Who I hyperventilated at

Trevi, a handsome fountain at the end of an aqueduct. Now too many men with roses or too many women throwing pennies over their shoulders sloped with hope. Ancient statues looking blindly on one almost with a foot in the water all the closed up windows too much overspray- I made a run for it down the cobblestones chest heaving anything for dry land

It's Not Love

like it was before. It’s an animal that waits haunches tensed in the forest in the night eyes listening for that deep rustle a gleam of something eluding the catch crack of branch anticipation of a meal something to devour a quick spill of blood

There is a Library of Strangers in Dublin - Phil Hall

Phil Hall

  there is a library of strangers in Dublin
Phil Hall

  there is a library of strangers in Dublin
Kraków Iqaluit Constantinople Petticoat Junction
  I have borrowed two silences from — the best sleep of my life
& light moving in a Stan Brakhage film

  far away at home at last
I could not be reached breached or dissuaded
  I slept forever & took forever to wake up & when I did
there goes your mime teacher all in white

  light was archeologizing a patchwork quilt on a bed
dusting each snag as if there were no budget constraints
  the approach of the children & the long-eared goat
was a Latin declension enacted

  there is a library of strangers in Dublin
the Troy-warrens of its archives boustrophedonic
  silence stoops to eyeball each shard & tag it
light tests its white hands against walls in the air

  (distracted indifference from the old goat & the children) 

Some Emily Dickinson

THEY say that “time assuages”,—
  Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens,
  As sinews do, with age.
Time is a test of trouble,
  But not a remedy.
If such it prove, it prove too
  There was no malady.— Emily Dickinson

The Prisoner - Lorca

Federico Garcia Lorca
b. June 5, 1898 Translated by A. S. Kline

The Prisoner

Through the indecisive
branches
went a girl
who was life.
Through the indecisive
branches.
She reflected daylight,
with a tiny mirror,
which was the splendour,
of her unclouded forehead.
Through the indecisive
branches.
In the dark of night,
lost, she wandered,
weeping the dew,
of this imprisoned time.
Through the indecisive
branches.

Crutches - Nikki Giovanni

Crutches
Nikki Giovanni
b. June 7, 1943

it's not the crutches we decry
it’s the need to move forward
though we haven’t the strength
women aren’t allowed to need
so they develop rituals
since we all know working hands idle

the devil
women aren’t supposed to be strong
so they develop social smiles
and secret drinking problems
and female lovers whom they never touch
except in dreams

men are supposed to be strong
so they have heart attacks
and develop other women
who don’t know their weaknesses
and hide their fears
behind male lovers
whom they religiously touch
each saturday morning on the basketball court
it’s considered a sign of health doncha know
that they take such good care
of their bodies

i'm trying to say something about the human condition
maybe i should try again

if you broke an arm or leg
a crutch would be a sign of courage
people would sign your cast
and you could bravely explain
no it doesn’t hurt—it just itches
but if you develop an itch
there are no salves to cover the area
in need of attention
and for whatever guilt may mean
we would feel guilty for trying
to assuage the discomfort
and even worse for needing the aid

i really want to say something about all of us
am i shouting           i want you to hear me

emotional falls always are
the worst
and there are no crutches
to swing back on

Up and Over It