Ulysses
~Mary Ruefle

Dropped down and hauled up, dripping
like a tea bag.
And if he is a little darker now, more obscure, quieter,
it doesn’t mean he is gone from us.
Don’t you think every butterfly you’ve ever seen
is the same one?


~I looked out my window this morning and knew that the day was written in poems. The type of poem you never write down, you scribble inside your mind and reread only upon deep sleep. The sun hurt my eyes, but I could still see the throng of crows that swarmed in like bees near the edge of construction laden building crevices. I could hear them screaming and singing at the same time. Why this continual land and flight off the edges of the red tinted oak? They were in constant motion, and I couldn’t tell one from the other. The black blemishes on the blue sky weren’t so much distracting as they were confirming. Imperfections authenticate beauty. Someone asks for a phone call in five minutes. Someone asks for the answer to world hunger. Someone asks for a poem about the prairie. Someone asks to see more of belief written in black on white. Someone asks the meaning of the word “humble.” I would create new worlds with my pen, but that doesn’t erase my old manuscripts. Watching the birds I imagined myself walking among them. We were holding hands; the sun was stagnant on the horizon and casting barbed wire shadows across our dusty faces. They were taking us to the tree, past all the rubble. They were calling to us with that terrible noise. And we were soaking it in. We were not yet gone. ~

The blog has been a bit neglected of late. I would apologize, but I know that no one has time to read it anyway.

Thinking is sometimes a disease, and lately I have been plagued by it. What is there to think about you might ask? Everything. For example, I think that I wander almost directionless through my studies and my life trying to get a sense of my place in this mess of a world. And in reality, I know my place; I just haven’t gotten there yet. I want to make a difference, to someone. I want to change the world. I feel ignorant for thinking that I can do this. How can I? Am I already? Are these books going to help me? The thinking continues. Why might I even consider blogging about this? Probably because I assume that a lot of people feel the same way and can relate. There are too many variables in life to make complete sense of them all. The equation is muddled and mine is missing an equal sign.

Free write poems are never very good, although I think the intentions behind them are well grounded. Perhaps I'll go back and edit edit edit this one until I have something that is actually well-written. For now, I give you the raw thoughts. The format of the blog has changed how the poem looks, removing the gap syntax and appropriate line breaks. Keep that in mind.


Kissing Earthworms


images swim like this
through soil—it is riding the bus to the rhythm of the mentally ill girl in the back with the snake tattoo on her neck
calm

we write about our pathetic experience
wondering the truth in those books the child soldiers publish
could I aim a gum at a human?
it is easier to aim words words are (less vulnerable) weapons

sky folds over itself
we walk, because country air is crisp
in red fall grass we don’t feel what happens across the ocean

I want to feel the worms moving beneath my toes
we walk above
inside damp shadows they are sleeping

the ink snake is motionless only glares and stares trespass on his universe
a hum the treacherous steps my hand helping her balance

earthworms used to be ground into cosmetics
children are taught to be bombs

and on dry days I eat dirt tasting for minerals chewing
microbes for strength and steady hand

I could engrave with needs fire pistols

the black snake is staring at me
it knows its place.