asia and scapegoated
yellow, black, brown, jew, dyke, faggot, an' Arab
when it suited us; but we're gonna get even this time:
the train is leavin' on the same track
so we can fire up the ovens without lookin' back
and we're gonna let freedom ring and liberty toll
for a solid half billion new holocaust souls - for oil,
for rare earths, for whatever we think we want at the moment.
We'll pile 'em up like cordwood the way we did in the Phillipines
so we can celebrate our fundamental Christian righteous rave:
Profit first, comfort second, and
wisdom dead last.

Questions...