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Before they became poems my morning pages were a permission to feel and to articulate that feeling, an admission to myself I was capable of other than numb.
Slowly they became breath, the metric of the breath literally the length it took to exhale, in words, the feeling.
Resistance gradually became habit, became a celebration. Such is the magic of Ling.
A handful of these triumphs appear in these pages.
Quips & Small Images
Cookies stack like three towers and so
all murals shall pull in threes.
Triangularity––reified. That’s what I’m after.
Big mother middle holds all edges congruent
so the precipice appears orderly, as when men-
priests made dogma and geometry––magic.
Nobody cares much about adjacent elements or
Boil it down to three or 4––
no more than six, I would think. You’ll get your
eight seconds to swipe through that many win-
Like a new sort of storytelling, montage
collage, you get the picture, like passing a train
in the opposite direction.
What sort of priest-
hood is that? What geometry? Binary metrics,
flat by all accords, with z axis, tangent to pinball
Adam & Eve dropped like bad habits,
no god, flat as x + y, looking to be skewered by
And even then, no mother’s flesh, not even a
Magic as substitution rather than
pathway to greater connection.
Rants go nowhere fast swiped over by the next
pane. Loose thoughts forlorn seeking anything
to connect, but nobody cares 12 windows later
gone like weed seedlings turned under by the
Rants need time and space, need
stay in your face, 2 seconds, three. But no, no-
thing to buy here, swipe along, swipe along.
How is it thankful wants to object here? Wants
to make a point.
Flash, 2 times three seconds max
window by window, text x sms, a funnel, check
for immediate replies, sought order from chaos,
validation, another diversion. Tricked, you could
Wish my little multimedia
poem to be that very cloud surrounding that very
small images––really that’s the first line.
small images, the poem starts here.
even lamp lit
wherein you all
you’re out there,
strain to see
more of you,
to smell you,
size you up
even touch you.
Want to feel
the mark of
hoping for break
maybe restless rolling
between my outstretched
One more contrac-
and I’ll be gone
the marsh stench
with fists clinched
into wet salty sand,
to endorphin surf,
in the searing,
chill onshore wind.
clothing or facility
to survive here:
Were there other
the only shelter
would be terror
I shake the flies
from the tattered
of my womb
and second guess
this fruit of my
Membrane. Wall. Like a stage backdrop
And through it tears other me’s, they––
you come to me.
This is new, warrants
scrutiny, even celebration.
Not only my me’s but your you’s.
didn’t notice at first, others––commun-
ity. They’ve, you have, arrived in my in-
side space. You walk, I watch, through
that canvas tear.
Why have you arrived
here? In my psyche?
Are you a story I’m
to write, a prompt from whoever voices
the next line in front of the curtain with
A part of me wants you to go a-
way, wonders if I died or am about to.
This I find disturbing when outside ar-
rives inside, never went that direction
I’d like to understand, welcome
the change but my dramatic must resist
first this surprise.
In this arrival for cer-
tain a story to write––a gift given––&
I, you, we’re set in our ways
we pay close attention the day the sun
sets in the east
in a rain storm.
By my attachments
I hope for
or cling to
which I believe
buttress or create
by which I
walk my walk.
like a clearing
in dense woods
where for just
soft shoulder tap
of the path lost
to thick young
Blind before the open
to unwind so many
wound or spun
refusing to step
into the clearing
the sun really shines.