The loneliness of the Car is on-going,
not like reading a newspaper
where things seem to end.

I sit inside the Car
behind the wheel. Its
life can be felt here in
this seat.
But with limitations.
If I talk to you
something different  happens,
subtle or not.
But here in this space
looking out on the road
it feels like my eye. My
eye does this one thing.
Continually.
Only this one thing.
Focusing.
Meanwhile I do the
looking. The Car is
like this. It carries,
I travel.

In it's loneliness the Car
craves my voice. It wants
to be soothed. But I look
over it or through it. I absent
myself from its heart. It sits
in the rain, the snow, the
hot sun, and waits for me.
It is not going anywhere
until I engage it.
What does all this mean?
I wonder as I stare at the
Red dash lights.
How can I bring this form
into my arms?
If I close my eyes the
Inside of the Car seems
a dark blue in the evening
light. When I open them
it has no color. Just darkness.
It is peaceful, like bread,
here in the Car. I fill
the Car while the Car
takes me in. It seems
I am everywhere in the Car,
in a way that is necessary.
The Car is obligated to let
me have these thoughts:
that I am driving, that
I am going somewhere,
and there is no Car.

I get up in the morning
And brush my teeth.
Behind me in the mirror
Is a shale blue waterfall.
I am closer than I think
To being outside in the velvet
Of rain, the rawhide belts of
Trees, the smells prying at
My nose, scanning the diary
Of deep green fragrances.
But what a mess as I come back
To the sky blue tile, the reptilian
Tube of toothpaste, the floss.
I turn the head and notice the
Hand propped on the counter.
Again I reach for land, I reach
For discovery. Now this way
And that. Through the shiny
Feedback of this loop behind
The sink, like a drive-in movie,
I lean back, letting evening in.
No more delay in the night's first
Stars. Just this double feature
Falling back and back to morning,
To the stillness of trance.

I nailed that sucker down
To the hot wood and leaned
Over it, deepening it with my
Free shadow.
"How's that feel," said I.
"Sweet fellowship," said the dark prisoner.
The day was moving and life was
Changing for these jet lovers,
The one crucified, the other faultless.
After the sun went down I used the
Rudiments of triangulation.
Location, location, location...
Knowing the geometry of nails
Doesn't lie I stirred the black
Crepe from its dozing.
"In your element, aren't you?" said I.
"Darkness, darkness," shrugged my shadow.

The beech leaves move up and
Down my spine, shimmering,
Flipping like cards-from mint to
Scalding white. The wheels turn 
In the vegetable light. Pin wheels.
Somewhere inside me is
Condensation, breath on
Clear glass, thought hushing
The place where things stick,
Where a mark is a diamond.

My hand is growing in the
Grass, wondering itself in
The simple form that contains
Everything. My name is not
My hand. Only the sun, falling
In sheets, patting my head,
Patting my shoulder, knows
The name of each thing.

Each part is jigsawed to fit
Somewhere, to hold itself
Against another. We keep
Coming back, the picture
Grows clearer, the gaps
Shrink and our resolve moves
Across the ground. Things
Fill in.

I see that it is moving inside
Something else. Evidence is
All around me. Something
Green is scooting through
The tall grass. The wind is
Such a puppeteer I think.
Now my hand is resting
Just below the surface
Holding everything like
A waiter with a tray held
High overhead, about to
Serve.

"It is impossible to know reality for the same reason that makes it impossible to sing potatoes; they may be grown, or pulled, or eaten, but not sung. Reality has to be 'been': there should be a transitive verb 'to be' expressly for use with the term 'reality'." -Psychoanalyst  W. R. Bion quoted in Mark Epstein's book Going on Being.

 Actually it is much easier to hum a potato than sing one. Whistling a potato might seem to be the easiest method to reflect the melody of a tuber.  But I spent countless days as a child trying to get it right. To no avail.  I did learn to speak banana. However I have lost that skill. Sadly there is no culture for it.

The night was almost too long to bear
Then there was evidence of mercy-a passing car-
milky air-and I could see
dry walls & gravel on the way to a highway
Atlantic for its grays

Loss is the fulfillment of the Law
Space collected on a long line

I was eliminated as a locus of mothering-
a she-physical but imaginary as a restless daughter

Why this body and not another

The one who came to destroy the works of women-their
offspring-
knew how many people were resisting incarnation
He counted on them by accommodating them

Guilt relieving guilt
is the get of killers whose mouths shine
I can't say enough about this-red because sore
& polished because wet

One died to become the spirit-guide
Before that time
there were second persons in everything
Then saints, then no one
to guide anyone to heaven
Cosmic expansion has gone in its preferred direction

I can hear the hour, this never
happed to me before
One day I will shake the blue sky from my hair
and slip back to consciousness-
the thing that is always aware
with or without a living creature to share its pleasures

Tonight I request the precious gift of final perseverance
shored up in my sheets
not far from a predawn holocaust
of traveling children

-Fanny Howe

Technically I saw it before it
Happened. The fog machine,
No bell, no horn, no light save
Mine. The three of them there
In quick prophecy, the little
Glance forward, stepping out
In front of me, the horrific
Shattering of bodies, the air,
And car. But I slowed during
The preview, And still they
Waited for me, coming to meet
me... I could not stop again.
She watched me,  then leaped
Through the warning sight, sliding
Across the red hood, dimpling the
Fender, smearing her bloody nose
Along the glass, landing upside
Down, like a stiff-legged toy. My
Watch had stopped, there were
Fireflies highlighting her as she
Lay in a whorl of high grass. Then
Rolling and rising she was gone
Zipped away in the fog, leaving
Only an impression, alive, rising
In its own orderly way. In a few
Days this grass would not recall
Anything. The wind would comb it
Like Elvis after a nasty fall. Until
Things were good, and the memory,
Not quite dry in that wind, was only
Mine.

Sometimes a goodbye

seems a bee's
done buzzing

earily: purrs
in hair, furred

for the sting.
Fear's then

a hurt-leap.
Time comes in

like the words
Sit down.

Your nerves
reverses.

- Fanny Howe

Small silver face out of the gray

I call it a deer in a phantom forest
Baader-Meinhof with a future

Smoke of assassination
Burning of oil

Maybe it's trees that have broken away
Or clouds around them

A dragon-shaped smear on a window


But there is a moment of clarity
When nothing is out there

Now I call it an asshole
In  fiery red clothing

Light shoots from its finger
Like wind with hair

Is it an alien cowering
In the rape robe of war?

Mother and child on an icy globe?

Or just the eyes of day.


-Fanny Howe

In the late afternoon sun
We crossed paths in the
Shadows. He elevated,
Turned as if suspended
By wire and ambled down
The slope. Then it seemed
My hands were inside him,
Outside any clock- moving
about -directing him to a
Log. There he lifted up, looking
Back at my pale face, those eyes
Streaked shiny with black war
Paint,  made up by bigger hands.
I remembered my childhood then,
A silly facsimile perched on my
Head, the ringed tail thumping
Between my shoulder blades,
A plastic flintlock in my hand,
The moccasins.