seatac airport after the holidays

Waiting Along With Others Waiting Also

 

There was a cutthroat, bottle-neck traffic
threatening efficient Arrivals pick-up –
like a fleet of ships in a bottle trying to get out
all at once – this is the meaning
of the bottle-neck. A constriction
where an open vista and the open movement
through the landscape
funnel together like a draining tub.

The flight was short and turbulent.
The cities seemed like other cities
from halfway between them and the jets.
All attempts at sleep were shaken awake
“like a baby in a crib,” she said.

When we hit the highway north
we were quiet
pinned down by unsayable things.

November 2

Without hesitation, he is concerned with where he will be tomorrow, where the rain will be, and mudslides, and making a way out there to get to a place that makes meditation on the heart rate easy. A serene lake, he thinks. Somewhere with reflective surfaces and distance. Somewhere with old trees to keep out of the rain. Rivers overflowing. Or flowing low or spitting out salmon, don’t remember what happens when you lose three seasons after intending “maybe August” and letting that go, letting the dream of backpacking the Olympics lost, making the music no one asked for and wondering, in this age of wonder, where and when it can all find outlet. Go out and make it to the ocean, lovely human, your body is not lost on you, it is waiting for you to make up your mind on how to fix what is tense, smart, spelled, and coming after you with the chemical make up of invisible threats or serotonin bombs, the fireworks when you are happy, sad duds, the rain picks up I can feel it in my spine and my 1st system edges toward and away from the sound of the guitar music and the old rain. Dry tones with open chord changes, as everything changes, “unbroken for one hundred years in a constantly changing world” and wondering what watch on what wrist can keep me locked away in some false resemblance of time spent hovering away from who you are, barely hiding the taste of the spirits (self-critique squeezing back in) “days are fine, nights are unbearable” and let me tell you about familiar feelings. I feel tired and sore with scratched and stabbed hands a weighted chest with some guilt spiral and some vicious words from a bereaved and November already I lost everything this year, it is all gone and from its absence, this new canvas, I can move away from hating imagining your body and settle back into the flowers, where the haunt is, the rain on feedback loop, the goings on in the night. Nothing makes sense. Let time pass and let yourself feel back inside the body you live in. No abstractions in that. Commit to the body you’ve been given. Its limitations and experiences and vaunt over the depressions with new experiencing conscious art racing heart tracing mountain yodel gallop wild horse kind of sound of the heart beat in the bath tub too small for that same body, the little pump staying regularly heated in the tension and letting itself fizzle down, spark up, and flash red lights to his submerged toes. I am watching this happen from above, as steam rising off a body picking out warm from one source and dispersing it into the room, but is it cold, and why have I acted on such little positive forethought, all a kind of rushed emotion, signifying nothing.

hearing operatic music coming from the woods

this afternoon there was a large, evasive moth with red patterns on its wings. it was in the break room which is three doorways from the outside. I attempted to catch it and release it with a brown paper bag and a chipped pint glass… G. said, “I tried to do the same thing with a hummingbird. I kept trying to coax it outside but I was afraid I would kill it. So I left it alone and eventually it found its own way out.” I’m thinking of the moths I’ve tried to trap. There was cathedral music until it became Saturday and the secrecy enhanced itself beyond the story I meant to tell.

what I meant to say was there were choral vocals coming from the woods and I imagined them to be trees with different sexes, or microphones embedded into the heartwood of a cedar, the creekside trees fled something different, and what I still meant to say was I heard music come from the woods after reading about the elephants in the room, the elephants in the vistas, the elephants in the mason jars, intimate, extroverted, and close, too close, letting us ride this one out until a new kind of future is developed for us.

complaints haven’t gotten me anywhere in three years. what in the hell would I do with lakeside erosion control.

No Washington Bats Feed on Blood

Two bats flew together over me in the garage as I spilled whiskey onto the carpet. This grey and thin carpet with the duct tape cross hatched over the burn holes from fallen hookah coals. One fell into my shoe once and burned its way out. “You make real friends quickly.” Settled into the self with a foxtrot. Finding a dried up pine needle in between my letters and numbers on my keyboard.

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