Essay on November by Stephen Kuusisto

There is at times a small fire
In the brain, partita for violin,
Brier, black stem,
All burning in the quarter notes.
And the hedgerow
Beyond the barn
Calls its starlings in.
Then frost, sere leaves,
A swollen half-moon
Like a drowsy fingertip
Above the apple trees.

Quote by David Wojnarowicz

"If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would."  

we must smell all the flowers

fake orange flower 
found among fallen 
leaves & broken 
glass in the space 
between parked cars, a 
chalked rainbow fades. 
young mother presents 
the fake orange flower 
to her tousle-haired 
son toddling about 
pacifier clenched in his 
mouth, swiping  
filthy ashtrays from 
black mesh tables 
the young mother lifts 
the fake orange flower 
to her nose and beckons 
her son to do the same 
on this early autumn 
morning we must smell 
all the flowers, it seems, 
even the fake ones.

Forlorn figure

Walking across the river, to a job 
that would soon evict me 

like an unruly tenant. I noticed 
a forlorn figure, sleeping in the dirt 

where grass had once been. 
I am lonely 
but not nearly that alone.

[I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson] by Wilfred Owen

[I saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell],

Like a Sun, in his last deep hour;

Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,

Clouding, half gleam, half glower,

And a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.

And in his eyes

The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,

In different skies.

It sounded as if the streets were running Emily Dickinson

IT sounded as if the streets were running,
And then the streets stood still.
Eclipse was all we could see at the window,
And awe was all we could feel.
By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,
To see if time was there.
Nature was in her beryl apron,
Mixing fresher air.

Poem Written at Willow Lake by Yuan Hongdao, Translated by Jonathan Chaves

At sunset, I lie down for a nap... the mountains seem to tumble onto my pillow. Green mosses are reflected in the water; winds from the rice fields blow through the window. I enjoy myself here,          arranging rocks and flowers                 in the garden, writing out spells to keep away crows and bugs. My drinking companions          are mostly Buddhist monks:                 even when we're drunk,                          we talk about the void.

http://www.mountainsongs.net/aboutus.php

of light and near darkness

Raw Deal City that Never Sleeps

Touch of Evil Scarlet Street

Detour Tomorrow is Another

Day The Prowler

Gun Crazy Act of Violence Odds

Against Tomorrow

The Killing They Live By

Night Thieves’ Highway Sweet

Smell of Success The Killers

Moonrise Out of the Past

Night

and the City Nightmare

Alley The Maltese

Falcon Double

Indemnity The Asphalt

Jungle Sunset

Boulevard Criss

Cross In a Lonely

In a Lonely

In a Lonely Place

Hungry like the Wolff

There was a picture called Murmurations. I remember a series of windows in a barn like room forming a cross. The windows revealed leaves in a dense wood of trees, waving closer. There was a woman inside, beside the cross, which was several feet taller, the woman inside had wild hair, the woman inside was wearing white, the woman inside looked like she might know a spell, the woman inside was shaking, the woman inside was dancing, she was dancing, she was dancing.

https://www.wolffgallery.com/calethia-deconto-gently-wild/

Waiting

straight long blonde hair splashes her camel hair coat. turquoise box of american spirits rest on the black mesh metal table. lime green lighter. lit cigarette smolders on the mesh despite the cold dark claw across the table. mud colored nail polish bottle. long, long black lashes fan creamy vanilla cheeks. a pink hand clasps a porcelain mug half-full with heavily creamed coffee. 

it is difficult to tell how much it is raining from behind the dripping awning. 

lichen sweatered young sidewalk trees lean toward street. one fake crimson flower still trembles above the gutter, twinkles with its rivulet. her friend sits down to smoke behind dark purple shades. the camel hair coated woman raises her cold pink hands, showing off the nails. 

Excerpt from Sympathy by Emily Bronte

They weep, you weep, it must be so;
Winds sigh as you are sighing,
And winter sheds its grief in snow
Where Autumn's leaves are lying

Moment of Magnitude

Usually not 
felt, but can be 
recorded Often 
felt, but only 
causes minor 
damage. Slight 
damage buildings 
and other structures.
May cause a lot 
of damage in 
very populated 
areas.  Major 
earthquake. Serious 
damage. Great 
earthquake. Can 
totally 
destroy 
communities near 
epicenter.