Didn’t we all make promises? Didn’t we all say yes to caring for each other?
And yet, here we stand with the truth the we Must be our own golden mean, our own magic
We had nothing to do with the wild universe that Called us into existence, except for that we have made
A pact, a promise to ourselves, that we Would live each day to honor our mitochondria
To uplift our own atoms, to love the Starrdust Of others– to kin-keep, to break bread, to
Carry things on our heads and backs, and hearts And sometimes we have to break the promise
To set the other free, to honor our sovereignty And perhaps, that is the gift of grief, those
Tendrils of sadness and severed nerves which Feel so raw, so new, so in need of protection
Cradle all of us in. The letting go. The setting Apart, the making into two, and the reconstitution
Of family, of friends, of tables and candlelight A twilight override, a play it again, Sam
A journey that has always been one of the heart That can really only view and visit the other through
A window– soul to soul, sex to sex, human to Human, heart to heart, I am that I am
Broken Top, Three Sisters Wilderness, Deschutes National Forest, Oregon (2025).
Falling Forward
It’s not very often I’m privy to an American football game I prefer soccer, to be honest, or lacrosse, or even rugby … Any other sport, but I was watching the epic eternal battle (they call it the holy war) between the red and the blue And my partner pointed out that one of the quarterbacks
Knew how to perform a ballet for each play, each pass, they laser-focused their eyes, their body, their entire being On the intention, the target, even after it left their hands, yes, they fell forward, toward the play, toward the action each time, there was not even a hint of indecision in
Their gaze, and it got me to thinking about how life surely requires this, that we fall forward, that we look to our most noble intentions with laser-focus With longing, we’ll be so set on our goal that we’ll Fall that direction, a ballet for each day
South Sister, Oregon
1.0 Human
a documentary something about education and technology
the second clip is Ken Jennings you know, Jeopardy most-winner who
explains that we have already been bested by the technology “gods’ all I can think
is, I’ll never be ready for this I’ll always want bodies, and touch,
and direct instruction eyes lit by the sun and that wondrous gray glob
of matter synapsed by neurons I need flesh over algorithms every
day and the fact that the bots spell rhythm with an i
(lower case) is all you need to know about the state of humanity
Can you imagine? Deafness where once was joyous Sound Blindness where once filtrations of color-filled light Ricocheted Can you imagine? Losing everything? If you are human, the guess is, yes But why must pain catalyze all our understanding? Is it Truly our only teacher? Isn’t the promise of Death Enough to cause us to cling to love, to Life, to now, maybe not. So maybe we go deaf, blind, Senseless Into that good night, into the dark, waiting for The dawn with breath so small we barely live, sore Respiration Reaction, all part of this existence when what we Thought we wanted most is gone, dematerialized where Reality is echoed and Chambered Oh heart, please, live, please drink the night and day as A cup of bitter sweetness, lasting but a blink A piano hammer in the abyss, hammer to string, string bing, bing, ba-bing, go, boogie, Be
Gold Nike Shoes. Oakland Museum of California. Image, my own.
Andante
It will never do to keep running Into yourself if you can’t look up, Ponder the path of the stars in The night sky, gaze with longing And new eyes, on the moon with Rapture, take in the horizon each Day and walk into a new lifetime
Light Bulb(s). Image, my own.
Honey
Honey, laughter and green curry are all the #soulfood I need the joy of bright kaffir lime leaves charged into garlic and simmered over vegetables, a meal to carry us through the ages, a gale of fascist hail and bull shit, the storm of the century is upon us, and all we can do is cook, sing, and watch the moon as it rises high in the night, silent observer of her earthly neighbors what a perplexity what a tragedy, only for a moment, all mixed with joy and delight, how will we last, how will we survive the fight join it, gear up, only history knows on this very first calm snowy night. We hunker in, we knit, we resist like life depends on it because it does, resistance can be small nearly silent until the way is clear and that same moon swims overhead as the path is lit in the quiet dark
Moon. Image, my own.
Orb
In reality In the body Black and gray White and blue softest aura Hazing purple Bold broad Moon the Clouds opaled All around Stars and sky Dappled through and Through Lord, Bless Gratitude for Ohs and glitters Heavens and Earth The glory of it All that lone Full Moon
i. Vivace The Body and Brain create a near-constant concerto, Orchestral ensemble that one piece of the body May be tasked with– the soloist, for a moment– The violin of your legs stands in the spotlight Lifting the bow back, striking the perfect legato When you lift each leg to strike the pedal: rising, falling, Rising, falling, in perfect détaché, the synchrony, Breathtaking, a veritable martelé, up and down, Crescendoing, up and down, faster and faster, Staccatos building as you climb that little kicker, Beast of a hill, every note separate and distinct and Purposeful and achingly beautiful, melody in movement
ii. Largo The reality is that the soloist, The part of the brain or body that is on display, is Accompanied by an orchestra of other reactions, Symphony, an entire production of body-brain actors Breath increasing as you crest the top of the climb Then wide, expansive sucks of air through your lungs as you Descend, behind the soloist your legged String instrument, a complex array of bodily musical Tools, exchanges of sensory information via energy, chemicals, Afferent and efferent neural fibers, we know this But to experience it is so much more vivid, vibrant, Actual art an afferent neuron gathering signals from
iii. Adagio The skin like the finely tuned drumhead of the timpani You’re pedaling along at a rapid pace and your Neurons are sending each breeze that crests your Quadricep, each flexion of your fingers as you Reposition your palm to the vibration of your handlebars You begin to really circle, pushing, leaning into the Pedals with more and more force, lifting your Foot up to keep time and pace with the peloton This is where the sensory experience really Begins to take off, you’re in the pace line driving Your muscles pumping with blood, efferent signals, Through the femoral profunda, spiccato of oxygen
iv. Finale Feeding the whole quadricepal system: vastus medialis, Vastus lateralis, vastus intermedius, and rectus femoris Don’t forget the glutes, rich, ringing riot of brain-body orchestration, molto crescendo Coming in hot… finish line, and stop!
Ramón u Cajal, Neuron, Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales
Polyphonic Technicolor Synesthesia
this is how it feels to be in an autumn wood at sunset, the entire mountain set ablaze, a conflagration of color in that warm waning light, each leaf in stark relief to something visually near– brittle topaz bark, white aspen trunk, every
sense housed in neon-rich sculptural portals a magpie cackles from a scrub oak turning amber its wings that look so black in flight reflect a deep maxixe beryl, oceanic opalescent contrast Paul Klee’s Polyphic Setting for White
poets, mostly, long for synesthesia so that they can produce that contrast that catch of the craw between all worlds– senses coming undone in an autumn wood or at the very least they’d like to produce it on the page, certainly the experience
might be so disconcerting as to be horrible but if you could see autumn lanced by a sunset or a taste a technicolor leaf as it fell in a stream of wild wind, maybe if you’re there long enough in the woods, the colors begin to have
a particular flavor, like the brown dry leaves of wyethia amplexicaulis, mule-ears become tiramisu in the mushroom undergrowth they take on a shape in your psyche like a rhombus with the sun setting above the far angle, always forty-five degrees
Michigan City Public Libaray, Michigan City, Illinois. Architect Helmut Jahn, 1977.
Thin
i do not know what it is about now, every- thing just feels papery a little thin around the edges, a little dry and flat
Billings Public Library, Billings, Montana. Will Bruder Architects, 2013.
To Write a Poem
to write a poem is a lot of staring out of eyes through windows
Desert Air Motel, Sanderson, Texas. Built in 1960, restored, 2022.
Send Your Kids Weird Texts
Send your kids weird texts Tell them that you’ll Give them lunch money If, when you are really Old, almost gone, they Will let you run your Papery, age-spotted hand Through the thicket Of their hair Make them pause Question the sanity Of your replies Make them promise So that your five bucks Is paid forward in your Elder years, it’ll be worth it To give them a future Imagination of how Much you will Always love them
Synesthesia as an Image, Public Domain.
Abandon All Solutions
One of my good friends Heard this in a dream Or in a wakened state Where she was contacted By the Universe, So the advice wasn’t really Given directly to me, But it has come to mean Everything
Lawrence Public Library, Lawrence, Kansas. Gould Evans Architects, design John Wilkins, 2014.
Autumn, overlooking Midway, Utah. Image, my own. September 2024.
Respiration
autumn of last year, I found myself watching my babies breath, in sleep, in dream
deep, cadenced pulls of oxygen fueling all parts of their frames, their beautiful hearts keeping time
children’s eyelashes soft, curled the color of milk chocolate, individuated so perfectly against the
delicate skin of their cheeks, I wept as their chests rose and fell at the joy of watching them breath
constant, paced, churning, these fist-sized hearts, muscling, pushing life-giving nutrients through their precious, peaceful forms
at night, it gave me peace, the assurance that everything was alright, the play of pulmonary veins filling
with nitrogen, argon, all mixed in with O2 being sent to the heart from the lungs hearts filling the upper left atrium
the heart, house of refreshment, dispersing the blood rich with food back into the body through the lower left ventricle
this circle saved me, literally, again and again imagining how the autonomic, metronomic rhythms of the heart allowed them to rest
into dream, into sleep, into measured breaths, into the rising of the inner oceans, breathing peace
Brain, Lightbulb, Plush Chair. Image, my own. May 2024.
Hippocampus
When my students check out a book from the library I often encourage them to make a bookmark Any ratty scrap of paper will do, a plus if it is neon pink We use this slip of paper to mark where we have Read, where we are reading, where we have been, Where we are going. The brilliant thing is that having A placeholder, having a signpost, having a demarcation To show how far you have come and how far you must go Is another kind of marker. It is a memory marker. In print, In pulpy bound cellulose and black ink, hold in your hand, Sniff with your nose, the real goodness of paper is that The brain creates even more memory pins for this Medium. So now, you are reading a book, but your Brain even remembers, memorizes, the geography Of the page. Where did you see that perfect sentence, At the top of page 67, How far into the book was the Rising action, the falling sequence, your brain takes in the Terrain of the page—the paragraph, the thickness of the Pages you’ve consumed thus far, becomes another kind of Topography. So intricately is our existence connected– Touch, sight, smell, taste—all being remembered Brain cells, neurons, communicating with each other Regarding the climax of the story, through an elegant Electrochemical system. A change in the electrical charge of One cell as you read and integrate the signs and symbols On the page into a larger story, triggers the release of Chemicals called neurotransmitters across synapses. The neurotransmitters are then taken up by dendrites of the Neuron on the other side of the synapse where they Trigger electrical changes in that cell. The geography that print books, and bookmarks represent only strengthens This circuit, a story arc sweeping into the hippocampus as a Permanent resident in some synapse of your 100 billion neurons
Crane House Stained Glass. Image, my own. August 2024.
Heart “So much held in a heart in a lifetime.” -Brian Doyle
I won’t ever be a surgeon But sometimes I imagine a heart beating in a human under the purposeful glare of a surgical lamp. And I have a moment to inspect this beautiful organ with my own eyes as it pushes blood throughout the body I can visualize the thick membrane of the ventricular septum– lengthening and shortening in precise time, the casing which divides the right and left heart, the chambers, the heart walls, muscles, really, that send the blood coursing through your body with constant contract-relax reflexes a miracle with every beat
Jean-Michel Basquait, Tuxedo, 1983
Nervous System
I am trying to get my words wrapped around my autonomic nervous system I am trying to describe how it feels to see a photo where I once existed and have been erased I am trying to describe the pang, the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to As Hamlet intoned, unlike Hamlet, I’m not trying to leave this life. Here’s my stab.
When I’m in fight or flight, it is harder for me to wrap my words around my nervous system. It’s those moments when I could really just use a hug– skin to skin, arms enclosing my body, keeping me safe and calm, a quilt. Instead, in flight I feel as though the part of my body that is involved in the flying or fighting is nearly numbed, gone, absent
For example, if a man walks in on his wife making love to someone else, his brain, right behind His eyes may become so activated that it feels as though a horse bucked his skull from the Inside, like eating far too much pea-colored wasabi paste in one bite, which actually happened to me, I’m sorry to return to sushi, but it was my first time, and BAM!
Right between the eyes, if I believe that I am being abandoned, left, discarded, my entire lower gut is activated with one million energy worms, I crawl with that nearly breathless, tingle that radiates Through the rest of my body as I try to wrap my words around my nervous system for safety But, in fact, I should probably lean in. Accept. Sit with it. Just the other day, when a pang really
Struck me, took me by surprise, in my solar plexus, and then the breath catching, the spin, And the whole system, consciousness, in shock, straight from the amygdala, I thought, well good, I think this gives me the chance to decide what comes next. The brain through the body gets first dibs on the experience, but I am learning to quiet my reaction, trace the source
Of the shock, I am trying to get my words wrapped around my autonomic nervous system And what I am telling you is that I am trying to describe how it feels, so that I can hijack my hypothalamus, but that is impossibly ridiculous, that my wish is that no will ever have to feel this way again, which might be the end of our species, so let’s keep flying out of our bodies
Autumn, Wasatch Mountains, Image, my own. September 2024.
See
Have you ever watched someone learn something closely? With your raw, open eyes, irises spiked wide with color, this is where miracles lie. In my classroom, students flow in and out of the physical space all day. Water. But there are moments that transcend the quirky ephemera we plaster the walls to increase engagement. Air. Like the quiet that falls on the room when you discuss the concept that maybe Thomas Aquinas was right, and you could come face-to-face with the divine on the pages of an essay you read in English class. Mountain. Perhaps you witness the that burst of energy come across someone’s being when they lift the palm sander at the finish of the final face of the joinery for their rustic bureau in woods class, when the firing is finished in the pottery studio, when the piece of silver has been hammered to perfection. Fire. Those words and worlds and ways will always be part of your fiber, your sinew, your resilience, your learning in a sorrowful, beautiful world.
Greenhouse Damage, Hail Storm August 2024. Image, my own
Bill Murray
I remember the day I became Bill My heart was breaking and I wanted To save it, so I pulled it out through The intercostal space between my ribs, Right through the cage, Careful not to catch it on my sternum And I put my heart into a glass jar Which I affixed around my neck with A piece of twine, and I clamped the Lid on tight and proceeded to live To take baby steps To walk around town To ride the bus Because I knew that if I could preserve My heart In that jar I would make it I would survive My love would last And others could see and understand What heartbreak looks like And how one lives through it Now I understand about Bob, “There are two types of people In this world, those who love Neil Diamond, and those who don’t”
Composition with Double Line [unfinished], Piet Mondrian
August
Something about August is begging to be paid attention. Be here as the gray storm gathers strength, the dark cumulonimbus clouds billow up to twenty-seven thousand feet, the hail batters the roof like an alien ice machine. Deluge. White pellets of rime nearly round and cuttingly hard tear through verdant gardens and iron city drains, pinking flower beds and translucent greenhouse roofs, pocking every possible piece of outdoor furniture and uncovered car hood.
Splatters of rain signal the reclamation of autumn as the scud clouds break from the shelf of the tumult over Mt. Wilson, tumbling as if they may make contact with the grocery store parking lot lines before turning into a fog that dissipates over the asphalt. The gale winds signal the return of fall in the rising apple-crisp air. Time asks if we’ll watch for a moment from the porch as another wind rollicks, racing through the pumpkin fields, wracking the sticky green vines against each other.
August asks if we can move so much more carefully, thoughtful of each precious moment through transition– lightning strike, cloud fall, thunder call. Glorious weathervanes snapping erratically this way then that, trying to keep up with the on-rushing squall. Can we pause and take in the smell of electricity like ozone and h2o, the brouhaha of late summer air. Drink it in.
Vøringfossen, Norway. July 2024. Image, Carrie Madsen
(Re)claim
the girl who ran in dark canyons and dry riverbeds when she was young she’s there crunching gravel and sagebrush under her feet, up this next steep incline to the plains, the meadow there in the stillness a tiny creek burbles, and a garden shed appears with a low wind chime, that girl, she’s deep as a well wide as an ocean visceral and powerful even then, in her vulnerability, her desire to love, she’ll find that no one can do that for her love her like she must love herself, take that last sprint of the trail right back home reside inside herself
Evening Star, Georgia O’Keefe,
You Know
You know, sometimes as that little girl bucktoothed and freckled you wanted the come-up cause you believed you deserved it
You know, sometimes you’re aware that if you get what you ask for everything will change again. Like Alaska
you won’t be able to return to the halcyon days You know, sometimes you get caught between your growing and your fragility
and, god, the pain of it can crush, squeeze, burn, You know, sometimes everything gets unstitched, unpicked by the universe
and you’re reminded that the old woman at the end of the world must have needed to tend her soup before it scalded she still needed
food, herself, she still knew she would be called upon to (re)stich the tapestry of earth the raven unraveled to feed the world, to tend the soup, we are her magic and stories, too
Refined + Rugged 