My lifetime Limited Edition bookart projects. Last one (On left) called “Call and Response with Kabir and Rumi” consists of six books with original drawings and handwritten text. All done by hand. No computer work!
Someone has to talk about cows
A walk to the Rio Paute, Uzhupud, Ecuador
25 cows in the field
25 young and mature girls
Rouse, en masse
Towards the fence, a one-wire
Nellie #28 pushes girls aside
I stare at her, the poet, lost
In the swoons of milky black and white
Young girls, stocky girls, mothers
Pink udders full
Right at the one-wire fence
If they push one step more
The wire will snap in two
I am not really safe
Look, look again
The one next to Nellie has a tag
I think she is fucked.
The Rio Paute roars in my ears
My eyes fall out
I do not hesitate a moment longer
I don’t want to come back
As a cow grazing in this valley of grass
Scattered plastic bottles of water
Bags of chips, large foil sheets
A refugee child changes diapers of a little girl
A toddler she does not know
The overhead lights stay on around the clock
A U.S. border patrol guard kicks
16 year-old Keylin from Honduras
For four days
Keylin drinks toilet water
She prays a lot.
NaPoWrimo2019 #3 prompt: meanderings in body and time
Do you know about organ triangulations?
My Ecuadorian Doctora friend asked recently.
In triangulations you turn one against the other
To side with you.
Like we do with our friends at times
And then feel guilty right after.
Yes, she said. That is where the pain will be, look for it.
I know I have a triangulation:
the gallbladder, bile duct and liver
It is my asterism, my constellation, my Summer Triangle
Deneb in the constellation Cygnus the Swan
Vega in the constellation Lyra the Harp
Altair in the constellation Aquila the Eagle.
At least that’s how it was when I was years younger
But now my constellation feels more like a Winter Triangle,
dark, insistent, painful
Like a barn owl with two eyes, black circles,
the nose in the shape of a shield, defensive
Or more like a serpent
ready to strike out
Triangular connections, held tight by three corners
Can store too much debris on one side
This is when rigidity sets in over time
Even if my face is a smooth rectangle
And my body looks like an apple
my gallbladder, the size of a small pear
hoards more bile from the liver than it should
Tested more than thirty years ago
the gallbladder was on the upper end of acceptable
That meant it could explode any day
Let me ask you gallbladder
now that you have my attention.
Are you the instigator or the victim?
I was the instigator from the time you were a child, the gallbladder said.
Remember how you and your brothers
Stuck your butts up in the air and inhaled and inhaled
Until the burbs came and then the farts. I caused those.
I sent psychic debris into your solar plexus, your bright jewel
I released a stream of long held sticky amber bile
~ Stockpiled from your liver
I have a wonderful collection, some of it is toxic
Some of it resembles microtektites
Food debris transformed into golden glass drops
by the mere pressure of my pear walls.
Remember when you had swallowed
a glass full of olive oil and lemon juice?
And more than 100 little stones were sucked
from my little pouch?
You called it a flush. That was uncalled for.
They were all my gems.
I am more careful now and release this yellow glowing bile,
capable of digestive fires of anger, resentment, guilt and doubt,
when least expected.
That is where you are at now.
My gallbladder just confessed, that he is a hoarder of psychic debris
And enjoys giving the bile ducts a surprise flush
So the two of you are in cahoots together? I ask
What have you done to the liver? How long has it been ignored?
The gallbladder shrugs.
You have to give it vodka now
To keep it in line, to override our strangulations.
(Day 2 NaPoWriMo 2019 prompt: end with a question to further the poem)
Cow eyed, big and beautiful
She bent her eyes inside
And fell all day long
Into violent waters
Until she put on her high-heeled shoes
And wrapped her milk fingers
Around the cusp of her neck
And waited for his breath
For his sensitive touch and hair knots
To coil around her voluminous arms
Nothing moved, other than her caressing hand
Other than the falling of the night
Until a whisper of wind lifted her skirt
And she asked
Is that you, Zeus, the cloud gatherer?