Haibuns for Professor C.S. Giscombe

I: Summer Solstice Tells the Chapel:  “You can’t Dance and Stay uptight”

Ithaca welcomed us with lush chenille grass under newly acquainted toes.  Spotify spits out a familiar tune from a foreign object and we danced like beads hanging from the rearview mirror while singing in lunar gravity.  The next few weeks leave no space to be shy, and already, Marci and I have determined that someone else is writing in my dream journal.

Sometimes, I imagine that they (the one writing) imagined us all out of thin air. Sometimes, I imagine that they (the one writing) is myself.I’m the one creating space out of solids.

We are: moonlit bodies flowing

down pilgrimages and time.

We are: where things happen,

you feel the vibe.

II:  The Chanticlear Gives Lessons on Interloping Intersections, Booze, and Roosters

The conversation walks fine lines, precisely stuffed loudly with static.  Begin with the Que. and end with the Eight, but dance in between to the red velvet that meanders through the intermediate. Trade warm Whiskey for cool stories, tilt the machine of night and phone home on disconnected landlines. Collect a photograph in the mind that translates to a vintage world only one week later.  Collect a photograph in the mind that reminds the Rooster to crow at the crack of dusk.  Keep the photograph as proof that you learned new things.  Keep the photograph as proof that all void space at some point was solid (rocks we threw at mailboxes waiting for the bus). Keep the photograph because you’ll need it on your journey through the in-between after the in-between. Keep the photograph because it happened.

III:  Sitting Outside of Handwerker Gallery:  Reverting Lemonade to Lemons

We kit-bash poetry and listen as teenagers tell us to “Dig a hole and Die” As if our few years of extended experience haven’t taught us  that in truth The Rule of The Hole is:  When You’re in One, Stop Digging.  The whole world is late on the conversation that drapes dormant grass where many have wandered and all have wondered.   The plan is to create a ‘composition of ongoing but discrete observations and images concerning home.’ I draw a lemon tree in highlighter blues and yellows and sharpie black. I have only been the witness to one once in my life.  I write ‘TRY’ in maroon capital letters that bleed through to the next page, the way I imagine feelings must travel through night in order to meet you again in the morning:  Seeping backward stains.

There has been a drought,

the grass holds us in burlap bags.

There has been a drought

dreams are not coming as easily as they used to.

IV:  The Holes Turned to Hatches and Marcia Phones Homes

I’m always so concerned with being Homesick, but what does that even mean (‘Homesickness’)  when places can change but feelings remain? It means I sit in a room surrounded by people who have known me throughout lifetimes that never even existed and yet the connections feel solid.  Where things don’t need to speak to me in order to speak to me.  Like acid trips of the twenty-second-century (just because it sounds cool, and drips down my back like footsteps over my grave).    It is a hot summer day where it is actually raining, and eight disparate people have returned to their homelands in order to write about the incredibly quiet local past.

Once we’re gone from this place,

Once we’re home…

I am all at once-again

homesick.

V:  Seven/Thirty/Sixteen:  I haven’t written much since.

I am ashamed of the silent, empty pages. I imagine them on display a thousand years from now as the perfect example of time well wasted. Time sped up and stopped all at once for planets to align in ways the greats could never explain. Fast-forwarded to years where ex-lovers have babies that don’t belong to you and memorized home phone numbers are obsolete.  Fast-forwarded to after the original invasion of the Interlopers, after alligator voodoo, after swamp monsters and trucks.  To a time when none of it seems real, another life when we both are cats. When all of it feels more like a psychedelic psychosis (pixelated images that once were crystal clear).  A time a thousand years from now when we’ve forgotten the password to the clouds.

This is Just To Say:

I know it’s been awhile and-

I promise to write more soon.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s