—for Julian Brolaski
Sit outside under shelter of a doorway, pavilion, or umbrella on a park bench, but
somewhere outside where you can easily touch, smell, taste, FEEL the storm.
Lean your face into the weather, face pointed UP to the sky, stay there for a bit
with eyes closed while water fills the wells of your eyes. Come back into the shelter properly baptized in the beauty of pure elements and be quiet and still for
a few minutes. Take some preliminary notes about your surroundings. Try not to
engage with others who might run to your shelter for cover. If they insist on
talking MOVE somewhere else, you are a poet with a storm to digest, this isn't
time for small talk! You are not running from the storm, you are opening to it, you
are IN IT! Stick a bare arm or foot into the storm, let your skin take in a meditative
measure of wind and rain. If you are someone who RAN from storms in the past
take time to examine the joys of the experience. Remind yourself you are a
human being who is approximately 80% water SO WHAT'S THE HARM OF A
FEW DROPS ON THE OUTSIDE!? Right? YES! Pause, hold your breath for a
count of 4, then write with a FURY and without thinking, just let it FLOW OUT OF
YOU, write, write, WRITE!
Set an empty cup in the storm, hold a slice of bread in the storm. Then put a little
salt and pepper on your storm-soaked bread, maybe some oregano and garlic.
With deliberate SLOOOWNESS chew your storm bread and drink the storm
captured in your cup. Slowly. So, slowly, please, with, a, slowness, which, is,
foreign, to, you. THINK the whole slow time of chewing and drinking how this
water has been in a cycle for MILLIONS OF YEARS, falling to Earth, quenching
horses, elephants, lizards, dinosaurs, humans. They pissed, they died, their
water evaporated and gathered again into clouds to drizzle down AND STORM
DOWN into rivers, puddles, aqueducts and ancient cupped hands. Humans who
LOVED, who are long dead, humans who thieved, raped, murdered, were
generous, playful, disappointed, fearful, annoyed and adored one another, each
of them dying in their own way, their water going back to the sky, coming back
down to your bread, your lips, your stomach, to feed your sinew, your brain, your
living, beautiful day. Take your notes POET, IT IS YOUR MOMENT to be totally
aware, completely awake!
my favorite morning
is not caring if
blood on sheets
is yours or mine
a machine in
your station
rides me
tracks to snacks
snacks to tracks
I feel very fortunate
to know magic is real
and poetry is real
you can see it in the writing if
a belief in one is missing
a mouse eating
the dead
cat our
longed-for
malfunction
I was born
in Topeka
otherwise
they would have
never let me in
they circle away holding this place
opening opening opening OPENING UP
I grope the tree down its root
if truth soothes
soothing was
not truth's goal
my goal
is to do what
produces
memory
as gentle as
vicious can
one promise: when
I get to the bottom I’ll
accelerate deeper
my small pile
of poems
surprising
everyone along the
open wound
“was there a
death” they ask
“a merger” I say
everyone paying attention
enjoy your visit
everyone else
good luck |
•
CAConrad is the author of The Book of Frank (Wave Books, 2010), Advanced Elvis Course (Soft Skull Press, 2009), Deviant Propulsion (Soft Skull Press, 2006), and a collaboration with Frank Sherlock, The City Real & Imagined (Factory School Press, 2010). His newest book of poetry is A Beautiful Marsupial Afternoon (Wave Books, 2012). He lives in Philadelphia and writes with his friends at PhillySound, and he is a co-foudner of PACE: Poet-Activist Community Extension. Look for him at
http://CAConrad.blogspot.com. Contact author.
