by Emily Carmen

At night, I gather up oblivion, breathing in shadows
through fertile earth and the scent of moments
gone.  I do it for you, and the bones of our
branches, the soil above us smelling of
wet onions and the moisture of photographs, long
boxed up in attics, molding and forgotten.
Remember when we used to die; we would tear
our dresses off, crackling through the melodies of
Wagner’s operas with his rich chromatics
filling the air as he leaned in the alley, crutches at his side.

We’d lose the reins that held us in and
gallop aimlessly, like wild palominos through
fields of sunsets, where the sky became sky, truly.
Stories you told me would waver between us and
hang suspended like ancient stalactites in the
recesses of the earth’s lament.

Now, our house in the clouds rises.
Five or six times you have wandered out
the side door, laughing into blueness.
You mean to dream, I know, and swim in seas of
pink and purple vanishings; to stray into places
beyond the reach of everyone but ourselves,
where all that happens remains forever, and
midnight ships pass a swan crested in gold.

You mean to dream, I know, and swim in the sea
forever.

by normal

“Sing love and life and love
          All that lives is Holy.
          The unholiest, most holy all.”
                    — Bob Kaufman, Night Sung Sailor’s  Prayer

an old man stands against
a rock
considering his truth
eaten up by flies;

a monotony of his days
claimed by the bacteria
of his circumstance,
a bronzed statue of his worth
dispersed into an insomnia
of remembrance.

consider a man in autumn
afraid of his bed,
assessing his sweetness
on the organic bodies
of his heart.

consider a man
killed not by combat
but by the emptiness
of his rest.

alone in the world,
the mighty crow shrieks

& the mice charge
like idiot kangaroos

against the tiny cossacks.

by normal

“I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
          and I have been circling for a thousand years.
          And I still don’t know if I am a falcon,
          Or a storm, or a great song”
                         — Rainer Maria Rilke, I Live My Life

The garden
is quite bare now, you know.

There are a thousand
blind eyes
searching for a soul.

I have
wandered to the gate
admiring
its well oiled hinges,

my umbrella
securely strapped
close to my hip.

In the clouds

the rain

is sleeping.

normal

the last jungle
“ — bang is the meaning of a gun”
                         — ee cummings

some fires never die.

there were 2 old ’boes & me
left that yr, in the spring of ’68
up near redding ca
in the last jungle
on the american river,

boxcar Jimmy
adam ydobon
“that’s ‘nobody’ spelt backwards”
both veteran riders
from the rail wars of ’35

& me
the wilted refugee
following the fall
of the summer of love.

not much to be said.
it was easy
the 3 of us;

martin luther king was dead
the cities had finished their burning
robt kennedy was not yet dead.

they ate salmon from the river
i ate miners’ cabbage & lentils.

life was good.

one evening before sleep
jimmy told me his story;
i went to sleep dreaming
of steam engines racing
thru the mountains
filled with laughing mermaids
& merry hooligans.

later that night
a gang of drunken cowboys
ran a herd of cattle
right over the top of us —

the last thing i remember
was looking over my shoulder
& seeing the flames from our camp,
the last jungle

reaching up & into

the early spring sky.