I've always been one to play with aleatory composition methods. This poem started with some random selections from An Astrological Mandala (lots of great, random scenes in that--well worth picking up as a resource for stuckness) and some old lines and language I had clipped and filed in my always useful DEVONthink collector. It's still new and gooey, but I hope you like it. You can file this under the evolutionary theory approach.
I am surrounded by lace and the history of lace.
My wife wears heritage lace panties,
lace-making a family skill going back generations.
In the library two blocks from my home,
a digital archive of lace, of fine handkerchiefs
and the lacy trees of aristocratic families
sings a pixel song of literature, veins, knots.
I sit mumbling over coffee and lace corners me.
A middle-aged woman, her long hair
flowing over her shoulders
and in a bra-less, youthful garment,
wanders like a lioness through the savannah
feeling high, thinking of her own
valorous ancestors. Is there a Lace Queen,
she wonders, wrapped in a large stole of fox fur
like a real lady with blue blood wrapped in lace.
She is someone’s mother. Not mine.
She dreams of the Monkey King,
of the lace she will wear for him.
I will not lift from this space to care.
My family is the only family:
all history, all stories people tell
about their mother are stories about my mother.
My family doily is my family rhizome
needled and thumbed. We will dine on lace.
I'm trying to keep up with the books I'm reading. But keep in mind that I'm ripping through these things. First, becuase I need to have some material about them ready for the semester. Second, because I've been in grad school in English for five years and I can read like a cheetah modified for marathons. Wearing Nikes. And drinking espressos. Maybe even with a lot of sugar. Y'know, for the boost.
Comments