brainstorm session

I am also assisting for projections on a museum installation called "Rain After Ash".  It is about Craig Arnold, a poet who disappeared after traveling solo to look at a volcano in Japan.

Right now we are working on content and I was wondering if you had any thoughts on the following:

What would you remember if you were dead? Continue

what makes a "great" architect?

Awhile ago, Ted made an off-handed comment about architects. He said something like "Architects don't need to be really good at anything...just decent at a lot of things." I disagree. I feel that in order to be a "great" architect you need to be excellent at one thing...at least. But I do think that since architecture is really a combination of so many disciplines, one cannot possibly posses an "excellent" skill set. Is the ability to understand and utilize your strengths and weaknesses in order to create architecture a skill unto itself? I would like to think so.

And I don't think this applies only to architecture, but rather most design disciplines. I definitely see how it applies to film and stage design. Also thinking about Rosalyn, I'm sure the need to possess a certain combination of skill sets also applies to creating poetry. I'd be interested to hear about how your architecture education translated, or didn't, into what you are doing now.

Any thoughts? Continue

scientific evidence of an afterlife

A white room. A light. The voice of a god,

yes, but what about blood thick in the heart,

oxygen, orgasms, salt, a hot shower,

your mother and you in a rocking chair,

virgin fossils, babies that your belly fed,

what about an image of a white horse

and a deep pilgrimage, a gut feeling,

some relic in a jar, fingers crossed, wet

words hot in the mouth, slices of meat,

a left hand, in it a cave, a goddess of mercy,

the moon, two people, a love story,

with a dress, the smell of spring,

the lace of a mouth, an island,

a face in the bathroom mirror,

little boats, the wind knocks,

your whole body, on the porch,

carrying the sediment of evening,

then the sound of a tree, wings, hair,

lights for miles.

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The Night I Realize I am in Love with You

I close my eyes and imagine a flowered urn.

I imagine holding you, broken-necked

dying. I will tell you not to be afraid.

I will tell you to breathe slowly.

You are sticky with blood, your tongue

swelling, but I will not turn away.

I will press my face to yours, tell you

there is nowhere else for me to go but with you.

I want to sleep. I want to eat dead stars.

I will say your name like an animal. I will kiss you.

I will tell you that mine is a melting,

unmerciful love, that there is no such thing

as disregard. You will taste like iron, like body,

like earth. Your hair, matted, thick with blood

will smell like you, like sprouting trees.

But there is only so long I can watch

until I will start to shake, until I will want

to be washed away. I am unwilling

to let you become a trick of light, one

afternoon, a heavy body. I will curl up

beside you, will the gunman to return.

I will kiss his face to hear his phrases,

to feel his dirty hands drain me, to set the barn

on fire and let me burn away beside you.

I will have the stillest kind of sadness.

But if he never comes, I will not give up.

We will be on our backs, left in the ground.

If I can drag you, I will.

The lake is deep enough,

the fence charged.

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I need a title please!

You are in elevator 41463

and you are going down

and you think about what he said

the last time he pulled himself out of you,

how your name slid off his tongue

and onto the peak of your throat

and beaded there, hot, still, throbbing.

You put your hand to your mouth

and you catch yourself behind a man

in a dark suit, his feet shoulder width apart.

You are both going down.

You imagine his body

pieced together, pinned

in the black dark of a box.

The man steps off and you

are alone and going down.

You remember the lentil soup,

dark wood, your mother’s coffee.

Sometimes you think you understand,

but his eyes were half shut

and it was a such short fight.

The doors open and two women step on.

They are talking about their children,

and you see a pit of bodies

light as breadcrumbs beneath a black soil.

The numbers flash above you,

you swallow, loud and thick,

and the three of you are going down.

They stop talking,

and you think about his socks

balled beneath the bed,

the screen door shutting after him,

the feeling of an entire day,

and suddenly you feel bloodless,

the weight of you like a wooden bucket going down.

When you are alone again

you sidle up beside yourself

but you can’t bring yourself to speak

anything but the names of things.

Dirt, cedar, ditch.

You smell a second person in the heat.

You both are going down.

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a preview

We Rot Together

When you speak your first words

I will remember how

my fluids filled your airways.

How our dying bones hooked,

tangled in some divine love –

partly sharp, partly soft wool.

We rot together.

When you go to die

I will give you

paper gifts, combs, and jars.

I will close the house,

keep the rooms still –

every cupboard open.

I will love you dead.

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