Archive

wtf

NO-COMET-cvr-frnt

It happened! My fourth book, No Comet, That Serpent in the Sky Means Noiseis now available to order from Kore Press. I can’t believe I get to join their family! I love this cover, designed by my dear friend and incredible poet, James Meetze. After reading his book, Phantom Hour, I knew we spoke the same language of loss. He also wrote a statement for the back of the text. I felt enfolded by such love and insight with Lisa and Ann at Kore, and with James. Cynthia Arrieu-King and Ruth Ellen Kocher also wrote statements for the book. Their spirits are simpatico with mine on so many levels. Cindy truly has become family to me over the years. Right now, I feel so gently held.

The cover art (and a few images internal to the text) were generously made available by Finnish photographer J-P Metsavainio. I am a huge fan of his incredible astral photographs, and found them to display an incredible subtlety and brilliance. I can’t wait for him to get a copy!

Some of them were the very first poems I wrote when I decided that I was a poet, back in my early 20s, astonishingly. One thing I will say about these poems is that they came from a space of grief. And yet, when I look these poems over, I feel solace. I think you will, too. I’ve been preoccupied with devastation the last many years. Solar Maximum explored a monster light–the last light of the sun before it destroyed the earth, and leaned into something strange. I feel like this new book of poems hold devastation a bit differently. They’re very human, these poems. Solar Maximum tended towards what we are moving into as we became other than human; with this new book, we’re still ourselves, miraculously.

 

The thought you held inside your body — manifested in that quick flutter or way your hips stiffened as you walked up the street — are you to be culpable now for even that.

How can we predict a behavior. I think of the larger cultural sub-programs operating through me — a ray of black light, furling along the central column of my spine. It has a tensile strength. That is hardly a home. Some habits I seek to translate into language, catch it phrase by phrase and render it seen.

Are habits always destinies. Are patterns always predictions.

Am I also my future, all that is yet and else. Is that me, too.

And what of the men whose spirits called out, who reached for guns and took shelter among friends. Can we see inside their bodies with such certainty. Is terror housed in an angry fist or the nameless bolt that falls down from the sky.

To sign off. To sign. To mark through your body. To strike it down, through. A name I wrote on the page. This trace of a body, flattened and captured. Sent such distances.

Can I survey murder in your heart?
Can I survey murder in your body?
Can I survey murder in your name?
Can I survey murder in your movements?

Can I know the future in a gesture.
Can I know the future in a signature.