swamp diaries kdh

The Moon in Capricorn is like a gifted actress who, after being savaged by the critics because she has a tendency to overact, becomes afraid to show any emotional range at all.

another message

not asleep, not awake: a single word tumbling in the head
loud as my body un/recoils

from fetal p
left to right, left, right

the word like an alarm or commandment
don’t you dare say the word god, don’t you dare even bother

awake now, still
still, my body an S-shape

begging to be called “sweet baby girl”
and can’t remember the meaning of it

starts with “S”
there were three syllables

it’s no use again
the bed, like my head is empty and cold

time is moving differently
not fast or slow
there is less constriction

to remain in the spell i visit the lake twice a day
noises outside that i cannot recognise
scare me

rattle of crispy moss
frost-flake covered branches shake
like the growl of a wild cat

to remain in the current spell i bake muffins with summer’s fruit
i barter: select memories, big ones
i take a bite: a whole blueberry leaf, i swallow it
the size of a pebble

i long to be alone in the forest
i am longing as i compose the email
i am longing as i empty the dishwasher

the yellow light separates
four to six times
in various shades

the hues break
out into shadows
and lines, conformed
or stacked within
triple paned glass

you can hear the wind
the floodlight clicks on, off

then, nothing
the soft hiss of blue
a distant car

the whole forest a fog
droplets of a prayer
a whisper while walking in earshot
of a special i.e. rare moss
growing by the rotted pier
across the lake the rowboat is shiny
bright green patches of forest floor

“who moved these stones?”
“who made these piles?”
“who put them here?”
i am relieved because I know
deep down
the men
whose hands did this work
are long gone

day and night
angels in the tiniest orange horned coral
in a sea of living green

is it hard to give birth and die at the same time?

purge energetics

pathways
habits into spontaneous forms
propel themselves

we experience delays as a result

winter months are worse
it’s not even winter
it’s sept.
it’s oct.
nov. comes for blood
dec. i am wench soup under a foam cloud
jan. i am entertaining something, pretending it isn’t wild

feb. you magic
march. you half magic
april. you the trip x4
may i am starting to relax but my body cannot let it go
june i am baby
july wtf
aug bffs 4lyfe
sept. again
if i tell you my DOB would you judge me?

webs start to slack
we are disconnected

you can slide backwards as a means of transforming away

the familiarity is heavy

(three out of the four guests were not artists-in-residence)

there are guests in the house

there is a clog in the pipe, a new smell

a warning?
a signal?
like some animals

nature is always illuminating what is only obvious when you know what you’re looking at

and seeing takes practice
and nature speaks loudly

//

it’s weird how i felt that G and L must have known each other

you tell yourself they have nothing in common

but you didn’t know what you were looking at

until you’ve had some practice

we constantly think we’re getting off trains

//

the other a new friend

you are sure there could have never been both

it was a good choice in the end

but the moment our friendship began was the day I bore witness to three worlds ending:

1. my backyard

two lives were spared one was already recovering an injury that inspired doctors to make horrible promises, the other a child

whittling little field mice out of snow
or were they shrews?

but i’m getting off track:
2. your world
3. the one facing our house

like a bomb dropped
and they did
and they do

and the earth shook
and our plans changed

//

your world:

you told me about

//

i understand what X and i have in common now, which is suddenly obvious but i could not articulate it before the question, still can’t but the picture is coming through

//

my body has been through a lot in this life

we made a pact to negoiate in 2012

another layer of atonement

the to-do list grows
red flags multiply

but it turns out we’ve been talking about god again

//

in a dark room with high ceilings

(i am not being watched)

the room is filled with round tables wearing flowy skirts

turquoise fabric reflects
blue light

take in the gorey scene: cakes dripping in layers

cakes on tables
like towers

but what about your feet: roller-skates

you know what happens next?

a big ‘ol mess

//

i am not a fancy cake
i used to gorge myself
better than the other
two-lettered word

that towered over me
like some, lush and recurring nightmare

it was always hard to tell if you were sliding
backwards or ...

“how did you get cake all over your new roller-skates?”

everyone
who
is
everyone
is
dying
to know

this human body is 92% secret

i’ll tell you one

//

drama queens:

i paid a shaman 250e a month to help me quit reality tv

it helped

for awhile

//

when i was a child my mom would take me to listen to men in white tents

they smelled of cigarettes

why we fell to their feet
was unclear

//

lily pads’ skin covering water

bobbing up and down

tiny bugs
at once, your whole party
a swell in midair
is it a total freak out

god’s tongue licked up half the whipped cream
from this cloud over here

take a photo

we have a mundane exchange
we say little of importance but then some memories float to the surface:

public swimming pools
locker room floor mats
corn nuts soggy in their plastic ziplock bag
secret rooms for adults
puddles on the linoleum
chlorine soaked jeans
salted the tips of fingers belonging to small hands
raspberry and sunscreen
visible on your cheek

i could stay here forever

oh death, i bet you feel like summer

i am the leaf bug drowning in the Turkish Yogurt tub
a non-consentual guzzling of red currant
choke berries.

i am the soft moss boot print
encircling what are not
orange blackberries
i am a trickster
and the swamp is my shield

i am the water bird
you hear my song:
it is a total freak out
we have all been transported
look at me on the astral plane

i am the harvest bouquet being
devoured by a cattle of red ants
you remind me that the fish are screaming
i can hear them in my dreams

by now she is immune to shock and familiar with the choreography of string-leaders

“tell me more about feeling lost,” she said

“sometimes your hooks and tentacles are one-sided”

i’m offline for the most part these days, but I’m glad you found me.

tethers like squid legs

fly from our chimneys

January, full moon in gemini

“it’s good to see her again”

a testament to doing the line

a sweet spot

a mirror you know you’ve earned

recognition is a full body request

orbital summersaults, snow angels

an old house

filled with daydreams of the dead

snow white sneakers on white feet

to walk on clouds

to move towards …

what’s so great about the light

to enter the dark forest alone

through the longest door

and out the other side

what spit you

but a few hungry and bumbling brown bears

roam and sniff the scraps

//

eating an apple is a chore

like taking the compost bucket for a walk, out back

three bites and she expands

five bites, tummy ache

six, seven, oblivious to the core

//

whenever I floss my teeth I’m remind of old boyfriends

it’s too much, really

//

I’ve been circling the premises for awhile

tracking uneasy like mud through my goddamn house

solar power:

in the morning

before the rain

i went round the yard with a pair of scissors

snipped off hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dandelion heads to bring back into the house to dry

my feelings are complicated today, but this helps

10 swans a singing:

can I breathe differently?

maybe not yet, but I can feel it coming

when we got back to the house I went for a walk

to move in the change

to see

what else has changed

it rained for days

I haven’t been far

I found the song from earlier, the one where I cried in the parking lot

I found it on Youtube, it wasn’t hard

I chose a version looped for an hour

an anime wedding background

I moved west

and I sang

down the gravel road

I stopped

to watch some great machine swivel in the distance

they looked tired

I collected neon string

a collection

a duty

a tithing

a constant movement

betwixt futility and

something more crass

like these bare hands

a little blood so you won’t forget

I sang

I swung

right at the fork

I see bodies everywhere I go now

In April we tried counting

when we got to 100000000 years we got tired

and so we stopped

it was that easy

we stopped

everyone everywhere all at once

100000000 years we never get back

a jolt:

it’s a good thing

to stare

at the ant hills in the forest

buzzing

crawling

shimmering

a little drool hangs down from the corner of your mouth

the days whiz past

as you stare

until suddenly

each tiny body becomes still

and I find myself returning to this moment

I hold on

for dear life

I’m almost certain my mother faced East at the time of my birth.

a spell i:

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V

guided meditation i:

we’ll begin today by taking a seat

in a comfortable chair

in a chair in a cool room

a little too cool maybe

but there is a blanket waiting for you on the arm of the chair

soft and warm

across from the chair is a window whose view is packed with spruce trees

their arms are waving branches bob and you might laugh to yourself a little

it looks like they’re dancing

as the spruce continue to tower and sway gently, reminding you of a warm breeze, you prepare to close your eyes

taking a deep breath in

you sink deeper into your chair

and on the exhale

you feel your body loosen

you feel the warmth

your body loosens further

and another deep breath in

on the exhale you notice that you’re feeling warm and relaxed

and, relieved

yes, relieved

this is a wonderful feeling

with each breath a loosening

with each exhale: relief

as you continue to breath, eyes closed

you become aware that the horizon surrounding you – beyond this room this chair and this body:

the horizon that surrounds you is a circle and you notice that it begins to spin

is it spinning fast?

slow?

so slow that time has stopped ...

that time moves backwards even?

that time moves backwards and forwards?

your body is so loose now that you don’t mind

you’ve already broken out of this room, out of this chair

you tower over the spruce trees

and you sway gently in the warm breeze

maybe you begin to laugh, because you realize that you are dancing

dancing among the tree tops

when the horizon lets loose and begins to spin

it’s easy to dance without trying

relief has become something new

don’t even try to name it

just feel this new sensation as it flows through your body and back to the world and back to the body and back again

receive this now

and breathe

in April, we made a spell on the name

we stole from the ticket

we stole

we pulled it from the stack

we laughed about this

two witches packed their bags

one stayed behind

I knew the name

Judas

I’d been invited to the farm

I’d watched the kids

I’d made pies with the wife

I’d called the wife a friend

but I didn’t expect

such a terrible thing

in May

Judas’ wife confessed

“our whole world’s been turned upside down”

you told me you tried to move to the country once before, but a witch put a curse on you

you left

all your friends nod, they say this is common

I’ve never known the words I’ve mouthed not once and never again

but every forest is a curse by now

today I was going to wash the sheets and hang them outside

finally the sun was shining

but I was too heartbroken

today I was going to gather arm fulls of mugwort, nettle and yarrow for drying

for steeping

but I was too heartbroken

so I took the bike out

I saw a bird with a curved beak in the big meadow by the barn that collapsed last winter

crying

I rode past that dark bit of forest, the one where we walked down the narrow path that came to an end

below an eagle’s nest

I rode past a road to nowhere

I rode past a road to nowhere

I turned around

I rode past that harsh bit of forest, the one where we saw the bear trap

inside was a small man

crying

so I stopped to check the time

I forgot

I turned around

I woke up to blue skies

it was the first time in June

I didn’t want your help and it didn’t feel right

under the cherry tree

I broke down

my plea, my offering:

six buckets of pine needles, the bottom layer, the black stuff, the best stuff, only for you

scooped up

poured from my hands

transformation on wheels x2

soaking wet, cardboard

a perimeter, a promise

I ate your symbols and gave you a few cold stones I found close by for the damage

we stabbed and raked and scraped and tore the top layer of earth with our bare hands

tiny things were screaming at the top of their lungs from the chaos

but it was no use and it didn’t feel right

“there is still something green inside!”

no grave

no ceremony

and it will have always been worth saving

for me

but I did nothing, but look to you

but it didn’t matter and it doesn’t matter and it never felt right

“it’s dead,” you said

the stain still under my fingernails when you went to bed that night

I danced into the silence and into the light

alone in the other room

with a little bit of something tender green inside

the red compost bucket stood stolidly before the door

it had been emptied earlier in the morning

it had been filled with water from the well, left to steam in the sun

there was a finger-sized crack running down its red lip

impossible not to spill

when she carried it to the back

it splashed her legs, her sandaled feet, the hem of the shirt tied around her waist

the compost bin was a large box made of scrap wood

it had a lid that needed to be propped open with a fat stick

she poured the soup into the big wooden cage and chopped the roughage with a shovel

the handle was broken

watermelon rinds, moldy lemon peels, paper towels, tea bags, coffee grinds

the rusty blade sliced through egg shells and banana peels with ease

she held the shovel’s neck with her left

her right hand hovered where the handle should be

it made contact with the inside of the lid

the fat stick fell into the roughage and the lid slammed shut

her left little finger was bleeding as she walked the empty red bucket back to the house

the sun was hot and the blood ran down like silk

she returned to the morning’s light caresses, the feeling of two bodies sticky in summer’s bed

she thought of cool water washing over her little finger

she didn’t feel any pain

there was only a slight breeze

down the road from TUO TUO

there is a 200-year-old man

he lives in a wooden house

in summer he wears wool socks and eats herring for breakfast, lunch, and dinner

in winter you may see him walking the winding roadside

slow and alone, in knee-high rubber boots

when I was talking with you by the lake today
I had no idea how loud we were

no way of knowing in a place like this

no way of knowing

how many hours went by in the row boat

sun-roasted shoulder blades

floating in wet-warm-soft for days

my legs were sore from rowing

I told you not to try: let it be easy

a seagull shit on the boat from above
it splashed onto my shoulder
and a little on your shoe

we roared

a siren absolute

to an audience of one, from above

the things you should know about me are probably the ones I’ve spent my life trying to hide

my father was my nemesis for most of it and I was his, but we called a truce a few years back and life has been nicer ever since

i was ‘raised’ by a white woman who never drank and a brown man who drank in secret, sometimes, I was with a white man and woman who drank constantly

they are all conservative, they believe their god is the one true god

they believe god has chosen me for greatness and that the devil is inside me, no doubt

the white woman could see my soul was filled with his shadows (the first time i was seven)

i like life best when reading and writing feel like the same thing

i did fine in school, enjoyed it sometimes, but rarely ever made it there and barely made it out

there has been a spoonful of delusion in my mouth for awhile, but I cannot tell you how long

I can tell you, though, that sometimes: it’s gone

the sounds of ice swirling slides ‘round the house

from behind doors, shades drawn to push out summer heat

my favorite daughter is a soft smell from the nightstand beside me

i rest on the floor between its pages

i hide from the sound that loops down the hall and back again

leaflets crash like a delicate waterfall: for the integrity of linen and the crisis of paper

crushed ice in the glass

free jazz on tape

dried petals like skin stick to pizza tins and plastic forks

sewing needles and kitchen shears

sticky ants hurl insults that you or i will never hear

tucked back into our shells we become again and again and again

we shed everywhere and so much so that we will never truly go

backwards to the place we were never not running from

take a deep breath

you know it

you can stay

a fragrant meadow,

my god

do you know how long this peony has been living on my night stand?

since blooming the wings have become softer and a fragrance remains

secrets nurture the vitality of the most quiet creatures

and I try very hard

not to go on stating the obvious

not to devour your crêpe shadows

but your face is pleading: I do not know what you want from me

the cameo belongs to every last one of them, the driver

the backseat of the car is filling up with water now

my body sloshing in the soak, hovering above the scrub

I was not wearing a seatbelt and the driver does not notice

he yells,
absolutely loooooooo-ooooooooooving,
the sound of his own voice,
above the blare: something about low tide

I can’t remember the words to placation’s song,
but we are en route,
my body remembers

the passive state,
en route to the stadium

I worry that the raspberry leaves will mold in their jars

I worry about the oils from MY fingers

I do not dare place the lid

not above any one:

please give them time to dry

for Hanna:

some angel blows cool air on the tops of my hot pedaled feet

horse flies like sticky rice –a front row seat for

the man in the light blue car, swims in the lake

I watch him like a water bird, a mutual stare,
no sound

he hangs a bloodied towel to dry at his station

a fishy smell

a summer smell

the shortest burst in history

In the eighth house I have trouble eating, this is not so much news
to anyone anymore, these days

no trouble drinking and less trouble with drinking on the whole
than before

I can’t find the words anyway, and I do like
my secrets and my stories

double-wides and tent revivals
31 days at “The Ranch, ”
military wife
halfway house
waffle house:
I have the spider veins on my calves to prove it

I have the scars on your thighs to prove it

I have the teenage daughter who scales Mexican rooftops,
her mouth a pouch for steel nails, to prove it

my first encounter with madness was not my first encounter with violence, but it was violent

I saw it coming for years, the first one: age four, age five, age six, age seven, eight, nine

my limbs frozen, she came first in the night, a cold stream blew past me

in the dark room

a recurring theme: supine by the window, drawn blinds cast shadows caging my small body

I tried very hard not to breath

everyday after school, I became lightening

more than this, my prophecies ran backwards

my first encounter with madness met me at my doorstep

an overcast morning

I walked into her arms while the world stood still

in my front yard

an obedient dog took notes from the edge

in hindsight, there were dreams

in hindsight, the pattern would repeat itself: unable to scream, mother fast asleep, and where was brother? in his hospital bed

I still remember exactly what she wearing

a bug flew into my left ear as I mulched the cherry tree, the larger one

it burrowed and died there

the nurse, she could not find it

the doctor, she could not find it

the next day the tax officials wrote, offering a task

no change to the ear

my insecurities made themselves known

i made frozen piña coladas with dark rum floaters

i can no longer count the countries on fire with two hands

Perhaps the sight of pastels might trigger a type of new response for you now, a bodily l.

Aversion maybe.

This feeling arrives, suitcase in hand, packed with information: when you get down to the core of the sublime, it's about terror.

Solve et coagula (dissolving and bonding): the reunion of what has disintegrated at a new level.

Bringing the things we have not resolved to the surface and purifying them in our higher self.

This can sometimes be a challenging process but it enables us to temper out nature and find balance or the ‘middle way’.

Wash then sterilize all your equipment with boiling water. It’s very important to use clean hands and clean equipment. Avoid metal

There are viewing platforms where visitors may gape at the chasm.

A chasm a mile long.

See you.

Before long.

Since we started this project we've been changing so much we are still..., I wonder if this is how lots of people feel, I wonder if this is "normal."

Writing is becoming more difficult because I'm taking in so more, much more "dynamic content" than I have time to spend on writing. Time to spend. How vulgar. Recently, I rewatched the 1990 film Safe.

Not just because my skin is glow-in-the-dark white. A phantom.

I think about how Oatly really missed a cultural cash in with that one. Too many glasses of milk (THE MAID HAD TO GET FOR HER), the hypersensitivity of invisible tuoteet (things).

I take more naps now, I've been in a series of spiritual bike accidents.

This light body is banged up.

I know there is this Disney movie where someone sings "Let it go oooooooooooo..."

In year one,

I slept with fresh cut lilacs by the bed.

On the night before the full moon in Sagittarius I made room for all of the things I did not yet understand.

I stopped reading when I lost G. But not entirely.

I didn't stop writing but the words stopped being read, been reading stars and cards and plants instead.

But J reads aloud and I would like more of this, I'm going to ask for more.

That was a dream, of course.

The most important things I always learn in my sleep.

Never in the city. This is a place where nightmares and rhythms collide.

Here, there is at least the potential to harmonize.

Reading and writing feel the same

Dreaming and waking feel the same

Living and dying …

I scream into the night:

SPIRIT OF THE TIMES, SHOW YOURSELF

spirit of the times,

(take me with you)

it was the beginning of august and the forest was beginning to crumble from drought

paced in thirst, gaze held low to the brittle moss

your poetry tumbled somewhere beneath the ground or solar plexus

my feet machine and clumsy with staccato

a sharp clear smell, a quiet spell of later how we identify the sacrifice:

i turn and turn into an itch

to look up to find oneself surrounded

by martyrs

or victims or saints, angels, definitely

like small child i hold onto your waist and cry ‘don’t go’

i whisper prayers into the blueberries lush somehow at your base

a cradle of giants a cradle for saints

i will visit you and i will love you throughout your life slowly dying

like me

we will never really know:

who did this

and what is surviving this even for?

dear zookeeper,

dear moose hunter,

dear woodcutter,

we have found your lacquered ticket & your ancient sextant

we have hung it on the wall

it points north

it points to sky

it points everywhere

it points to

your very own: slow death

hey, just some fate sealed w/ your own hot instrument

but clean lines won’t save you (or your family) now

in the whote noise of birch leaves skyward hush is your words:

like i am just playing with you mountain, i am just playing

loops in a voice that isn’t mine or yours

from the inside and to the outside or from outside to within

like the time i told you reading and writing

were beginning to feel the same

like when we both notice but don’t say

that the wind feels like water today

and i try to say it all with offerings

because my words were removed already and so long ago

just in the moment i was born

for you it was different,

for you it was a fight

your hands are still

//

an orange fly with holographic wings mounted to something dead hovers o’er this gravel part still un-wilded like

in glitch time;

i tickle its back with swamp grass

to no avail

i proceed with aggression

predator v. predator

a small pearl, released!

it is you again

sweet one, leaf bug oh shine on you gated altar: a small pink granite stone thin as shell and beneath one fresh black petal

i bend for a more perfect pebble then wind-stroke and you are away

what on earth is any of it for?

//