Tidal Waves Don't Beg Forgiveness

the night raymond carver came back as a ghost

it was that night when we thought
we could still talk to raymond carver.
we were talking about love or raindrops
or something as simple
as a window’s four-paned pattern
on a kitchen table.
yeah so gin’s gone. what’s next?

nothing happened except for you and me.
the stars were still hanging on hooks
the waves were still curling over our feet.
it was that night where raymond carver
came back as a ghost
and you and i had happened on a beach.
his breath came in ragged gasps
as he told us about how to talk about love.
foam from a wave curled over our feet
and we kept on talking back to other ghosts
while carver kept talking about love, while he
kept telling stories about other writers talking about throwing other writers
out of windows.

the waves were still curling over our feet.
it was that night where we
were singing about a fire
its flames listened to stories about our breath
on a beach at night.
nothing happened.
it was that night where, wait.

i have it.

we were with raymond carver
smoking cigarettes, lighting ash out of ash
we were watching couples claw at buttons
as they rolled in the surf.
something happened.

the night was running
we were falling into place.

Author’s note–This is a new piece and pretty simple. I’m playing around with a narrator who is (obviously) doing the very thing he’s saying he won’t do. I was inspired by Neruda and the confessional tone and took it up a notch or two. It’s a draft I worked on a while back that finally took better shape.

acceptance is a nonnative language spoken by ghosts

i’m going to write all night
and not think of you
i’m going to sit on this
couch where we made love
before an open window
and burn my words
with hot water and a lemon
that you pressed into my palm
like a vow.

i’m going to write all night
and not think of you
not read neruda because
i’m good enough at writing about
love myself–you know those
words like heart and sweat and
moonlight and twined
that kind of stuff–
and i’m going to bleed
ink with this pen you gave me.

i’m going to write all night
but not about how your eyes
are small birds i have caused to take
flight due to my unsteady steps
i’m not going to write about
a small place in the center of my spine
that rises to your touch every time, no
not tonight.

i’m going to write all night
about how acceptance is a nonnative language
spoken by ghosts
and i’m going to think of
the next time you gather my name
in your arms.

single (after abigail)

talk to me again about ducks
about feathers
tell me your story
when you are able
let the glimmer
squint back at me
and bury these bones deep
my hair isn’t as long
as your gold
but it was never intended to be
you will be here
single
with me

new document

lay it out, straighten it
fold the lines like so
avoid the razors of margins
gild the last pale light
of the east
that has been dispatched
into the font of your breath.

every comma is electric
whispered through a circuit
left a stripling
without casing.

So, here I am again, back with words.  I’ve been holding my breath in deep tones, not taking the time for a pause to breathe.  In a sense, I’m seeking a new iteration, a new voice that is grounded in a minor key (remember that great Billy Bragg/Wilco cover of the Woody Guthrie song “Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key”?).

Words have come naturally in the past week in a way that they have not flowed in quite some time.  Different perhaps but also in my voice, a voice that has at times muted itself yet still contains multitudes and has much to offer the outside world.

As I sat listening to the wind coming through the trees in Golden Gate Park last night, the fog lilting down the streets under the flickering lights, I thought of my daughter’s eyes, her own capacity to begin writing.  I thought of my lover’s spark, of the small grace of a friend bringing me a home-cooked meal this week at 9 in the evening.  Of being held and holding myself.  At the risk of sounding new-agey (which I detest), the title of this site still holds promise.  “Crashed and on they break” but never ending.

I have warred with the ocean but have been returned to a place where ink mingles with the spark of love, of possibility, of venturing forth and lashing a raft together to drift on under a yellow moon.

Hope you’re interested in reading along on the journey.

–js

anton,
stop talking about moonlight, stop talking
about glass. i’m glinting enough
myself. did you hear
that she left and didn’t turn back
once, didn’t understand
the way light captured itself
in her hair?
i’ve had it, i tell you i’ve
had my fill of words and lines
and ink and spilling myself
in rings on her slim hands
i’ve had enough of the same same
time reading you, imagining
your beard so svelte and hungry
pictured against snow in tintype
spilled tincture
etcetera, the volumes are full,
anton; so again,
stop talking about moonlight. i’ve
thrown moons out of
the window before. i’ve eaten
moonlight filled and plenty,
it fractured
when it hit my tongue.