Ging Gang Gooly

Mirabai painting

It’s somewhere very busy—

the trainset of this mind—

where i’m a well-fed baby

            ‘round all the toys to find—

and hopping off the seasaw—

            and scrambling up the slide—

or melting heads from G. I. Joes

            (where fire ants abide)—

a plastic zoo beneath the sand—

            a space ship—in the sky—

beneath the porch—the tender thing

            that grows out from my eyes—

until i’m somewhere suddenly

            i wasn’t where before—

this is—you see—the way it goes—

            through door in door to door.

It’s somewhere strange and busy—

            in somewhere moreso still.

The whorls would make me dizzy—

            if i remembered to be ill—

but on from on these plays i go—

            rebounding rhyming whims—

glancing reflection in these words—

            vowing—i am not him.

(Inspired by Emily "Em-Dash" Dickinson and Scooter "Compost Pile" Cascadia)

my brain a compost pile steaming

my brain a compost pile steaming

needs another layer of leaf mulch 

to stop the stink to sink to depth to reconnect

nerves are worms, moving and making

new dirt (thought) out of shit (shit)

my brain a loamy heap steaming

churns yesterday's detritus into tomorrow's flowers

grey matter brown matter gooey stew

there is nothing left out, no castoffs, no away

no escape

i settle into the underground tramways

the neural-vermal chutes and slithers

until still as a morning settling into itself

i come clear, whole, 

ready to nurture seedlings and sprouts  

these new/ancient thoughts

recursive in their curvilinear clarity

weaving themselves into braided leaves

bright blossom then heaving back to muck

then sliming again into smooth soft dirt

up in my mind’s tree house

I had to do some serious pruning
up in the branches of my brain
with roots too shallow
stunted growth my ruining
one of those new arrivals


only reason for our survivals
lucky stars deign
to slow our demise
salve our barks with aloe
allow one more sun to rise
up in my mind’s tree house
learning not to tell lies

"Girl Child" ~ streaming

shy one at her open window

with belly hardware stripped

framed by a canvas of morning light

her wakeful time to black out 

beneath the growl of her presence

a silhouette in her periphery

beneath a wish to crush

under what hides behind

her mother's costumed glances

her chosen fabric

the thinly spun sheen

of soft cream reverie

Moisture Burns Off

A heaviness on waking
burns off like dew
moisture of the morning
dream trails left by some
unsuspecting wish to be
or to love or have love
only forgetting no possession
brings such things
no accomplishment
weighs in as favor
making any wish true


There is something here
at work       abiding
more brilliant even
than the sun
for it shines always
and looking beyond
the eyes yes yes yes
yeses reveal what is
eyes possibly of heart
beyond breath even
You are what is


Neither moist nor arid
distressed or elated
lost or remembered
virtuous or awry
engaged or foot-dragging
each and all of these
burn off in the sun
of their own making
like the dew
of this morning
a morning of night

What is
has
no
equal
force
= or ≠
cannot
be measured
and left
whole
simultaneously

Instead unfold within
ourselves resplendent
beyond the fascination
with things that break
only to be
rebuilt oncemore
trimming satisfaction
from something
that can only
be diminished
by its very nature

IMUNURI Prompt: The interior of Thought

"A Thought went up my mind today —
That I have had before —
But did not finish — some way back —
I could not fix the Year —"

Emily Dickinson begins that way to talk about the inner landscape of her mind. The poem, which goes on for another two stanzas, seems mainly to describe a subtle, surprising sensation of an unknown but strangely familiar sequence of synapse firings. The entire poem is internal, mental, emotional. It includes no description or narration of any external stimulus offered as trigger or result.

So while we're inside Emily's mind, we look around and notice an interesting thing: her mind has an "up." The word flits by so quickly, one might miss it looking for an explanation as to what the "Thought" comprises. But the poem never offers specifics about that. Instead, the upness of the mind catches the attention. It is intriguing, definite and curious.

What does your internal landscape look like? What is inside your emotional/intellectual body? 

This week, go in with your camera of words and take some snapshots that show what it's like in the space where your thoughts appear, move, vanish, and recur.


keywords: interior, poem, your name