Tag Archives: saison calendular

diaric, poetry

’24 rope bunny bratmobile

Photo by Mark Tegethoff on Unsplash
When it’s a playful sun. A fistful.
That’s how I clean now, with my fist.

When a friend brought me here.
1993 but I’ve been here before but
I didn’t know what to listen for.
	The pink rotary phone
	cradled to me with my patience and 
	devotion for you. Please.

When it was Jim Carrey, revisited, unbidden;
movies and acorns; a pocket 
brought me here.
	Eat your hat—a lotus leaf
	—catching into jumping fire 
	into your arms, you fly.

When she can tell me herself her first 
	favorite movie,
	favorite song: 
The Dance of the Happy Forest Sprites
& The Monster Who Loves You


				—When you’re not crazy, it is indeed 
				war crimes upon war
				crimes upon war crimes upon
				War crimes upon war—


spinning Sundaze with my pufffluff baby orange
tiger tree-watching under the orchid bough.

When the nickel jukebox takes a dime
so it’s lowpoly slowerpace and his green erotic 
bray for me. Crawling home to me.

When I belong in ‘90s London [rave piano]
When I belonged—the canary horse cottage
	working-dog-shattered windowglass-and-frame 
When you belong you know: tears spring.

When you tell us you're above it all
you show us how boring.

Stay in the pocket. When you Stay 
in the pocket surfing
barrels-to-thread out of pocket
slipping a stitch ride the needle singing 
	Now is the time to stand out,
	Powerline. Now is the time to count.

When [REDACTED]
	—that was some heat there. 
	How bout it, Laocoön? My teeth / like butter to flesh like you. / You won’t feel a thing.
Anyway, Thank you, Natasha Richardson, for saving my life every time with your hug.


Now that I’ve blown off some steam—

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

Standard
diaric, poetry

’24 sleep in, neighbor

perfect blueberry muffins | smitten kitchen
[Scales I]
let it steep, let me weep
let me under
our birth swims creep

When the camphor tree spells 
tells me <<we're home>>

When outside of therapy,
I still love me.

When standing, even alone,
I still have roots. They grow 

When the horns become a ring
a big light monocle, I see.

When this baby calls out
the flight of the airplane

When the definition of moonfull
is the snow 

When soil at the same time sings vetiver
straining credulity, springing too soon?,
straining seasons into new 
expectation Which will confound you again.

Where I see strangers
She says ‘hey there neighbor!’

When I won’t wake, when i weep
from dreaming, the dream is decided

When your body is your mind,
So, move it, animal.

Orgiastic, his green branches
and his That Voice rutting with me

When we sang together feeling the swim
Coming for our bones, the hot dogs
of summer and the culling hounds
of winter. When the snow 

returned to us for one—night of our first fire
borne sacral in our seasoned house, 
the babe's a’rest at the top of the stairs.
Warm blanket, warm sun to rise in her corner. 


[Scales II]
When you see me, cold 
as stone, I'm still
your blood, now go on, go
Go ahead cry
with that lone eye
the other I plucked, trust
my warning was kind.
It's not for me to steal your losses.

When I run again.
My Hokas burning up
and my favorite music
when it's my pleasure, my strength
no escape.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

On February 25, 2024, Aaron Bushnell self-immolated outside of the Israeli Embassy in Washington, D.C. in protest of U.S. complicity in the ongoing genocide of Palestinians.

TW: image of self-immolation to follow in…

3…

2…

1…

Picture of Aaron Bushnell self-immolating with the following text from the Economic Times article: Before his planned self-immolation, Bushnell reportedly sent a message to media outlets stating, “Today, I am planning to engage in an extreme act of protest against the genocide of the Palestinian people.” He also reportedly live-streamed the act on Twitch, which has since removed the video for guideline violations. “I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest,” Bushnell repeated, as he walked towards the [Israeli] embassy, “but compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.” After dousing himself with liquid and reaching for his lighter, unidentified law enforcement or security officers could be heard asking off-screen, “can I help you?” After setting himself aflame, he repeatedly shouted, “Free Palestine.”
Credit: Twitter

I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest. But compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.

—Aaron Bushnell

Video with segment of Bushnell’s livestreamed protest here; does not show the self-immolation.

I admire Aaron Bushnell’s code of honor and personal integrity and bravery. Rest In paradise, dear soul.

With love,
Kate

Standard
diaric, poetry

’24 the eccentric dance of the death lord next door (in five parts with a secret kick)

I. Myth
Astride ice mountains, a mood
daguerrotype of the demoted
planet. Out in the cold swarmed by the wounded
healer, the hateful river and the river’s cousin
the serpentine of dreadful resilience.
Shunted outside the galaxy.
Still, we do not escape metamorphoses.


II. Home sphere
It’s the neighbors again.
Their drip annoys,
their curb appeal draws
your stomping boot. In This market?
Pluto’s loyal diamonds advise "Buy!-Buy!-Buy!
	 “It’ll never be so good again.”
Interest pays some and cuts both ways.

Class wars was a cute joke
but here are the keys—
It ain’t no fucking game.
	Ain’t no fucking way.
You will see. You will covet
your lost privacy.
Your only solace the delirium
that you did not pay
to give it away.

Déjà vu: closing the blinds.


III. Sisters, brothers
When the real weight on you
is the knock that you are not at home
in your own body.

When the real work is to take
space. Terrifying, no? Say, No. 
On your own behalf. That’s Enough.

When you act like it 
will kill you to tell her
how you feel. That wall lies, BTW. No matter
if you built it.

When it’s not peace. It’s liberation.
Justification will only leave you
colder. Desecrated cemeteries envy you.
Now give over the keys
everybody go home.


IV. Sonnez les matines
When Elvis haunts me, his plaints his sad
When I make my baby a peanut butter and banana
milkshake to soothe those cutting teeth
and I finally feel the love for The King. 
Power melted him. I hope he was earnest as I believe
he was. I pray—whether he is 
an alien or dead—he is free. 


V. Leave
This is what power makes of me:
a reach to god. 

What offerings shall there be to Lord Death? 
Hmm… Did I mention I’m not into wine? 
Not this pale suburbia mama, no Sirree, sorry not sorry. 
I beg your pardon, but haven’t You had enough? 
Haven’t you been on the dole too long?


VI. The Secret Kick
Her hiss is a kiss
I'll eat it all up, please.
I may be a Sag 
but I love me Thee Stallion.

This winter is unearthly beautiful
despite the plagues, 
despite the genocide. 
Must be some of that Snow, Tina. 
Must be some of that pinkwash
heart glow that the shareholders could never 
kill nor take. After all,
This Is Regeneration Season
for the next 20 years.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

Standard
diaric, poetry

’23 Six Years a Wife

Photo by Monika Grabkowska on Unsplash
When it’s Christmas
at Graceland and his sweat
—Elvis’, that is—
	bygone king
pours but the keys pour more
rain down on me since Rapid City ‘77
nothing those spent red soda cups could hold
	busy holding him together with suit sequins and leather

Just like the melody, thank God
It’s unchained. May we all be.
	rivers get lonely, too. How could that be? 
	swim, stay next to me. Resembling eternity.

The devil takes the water,
The devil makes it mine,
The devil tells me, Quiet now,
All will be fine...
	Just give me all your power.

But when it’s six years a wife
and nearly two a mother, thank God
The waves make clear—
The fight is surrender,
The devil makes you choose
	—dignity or else—
tortion is just another dance

Spell with your hips,
	tongue and lips—
I am in love with you.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

Standard
diaric, poetry

’23 too many positives

Giverny | Photo by Pascal Bernardon on Unsplash
When I almost got away with it.
When it beat me up, down the barrel
for weeks. Roughed me.

When i’m coming out of the woods.
When i’m in the clear. 
But. You showed me indeed
the tough going sent who going. 

1. When… 	.	.	… I don’t think you like me very much at all.
2. When you used to be funny. Now your air’s grievance.
3. When you forgot the sugar for the pie. 
		(The risk you run, 
                baking without tasting.)

When I found friendly eyes
Surprise, between the boulders and the skulls.
I would have passed by, despite the roses
I so prize. Though your portrait hangs 
in my house. For years I passed, loving the color.
Not recognizing you. 
But you recognized me. Love is real.

The thing i’m here 
to learn—my body—is
enough is enough. I am
riches aplenty before the burning obscene.

When you thought you were the terror.
When I laugh, 
because you have. Never. Seen. Me.

When it’s enough of you; 
your time is lean.

jukebox:

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

Standard
diaric, poetry

’23 Ceòl mòr

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash
When the air is the high water.
Your throat, your spine.
Your nails a-clack and coffin-cut
like the chasing paper’s tines.

When heaven’s middle stills
its clouds full pockets of currents;
The riverbed we can’t escape.
Only anchor’s my horns, my horns 
our roots now.

Horns, promise me, for my parade.
No grave, just currents; no spot
—a Waldo in the bardo—
An orchard, perhaps. The rain calling for bed.
That way I will travel with you.
That way I drowned will sing for you, my call ends

At home with the world.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

Standard
diaric, poetry

’23 anniversary

Photo by Nacho Carretero Molero on Unsplash
You’re weird where I wasn’t.
Bold of you
to let it spill because I did
not unless it was tears.

When it’s been five years.

When you petrify
Them and I love that
for you. Keep going.

True blue you, how you bore
through me, darling. Saw; 
you could not help but to.
I scared easily. I saw, too.

Your mistake was perfection,
an -ism I’m proud you cashed.
        —You gave me such cushion
	taught me the riversleep, recounted how 
	a lion played in the snow—
Your strength is you’re willing
to err often, and in the open. And to laugh.
How it spills, the land will decide.

—O! How you listened to me.
—O! You heard me like no other.

No matter the when, we will always
have the porch and our letters.
Rings of fire and cut glass passed 
between us, a cackling
in the clair moonlight.
Our visions a shared music 
over and over again.

Sakes, your name is mine
and hers, too. My pride.
I thank you
for carrying me along 
for the ride.

Go forth, my love! Mistakes’ embrace.

You are never alone
when there are so many cycles.
You are just brave, which can feel 
that way. The only way 
to stay is weird.


Now, turn it all the way up.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

Standard
diaric, poetry

’23 you didn’t read the book??

Photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash
messy messy mess-mess
	mess messy mess

mess and listen run aground
messy kiss and lies
	
messy messy mess-mess;
	A pocketful of rye
messy messy mess-mess;
	And us an angel tie.

Four-and-twenty blackbirds, fenceposts of the day
messy messy mess-mess;
I keep what you say.

messy messy mess-mess;
baked it in a pie.
	oh-so-hot your steel-beamed truth
to be your reject is to be my butterfly

it's time to take to the bath. 
Timing just for redress.

When it’s time for the answers to all keys
And the fresh sack of flour is spoilt.
When I am the fire in the belly, serving
the witch that you need.

when baby needs a new pair of shoes
so we went to bed with six.

Monthly jukebox1:

  1. For some reason, everywhere I go, I hear “Hotel California”. The Eagles have something for me, it would seem. lmk fellas. ↩︎

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

* ’22 B Sounds
* ’21 Even my silence is powerful
* ’20 Bagheera Chamomile
* ’19 The Jasper Vessel

Standard
diaric, poetry

’23 Down Burns the House

Photo by Shot by Cerqueira on Unsplash
When the siding’s in cinders
and now I lounge on
warm rock warmed
too by my bones
my purring bones

Asleep in the day 
in the open—a torch
of rest daring you to 
wake me. Inviting you to
sneak past.

Or not.
Whatever.
I’m good either
way.

WHEN THE RENAISSANCE WORLD TOUR IS AT MY DOOR 
			!!! !!! !!! IloveyouBeyoncé
			humbledinthepresenceofyourprowessyourvisiontheinspirationyouare

When the world is my kind of pink
			IloveyouBarbie-O,therichgiving
			yougavemeyougavemeplaysandimaginingsOandIbrokefree !!! !!! !!!

Fellowhearts choose the dark 
paths, cross purposes
known as Unnecessary and Obligation.  
known to be rough.
known to take you from yourself.

There are too many nightmares roamin' around. 

Meanwhile, my quiet
observation is a trance. Takes note. Bears witness.
The white bear and the black jaguar 
chose me.

When a second Renaissance 
surprises; her sandcastles are built
together, and the joust was good and sun.
shadow dancing dapple 

When the letter arrives right 
before the double moonwalk. 
Signed forevermore, 
Stay wavy, peaches. Stay wavy.


A journeycake. A blown still.
The burning house. A mercy kill.
Standard
diaric, poetry

’23 Consequences

square photo of orca whale keychain in a blue-bottomed toy water table
The summer of smoke teaching us to pay
better attention to air quality scores

A bike without a wheel

Istanbul was a cat in your bed
then turned around into an international traffic incident

Desperate for a smile.

What’s enough warning for a 
tidal reckoning?

When experimentation is the object, don’t you see? 
No, you feel. The eyes of the sea. 

P		L		A		Y

and some Roy Orbison MAX VOL, I expect.

I jotted this down early
before my clear bottle
arrives my sailboat, 
salvation, my vessel of 
surrender.


<<I am brave>>
     --aged six
songs coming through the vines and lines this time around
Standard