and then.

March 10th (for anna)

ode to the thing on my neck

What are you anyway?

You aren't even fun

my mind spirals into

THE REALM OF UNKNOWN OUTCOMES

just because your origins are mysterious

Ah, well

slopping this nonsense together

is making this

homo-hypo-chondro

ease up.

third time a charm

March 9th

same clearing every morning

stability for my senselessness

I've asked this manzanita to be my girlfriend

she keeps insisting,

"No, no, no

shoo, shoo, shoo,

get out of here, twerp."

C'mon, I'm serious.

the residue..

Posting the second installment a little late:

This is poem number two from my week-long-write-on-a-walk-a-thon.

March 8th

The unmistakable clank of metal

in a place of wood

gives me shivers, steaming

is it me that's the sound

of out-of-place or what?

These forest places suck out human context

I spit every foot or so

to assert my right to be here

My DNA seeping up thru ancient channels

still willing to share spaces

with foolish stubborn species.

from the depths of infinite trees, I give you...

FRIGHTENING POETRY.

Well, you decide.

So it's my third to last day living in Annapolis, California, which, by the way, is not a town, more of a gathering of under one hundred houses positioned higgldy-piggldy all over northern Sonoma County, all up in these redwood trees (and cypruss and pine and manzanita and madrone: so, only trees that stay green forever). The trailer which I occupy is on the land of ones Karl and Melinda, a nice pair of humans from the bay area who moved up here ten years ago to make their own idea of heaven. Off the grid, lots of quiet, or rainy sounds, no cars, eerie and lovely after spending so many years amoungst many forms of bustle.

I like it here, I've gone for many walks and spent a lot of time not talking, reading and being in the same room as someone (Anna, my fellow travler and trailer mate from New Zealand). There was one day of unstoppable fun in the middle when we got our muddy paws on a six pack of a lil' sumptin sumptin and stayed up til 11:30, or perhaps later (like 2 am). For the first week, I got up earlier than A and walked to the same clearing down the road, did some stretches for my body, sat down and wrote about what it felt like for that same body to be in that space, and stayed there until something creeped me out- as much as I love nature, these old, soggy forests are fucking expansive and mysterious, sometimes resulting in the willies.

Without further ado, poem from day one:

March 7th

Let's Break This Down:

the early walk was a good idea

first thing, forced to breathe

physical and mental body

surging with tannen thoughts

racecars as neurons as racecars

just like palindromes,

sort of.

but that's inside - outside

I've never heard this quiet

composed of raging whispers

or rather

the sound of motion before the push

coming out at bright angles

and lingering on faces, rocks and I.

only to find a tick filling up on me,

finding the source of coppered blood

prefered but rejected

cuz I can't retain all the memories

I've made up.

rust settling in bends, rising

I see a dough worth wading thru

a suit and tie-

I tried growing around the seams,

vetch, other forest bottoms

and choked on dead bouquets.

but as far as hobbies go,

I like to hold death

and find it beautiful,

let it go.

hmmmmm....