His Name Was

Chavdor. and he smelled like I imagined Rawling's
Mundungas does, with dark set eyes and interest
at the world in them. Smelled like I imagine
Dosteoevsky, in the attic, under muddy sheets
in the cold still air of an apartment without
heat in the middle of January. There is nothing
like being cold all the way through your skin.
No sullen steady warmth from mushy pink
and blue organs. No sudden clench of uterus or
heart. Just cold. Better to be warm, baked and
lethargic then feel steeped in the quiet blanket of
cold like that. Once that cold has taken over
joy wouldn't feel the same I think: it would
sap the sense of bounce quicker than opium.
In their dances, their songs, their poetry:
there is the heavy sullen weight of the still
coldness.

generosity improves itself with the giving

((but whichever way I choose I come back to the place you are…))Just finished the Confessions of Max Tivoli, and I am in adoration of it--good things! Good good things, and I'm glad for them and it makes me ready in some small way to be able to admit that I am FULL. Ah. Ahhhhhh. ((the heat I see in your eyes)) I would like to go to that concert tonight and I don't want to have to tag along … ((and all my instincts they return)) ((all my fruitless searches)) Am excited to go out on the ferry tomorrow with my sketch book and my backpack and then hang out in O and have fun and make bread and be simply full of joy. Enough worrying about not knowing what I'm doing…it's okay, it's alright, and things will happen the way they need to: generosity improves itself with the giving. ((by the time it left my mouth I knew you wouldn't want it))….

Quarter after seven
Underneath the lower stairs
While you were looking back and up
The grace of your bones
Scaling their way up to fringe
Brown hair, bright eyes
Flutter of your fingers
Impatient against the coming
Dark and unsaid

Solitude

Tien Hau is Busy Goddess