other animals

I’ve been cutting, editing, re-editing, cutting some more, massaging, threatening, coddling, encouraging, &c. this book I’ve been working on.

We’ve both been through a lot.

But I think we’re getting there.

Anyway, here’s a chunk of it…

we imagine our selves as rushing through though these crumbled things need their own slow time as a plant in a pot but in the forest from the slipperiest slime mold to the always hungry deer to the most sturdy studious generous genial old oak and all the families it supports the water that runs off the leaves through tiny rivulets rolling down over rocks and aerial roots to river arms and off out of our little story where I feel a need to prod and poke make my fingers dirty cutting and clipping grafting fertilizing in a place like

this self-publishing business is that you’re so alone. But I guess that’s true no matter what kind of writing or whatever you try. All the same, it is lonely and that isolation sometimes makes one doubt the whole endeavor and more. That said, I do believe in the work, though

this and for a purpose I should not speak about openly like digging up a seedling to check its progress let’s hope that the ground in me is fed well enough and that the wildflowers weeds and insects flowing up and out know to dance when the time is right for the red orange yellow paisley beach towel that’s now a blanket for the dog in bright autumn sun the breeze still with warmth rummages though the kitchen where pickles bubble to the front door where mail waits to be recycled the little table with keys dog bags and other

things to grab before one leaves next to the bench for shoes near the stairs where we hung two scrolls from Kyoto two tiny paintings from Queensland and two astronomical prints outside the bathroom which was recently redone and the tour continues upstairs but not into our bedroom where we have three walnuts carved with dozens of very small Buddhas and a somewhat dusty singing bowl the little nightstands we bought years and many apartments ago in the reclaimed furniture shop that closed down during the middle height of the pandemic did I manage to answer your question that time

sometimes I feel I’m still hammering out a voice and style. With my previous stream of consciousness prose poems, I’ve enjoyed writing them, but I’m not sure if anyone else was really interested. But I am intrigued by the possibilities of the form and sometimes it surprises me. The way

we followed him without a thought without a word despite the cold air and our unsuitably thin pants what else could we do the song he sang moved our feet swayed the trees the very stones but no that’s too much up and down and down and up through rocky mountainside the long way around skirting the boggy pond collecting the colors of leaves the tiny mushrooms on fallen trees despite the fragrant muck densely gathered on our shoes his song’s long melodies and intricate yet easy phrases remained pure in our unworthy ears as the stars swam before us