from Report from the Robinson Society, Vol. 1, No. 1
for Elizabeth and in memory of Colleen
either I’m nobody or I’m a nation
inclined to prose, a measured
apocalypse
difficult to spell
to twist around the finger
the myth of death was
troubling
and seemed to inhibit the
dance
either I’m a clock stroke or a
dangerous character
black embroidered
weighed down by language
here is the queen and now the
jack of diamonds
shuffle again, let the measure
begin
·
wind troubles the bright
installs a fractured umbrella
inside our art
miracle, wreckage
everything that is
·
the buzz of a tiny sewing machine
·
nothing to say
belly against
need more light
oil on canvas
more light
·
a soul escaping
points to the numbers
finger painted next
to the door
the head is left
behind and the
body a messy
white blur
& now the speckled
black mind
without mind
·
after all the losses
leaf mold, graffiti
a friend’s ghost
to stop with
·
a character
smudged, part of
a distant blur, or
one of a dream number
forgotten at the moment
of waking–worry the
words, the synthetic
fabric cold now in the
color draining time of
year, feet uncovered,
sock as metaphor for
something, life as it
is maybe, a truck parked
outside, work being done
inside a door, some
crosses, numbers to sum,
unintentional face
the beginnings of a small
fire–
·
fire season
yellow sky
leaves of all
a California
sonnet
in the making
when yellow leaves
or none
or few
soft & woven
maybe October
but look closely
green leaves
in the hands
of the old tree
·
gasoline & pancakes
the white lines of a parking
lot
lost birds & signs
lines across the air
somewhere a phonograph
last lines of a song
long vowels in an ancient
mouth
far south, farther
names of places stolen
returned without their skin
come inside now
it’s dinner time
Thinking of Elizabeth is collage work
I see her, so beautiful and alive. Her books, her words. And hear her voice. I remember meeting her and all the feelings that our knowing each other elicited in me over time. I remember that our conversations challenged me and made me think. And, of course, thinking of Elizabeth makes me think of Colleen, and of the generosity of both in their work on EtherDome, how they made me feel welcome and supported when I was getting started with my writing, like modernist attending good fairies. Now more than twenty years have passed. I see Elizabeth very seldom, but the collage is alive with her work and the sense of her being there. It was wonderful to have her be a part of the palabrosa project with her chapbook Three Efforts at Arrival and a Series of Departures, and to have her poems, and Randy’s, in parentheses. I don’t know what else to say. The sun is coming out and all I feel is gratitude.
