journeys of a restless mind

Why I Cried Driving Back to Santa Cruz

I fell in love last summerfall
with a wild lion-maned sailorman
that everyone thought was homeless
and stepped back afraid at first
but then we all fell for him
a little bit (and me a lot) because we envied
his freedom his smile his
happiness and easy lion-hearted way
of never combing his hair or trimming
his beard or even wearing shoes
when he and I walked across
the Golden Gate bridge in October.
He wore my girlsweater
black with little buttons up the front
that he couldn’t unbutton later
when he had to go back onboard
because girls’ are backwards and
his sailorfingers too big
so I helped him in the dark by the dock
take off my sweater fumbling standing there close
and goddamn
I wanted to kiss him so badly my lips aching to learn
his wild lion-taste because there we were
taking things off laughing
in the dark and my body didn’t know
like my brain did that his lionlove
was not mine.

There is method in the meter
and the measure and the notes,
but the harmony
is full of madness.

There is no sanity
in what resonates
between your lips
and the hollow of my throat.

If I walk the tightrope
of the silvery strings
won’t I fall the minute
you start plucking them?

When I tumble,
landing hard inside the hollow
where the music sings
won’t it throw you off the beat?

There is no kindness in the melody
no mercy in the chords,
not even a remembrance of softness
beneath the callused tips
when I kiss your fingers, one by one.

the poems

It’s not me,
it’s the poems
that are angry,
pressing against my ear,
brushing aside
my hair, their lips close,
breath hot,
pissed off,
urgently whispering
what to write.

It’s them
with their flat hands
smooth as plates,
pushing at the small of my back.

Nobody else
sings to me in the dark.

I’m a good girl,
you won’t catch me
with my panties down.
It’s the poems undressing me,
laying me bare and hungry
against the sheets, trembling.

When words come
to plant kisses
one by one
like tiny seeds along my spine,
and weeds sprout and tangle there,
not fruit.
What else can I tell you,
but it’s the poems?

It’s a noisy abdication,
doused with blood and snot.
Everything I (do not) hate
is revealed in their hiss. 

 

Author's note: Everyone in my workshop pretty much hated that last stanza, or at the very least thought it should go somewhere else. I did some other editing based on my classmates' suggestions, but I'm not convinced they're right about that stanza.  Feel free to add your two cents in the comments.

it was easier then

It was easier then,
everything from sex to Sunday morning
was there for the taking,
sun-warmed and tangled on the bed.

The moon-faced banjo
offered melodies sweet
like plums. There were no hollows
or empty spaces
that did not sing,
no fear of heartstrings breaking,
wound too tightly around the peg.

It was harder then,
your steel-tipped fingers like claws
piercing the taut skin of an overripe fruit,
the juicy music pouring out.

Nothing left but bitter seeds
that birds keep plucking from the ground,
carrying them away in sharp beaks,
carving out a puddle, a skin
for the percussive rain.

nothing is spared

Nothing is spared,
not the oyster with its grain of sand,
not the rocks tumbling in the river,
not the baby being born.

The pupa in its chrysalis
does not rejoice.
Skin splits and pulls away,
it sheds, or it scars.

It's all violence,
honed and hard:
the string around her neck,
the finger on the string on the fret on the neck,
a callus, or a pearl,
the translucent wing,
or the poetry of a girl.

walking the bridge

I had the best time walking across the Golden Gate bridge on Friday in the fog and wind and fading light. It felt like a wild adventure, yet was so simple and easy. Had great company, too.

There are a few more fotos from my trip on my flickr page.

brandenburg

Here are my boys showing off their versatility by playing Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major. See how gorgeous the banjo is in this? See how happy Chris Thile is? I love this!

 

sometimes

This is another one of my favorite pieces from Punch Brothers, Sometimes. It gives you an idea of how I fell in love with the banjo by listening to Noam play. This song is lush and layered and absolutely gorgeous.

 

here's to you, Nicky

My grandmother would have been 92 today.

settling in

Life is settling back into some sort of routine for Hijo and I, and it's very sweet. He had soccer practice yesterday, so I drove him to the big field and I sat in the car listening to In the Maze and reading the latest Kate Atkinson book. The sun was heading towards the line of tall trees at the far end of the field. The clouds were going lavender. The air was cool but soft. Adults walked around the track, doing laps. Every once in awhile I'd put my book down take my glasses off and just sit there with the breeze coming in through the window and the glow of the evening and the music all around me.

Right at sunset the crows came. Darkest black, flapping, high across the blue and the lavender clouds they flew, heading southwest, dozens of them in little groups. Where were they going? Do they all roost together at night? They were headed straight for the Olympic Mountains and I could imagine them flying and flying until they all huddled together on some steep cliff, black spots against the white snow. More likely there is a tree somewhere, or groups of trees. I never see them gather more than two or three at a time during the day, but every evening there is the same exodus, as if they are chasing the waning light.

And then after a few minutes, they were gone and there was just the sky and the moon and the clouds, and the voices of the children playing soccer at the end of the field.