Saturday, January 17, 2015

Mysteries We Must Carry

Mike's Buddha
—Photo by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
—Poems by D.R. Wagner


She said she was going to bring
Home the stars.  Can you imagine that,
Someone bringing home the stars.
She was wearing her long stocking cap
And that night there were an awful lot of stars.

 Century Plant
—Photo by D.R. Wagner


I lost her in the circuit.
I just kept waking up.
I started to think everywhere
Was home, trees, the middle
Of a field, my own bedroom,
The places where people were walking.

We were born in the water, weren’t we?
Everything I’ve picked up in my hands,
Lately, I have broken in one way or another.

I noticed that you had departed with the day
By the time I reached the cliff top.  There wasn’t
A note or anything.  I went to find the lady
Who lived near the Big Tree.  She knew everything.

“She’s in the circuit,” she said.  “It was like an aquarium
Up here a little while ago.  People looking in, moving
Around rocks.  Schools of them.  Some were pointing
Toward the oaks.  The fog was coming again.  People
Were out in the woods making rafts to get to the island.
Rumor has it they were going to make meth out there.
We can’t let anything like that happen.  The island
Is still a pure place.”  I walked away.  She was still talking.

I woke up again and then again.  There were brands
On the palms of my hands.  I hadn’t seen them before.
I am sure there is a chapter and verse for them somewhere.
I loaded everything I had on my back, called the dog and split.

 —Sketch by Kari Kiyono

—D.R. Wagner, in collaboration with Luan Fauteck Makes Marks 

This is as constant as the stars we dream among.
This is beyond illusion into endless night sky.
This is channel for radical inter-galactic connection across this space.
The is particulate matter absorbed through skins and out through fingertips.
This is the web of touch that draws at supersonic speed.
This is infinitely grand conception beyond comprehension.

 —Sketch by Kari Kiyono


Well it wasn't blood, just a maze of pipes
Rusted and blistered.  The air was sweet
With iron dust.  Our skin had turned red
From battling our way through the labyrinth.

There was a kind of music made of rocks
Being crushed slowly by the aching of place.
No one should ever have been here, and yet
Here we were once again, searching for the secrets.
We were unafraid.  Death fears any rhythm.

We are in the hole that is the night.
So much of our bodies has been broken,
Parts that won’t work properly, thoughts
That have been borrowed to even allow us
To speak.  We watched as the water kept
Rising up the pipes, layer after layer.

Things we remembered:
We could withstand a lot of pain.
Memory helped us but we could not
Touch it.  We all had different names for love.
When we breathe into each other's mouth
We feel we are alive for a moment.

These rusted pipes.  The stairway,
The distant barking of the dogs.
The time we thought someone was smiling.
The complete absence of flowers.
The people praying for nothing but to be beautiful.
The fires flickering on the ends of the children's fingers.
The collections of mysteries we must carry in our hands.


Today's LittleNip:

 —D.R. Wagner, in collaboration with Luan Fauteck Makes Marks


Where Key Street Meets Itself
—Photo by D.R. Wagner