vibration observation

"perfection"

2011-08-13T10:10:00.001-07:00

the perfect wave is not a wave. it's the moment just before, during, and after a wave. the anticipation, the mindlessness, the reflection. it's the idea. it's a fantasy then it's a reality. it's with your friends. it's by yourself. it's with the love of your life. inside the dark barrel, uncertain, scared, but ready to be spit into the world. the perfect wave exists for only a fraction of earth's time. it comes, then it goes. just like every breath. just like the rest of us.

2009-12-26T19:15:00.001-08:00

we act naturally and agree to disagree, sitting together

starting to stop numb feelings while

clearly misunderstanding modern classic books on tape

we shared our least favorite words in invisible ink.

time travel

2009-12-26T17:46:00.001-08:00

peddling past on my rusty cruiser, I trespass and trust fast. a touch of taste minding my failing business. the whiteness of eyes and thickness of thighs make it easy to abduct seductions. excuse me your life is waiting. bread and butter, thread and cutter. I watched your chest rise. I watched it fall in the reflection on the wall. karate kidding defenses. looking for a vacation of self medication. usually not, the glorious moments are captured. I saw a shadow run by in the fall. I saw a garbage truck driver throw trash out his window. vulnerability always rides in your passenger seat without a seatbelt. it's like not being invited to your best friend's wedding. comatose lions guard the park's entrance, dirty fowl play in the dust. I time travel in my sleep.

last photograph

2009-12-07T19:13:00.001-08:00

dagger eyes in my back stepping on shards of glass this'll be the last photograph i ever look at unsolved mysteries have happened for histories he never drew pictures but was good at drawing blinds death is just life without time and dull hunger pangs attack at strange times forgetting more than i can remember but strange devices capture black and white contrast the naked truth is shy and doesn't like to show its body. occasionally, you'll get a glance. all the light sleepers rise and strive cause effect every action provokes and pokes and rocks the boat profits are often robbed or taken back or given away someone made this unmade bed.

66-71

2009-11-20T22:35:00.000-08:00

chile heaven

chile lefts

plant life

treeforts

59-65

2009-11-20T22:33:00.000-08:00

australia

ghosts of color

ireland

northern golden state

53-58

2009-11-20T22:30:00.001-08:00

fields of gold

bear dog

mexi lefties

mexi drainer

mexico

48-52

2009-11-20T22:28:00.000-08:00

mexico

at the office, mexico

el salvador

helado

42-47

2009-11-20T22:25:00.000-08:00

hating waiting

home

australia

new zealand

37-41

2009-11-20T22:23:00.000-08:00

new zealand

bored boards

31-35

2009-11-20T22:22:00.001-08:00

shadows at golden gate

enter

mexico

25-30

2009-11-20T22:19:00.000-08:00

mexico

bad religion, mexico

shanty town, mexico

turtle beach, mexico

21-25

2009-11-20T22:17:00.001-08:00

ziwat

dali chair

lightning, el salvador

el salvador

16-20

2009-11-20T22:16:00.001-08:00

conserve

home

fishing for fun

warmth

hollow in oz

11-15

2009-11-20T22:14:00.000-08:00

ozzie tree fort surf check

ozzie heaven

holy hossegor

paris, france

france freight train

6-10

2009-11-20T22:13:00.001-08:00

scotland

irish sunrise

irish pot of gold

chile dog

mexican drainer

1-5

2009-11-20T22:11:00.000-08:00

cock

my friend preston barley from north carolina

getty

vibes

baby shippy

north over south

2009-11-13T01:21:00.000-08:00

north over south

inner sunset

2009-11-13T01:20:00.000-08:00

people out the window

young and old

warped by the glass—

sheen of clarity—

fog and spring breeze

sweep the street

a desk, and shelf

collect dust, near

the open window—

the room is empty

arson

2009-11-13T00:53:00.000-08:00

the arsonist who burned down the library said you know the secret to surviving, we cannot have all these books and words telling us how and what life is. he doused the reference section with all its science and facts then moved to philosophy religion and shouted I do not need to think to know I am. then came the rest, the novels. tricky metaphors which created uncertainties in life. the match was struck, the blue of the flame wavered then kissed the kerosene. as the arsonist ran out he screamed that finally all those words and ideas are free. no one owns them. there is no account for life other than itself.

old friends

2009-11-13T00:50:00.000-08:00

I almost turned to an old friend

I almost turned into an old friend

ketchup on sleep

2009-11-12T18:08:00.000-08:00

variations on a lacking necessity

manicuring your french kiss smelling like a glossy fashion magazine, slow bones, and I think I've died here under a seasonable delirium, who are you? I drive round with a funeral sticker on my window—people get out of my way. just when I thought you forgot to forget, invested with full power, is it a bargain? there's nothing cinematic about it.

Looking Around

2009-10-21T23:36:00.000-07:00

The still warm air lifts me high above the sparkling white sand. People on white objects bob on the surface of the water. No clouds to dart through up here so I drop low, skimming the tips of my wings along the ocean’s slick surface. Up ahead I see a lump of water approaching me from the side. It’s growing and I anticipate its speed, changing my direction only slightly, so I can travel along with the wave on its path to the sand. It begins to break and I use all the wind rushing up the wave’s face to rocket myself higher into the air. I do this about eleven more times then decide to cruise on the ground for a while, so I fly over to the sand. I actually land on a rusty nail (again) and it cuts my little webbed foot. Then I see a piece of plastic, you know, the kind that hold six packs of cheap beer together. I’ve learned my lesson not to get near that stuff. My friend, Jasmine, got her wing stuck in some of that plastic a few weeks back. She died.

I’m getting a bit hungry, so I fly down to the pier, where the old couple sit everyday. Jack and Shirley are their names. They always bring some tasty treats for me. Well, not necessarily for me, but I’m usually the first one there, so I tend to think they’re for me. They’re not at the bench yet, so I sit on one of the soggy wood posts. Another couple walks by holding hands, they’re in love. I try telling the man his shoelace is untied, but he looks at me annoyed—tells me to shut-up while pretending to throw something at me. I’m naturally a cautious bird, so of course I take-off flying screaming for help.

You know how biologists say that birds have no control of when or where they shit? Well, they’re wrong. I’ve got impeccable aim, as the man quickly finds out. I fly over him and the girl, calculate my speed, and watch my little bomb splat on his shoulder. I let out a high-pitched cackle and hear a few friends down on the pier laughing also.

The lunch bell rings over at the school and I flock with the rest of my friends to go and scavenge the playground for any left over food the kids may have left. They’re wasteful little things you know—and you’d be surprised at all the little goodies you can find. But you gotta be fast and competitive to score food at the school yard. I’ve seen a lot of fights go down over some fruit-by-the-foot and cheez-its.

It’s been a pretty full day and I’m getting tired. I fly around the beach and circle a few grassy patches near the sand looking for a soft green area to relax. I swoop down fast and as I approach the ground and I tilt my wings slightly as I slowly drop like a leaf. I love taking naps in grassy patches—I’m not sure why—maybe because my mom used to take me and my brother and sister to the beach when we were young, and when we got tired after a long day of playing above the waves, she’d take us to a grassy patch for a nap.

I wonder about Jack and Shirley and why they weren’t on the pier today. I hope they’re OK.I’d hate to fly there tomorrow and find out they’re not there again. I really love those treats they bring me. And with that thought I drift off—the black night on my grey feathers.

cracks

2009-10-07T19:24:00.000-07:00

there's a crack in everything that's how the light gets in

leonard cohen

pizza head teenage stoner

2009-09-29T23:39:00.001-07:00

laying or lying

2009-09-29T23:35:00.000-07:00

foundation like market street bricks

stop calling

2009-09-29T23:32:00.000-07:00

funny how things are filed

the laws of work make it all a chore

who's going to answer the calling of

a solicitor interrupting dinner?

collecting boredom

2009-09-29T23:24:00.000-07:00

suddenly...

you're a wolf

reaching out

2009-09-29T22:38:00.001-07:00

broken pay phones, relics of

reaching out and touching someone

these single instances don't represent

anything, really

limitless objects

2009-09-03T23:33:00.000-07:00

the limitless objects of everyday

all make beautiful subjects

a lot of them are ugly

intersecting lines are touched

sewing segments together

while cutting corners at the same time

catching

2009-09-03T23:26:00.000-07:00

the hand is moving from the body.

catch the vibrations.

the observer will not

detect the changes.

talking of everything in

sight is somewhat un-

satisfying and enlarging in life.

Bobo the Bonobo

2009-05-27T14:40:00.001-07:00

skegs and rudders

2009-05-05T12:02:00.000-07:00

just a gardener looking for a place to plant seeds.

careful consideration of signs

and our eagerness to disobey them

another gloomy monday afternoon

flowers on the side of 101 in bloom.

it's a ghost town full of sounds

no one knows what went down.

golden hills in a golden state

driving to an eternal vanishing place.

if on an even numbered freeway the sun refracts in an odd manner. Reflect in an appropriate and similar way.

where you going?

who you been?

what you seeing?

why you fleeing?

when you leaving?

unfolding—so it goes

2009-05-05T11:36:00.000-07:00

you're always ready for a photograph looking out for what isn't there. a cut in the line, jarred and misplaced. stacks of uselessness. hanging around for dozens of reasons when actually it's one. headers and footers make us up with constraints.

fortunes of the day accidentally discriminating

what important facts do we remember the day by

the forgotten forget their days

waiting for instructions that never arrive

makeshift gifts give good vibrations

we're always moving towards the fall

the weight of the water. breaking. california. funeral. listeners. news of new year resolutions and you don't keep it real you make it. days of (im)balance

reading books of matches

and I miss the way you swung the hatchet

cutting things down

shift of usual riff

contemplation in bus and train stations

missing matching socks

longing for friends, forever gone

imperfect, unique, feelings

looking around, suspicious

all-in with the acronyms

2009-03-09T22:20:00.001-07:00

Compilation of this work—containing more than 5,000 entries—was commenced in 1965. Reference is still made, though little retrospection has been attempted and some organizations no longer exist. I acknowledge the forbearance of whomever deserves. Therefore, acknowledgment is made to Eric Pugh. Specifically in August of 1967.

LIMIT IDEALS, IRIS. HATS ECHO TIDE. OLD PAIR, TRIP. CUE COSMOS, BASIC BALLOTS ASCEND ZENITH. WHO VITAL TRIAL TREND TRAP. SUGAR TREE STRIP STEP STATE. AID, ADAPT, AIM. BEST BET, BEACON. CALM CHILD, CAB. CODED COINS. COMPARE COMPASS. COSTIC CRESTS—DART/DASH. FAST, FIRST FIST. GHOST GUIDE HAS FORMAT. LEAN LACES LIFT LESS IMPACT: HERO. LOCATE LUCID LYRIC. MASS MEDIA: MESS. NOMAD ON NAMES MISS PACE. PATTERN OCEAN PILOT.

hunger

2009-01-05T12:08:00.000-08:00

hunger by Ian Ernzer

because animals
can no longer
take care of themselves

I feed my heart
to the dog
but it's not hungry

so I shove the heart
into its mouth
you're hungry I tell it

olive trees at Saint-Rémy

2009-01-04T23:54:00.000-08:00

olive trees at Saint-Rémy by Ian Ernzer

I've never been here
but I know it well
these colors have no
representation but to one

olive trees fill my range;
a sky carved—twists—
full of flat colors—
branches wrestle themselves

cliché

2008-06-23T16:44:00.000-07:00

cliché by Ian Ernzer

he's a cliché—an invisible man
kissing, you realize something's missing
you let her edit, and you really should
give credit where credit is due

egg

2008-06-23T16:43:00.000-07:00

egg by Ian Ernzer

women carrying fabergé

ostrich eggs on a cold Italian train

abound with anonymous nouns

that astound. listening to coltrane

wearing two pairs of socks,

not for walking.

places and things

2008-06-23T16:40:00.000-07:00

places and things by Ian Ernzer

highlands below citrus groves
off-key windpipes rattle
vitamin-c street lights flower
through hollow coastal fog
red plaid imprint on my skin
from an antique couch
knick-knack treasure arrays
stuck in time arranged
this and that way
near scenes of other places
on walls that separate us

silence anticipates options

2008-05-07T12:48:00.001-07:00

silence anticipates options by Ian Ernzer

streets, lined with cherry blossom trees
silence, a social characteristic
street noise, seemed louder

after hours our items arrived
anticipated answers of translated questions
always accept gifts, exclude altercations

options opened under new directions
opposed opinions offered by over and under achievers
our achromatic outlook from observations of oil-paintings

passing through

2008-05-07T12:47:00.003-07:00

passing through

sweat stinging skin, pricks poking past
the threshold that defines patience
saturated air soaked minutiae of the day
articles begging to be remembered

shaded by concrete. overhang sticky
coated with black smoke from buses
transporting ladies with empanadas,
pan dulce and children’s cola stained lips,

tequilla-breathed men and one man.
one man dressed in all white dark skin
sheathed with green and purple ink
he says something to me and my heart drops

alone amongst a bus station bloated with bodies
furious hands clench my neck
tattooed tears falling from his eyes he feels the cash that is
wet from sweat sitting in my pocket

then I come to, in english he says, “‘s hot huh?”
si muy caliente. words that he expels are
deported. ten years in jail. L.A. gangs.
I excuse myself and return

with two large cold waters to cool us down
we cannot escape the sweat
as we sit during our life story swap
friends’ names are dropped

places to go, there and here—stay clear
another broken bus arrives
he says that’s my bus, I have to go.
if you’re ever in california I say

dark and light hands shake
adios to him and the woman around his arm
tears falling from his eyes
as we leave this place and onto the next

Australia

2008-05-07T12:46:00.001-07:00

Australia by Ian Ernzer

my red four wheeled vessel
took me from the Gold Coast
to Wollongong. miles, sorry,
kilometers of gigantic greens
and eucalyptus trees above
yellow koala-crossing signs.
sleeping by yourself in a tent
in a thunderstorm can be scary.
after clouds cleared I watched
satellites shimmer below stars
and imagined someone
looking down on me from one.
unimagined hospitality
got me through hunger pangs.
a father saw me lighting a fire.
he told his two boys to go help
the helpless American.
ten mosquitoes suck, literally.
alone again, trying to sleep,
something outside my tent—
shun a light on nearly twenty 'roos.
I heard one munching on grass,
then, it farted, and
I laughed myself to sleep.

somehow there's no movement

2008-05-07T12:40:00.000-07:00

somehow there's no movement
by Ian Ernzer

onomatopoeia bullet with bite marks
arching darts at the center part
our children can't grow up
again I grab the darts and throw
wood with rotating wheels
silent shouts internal fields
a plane might crash cars might fly
fall of the night come winter it dies
rotation of muscle offset in the chest
thrush birds sing on a concrete ledge

captured moments

2008-04-15T20:58:00.001-07:00

captured moments by Ian Ernzer

cool hands did all the work for his mouth, speaking
captured moments through pinholes and toy cameras
capturing moments: zen's antithesis
love for the moment, but don't get too attached

crowded

2008-04-15T20:49:00.000-07:00

crowded by Ian Ernzer

vintage photograph in a victorian frame
four postcards from France—love letters from 1958
twenty gummed bookplates
koa wood bowl filled with change
three burned candles
a yellow ripped half-ticket with "ADMIT ONE" printed on it

school days

2008-04-15T20:45:00.000-07:00

school days by Ian Ernzer

micro-machines and go bots
zip through lego parking lots
log cabins
built to be destroyed
the clay is in the kiln
a quarter gets a push-up pop
we sit together at the bus stop

Wells' Machine

2008-04-15T20:43:00.001-07:00

Wells' Machine by Ian Ernzer

an invitation to sit down
eating with their hands
what do you call this?
the calm of evening

one question leads to another
all that remained of the Arts!
running down the slope and falling
nobody moves to help her

gathering in a great house after dark
a nightmare
what are you, anyway?
a stare from the small, white creature

a terrible truth dawns
let go, you fiendish things
being tugged violently backward
reaching the sweet, clean soil

listening to fears
discover a use for pockets
two large, withered, white flowers
lost in a forest

in a monstrous spiderweb
searching for signs
world, what are you like?
comforted by brown and brittle flowers

crooks!

2008-04-15T20:41:00.000-07:00

crooks by Ian Ernzer

not what I say, it's what I do
every body knows their own truth

how it's just a battle,
all the same herd of cattle

crooked rhymes
mirror due time

I remember the night
the moon lost herself

wallowing behind the clouds
hiding from the guilt she felt

oh please don't dwell
on this delicate defeat

as silence sits around us as we speak
someplace along mission street

d fference

2008-04-15T20:36:00.001-07:00

d fference by Ian Ernzer

i learned
there is no
d fference
without the i
we all make it
in our own way

m

2008-03-31T23:42:00.001-07:00

m by Ian Ernzer

murmuring mumbo jumbo while
mulling a cut of mullet and
marinating mutton and mussels
mandating manacles from the manor

k

2008-03-31T23:40:00.000-07:00

k by Ian Ernzer

keep back from the kettle
keen on fried kettlefish
kept for the king

j

2008-03-31T23:39:00.001-07:00

j by Ian Ernzer

jazzy jaywalking and
joyrides in June

i

2008-03-31T23:37:00.000-07:00

i by Ian Ernzer

internet intoxicates and introverts
interpreting icons—idolized
iffy ignoramus illicitly illustrates
irregular iotas of immature imitations

stitching

2008-03-19T10:26:00.001-07:00

stitching by Ian Ernzer

weaving a thin needle                                                     through the fabric.
stitching initials                  in case you forget               who it belongs to.
perceptions dammed by        conscience.        intercepted by the mouth.
translated                              into a language         changing with the tide.

terminal

2008-03-19T10:25:00.001-07:00

terminal by Ian Ernzer

your train terminates
in the dark terminal

—just then you realize
                as you see the woman
    in front of you

this is not the station
                     you want to get off

stolen lands

2008-03-19T10:24:00.001-07:00

stolen lands by Ian Ernzer

golden straw
               black sand
sacred                     land
                 stolen—
                 stealing
       death
                 grieving

neighborhood

2008-03-19T10:23:00.002-07:00

neighborhood by Ian Ernzer

skeleton clutching a glass pipe
fluorescent orange shit scrawled atop the sidewalk
he-she duck-taped dick hides and falsifies
the unheard (crazy) prophet shouts obscenities (truth) while
bluebirds sit on the corner waiting for prey
men in suits step over economic obstacles
the owner of an ignored infected leg vomiting pus
is now a zen master—no longer feels the pain

on the subject

2008-03-19T10:23:00.001-07:00

on the subject by Ian Ernzer

a stop sign
badge number
traffic light
chihuahua on a leash
owner with phone to ear
a billboard tells me their product will
make me less miserable so
I can enjoy life
"wake up with our news—
the only way to start your day"
$3.50 a gallon—and that's for the cheap stuff
burritos are expensive these days
don't just be hot—look hot this summer
corner crash: shattered glass and plastic
meanwhile a man in an army coat holds
a neon sign with stenciled letters that reads:
"JESUS LOVES YOU"

a masked man

2008-03-19T10:22:00.000-07:00

a masked man by Ian Ernzer

the woman is crying she is screaming she is in pain her shoulders are rolling and she is crying and the masked man is standing in front of her and he is wearing gloves he is wearing gloves so he does not stain his skin and there are others standing around the woman and they are standing around the man and she is crying and she is yelling it hurts it hurts so bad and her child is screaming as the man takes the child from her he takes the child into his hands and takes it from the woman and he takes a small sharp blade and cuts and there is blood and the woman is gasping for air and the masked man is holding the child and he says congratulations it's a boy

Alpine desert

2008-03-19T10:21:00.001-07:00

Alpine desert by Ian Ernzer

An alpine mountain on a desert plateau continues, spanning from here to there.
Underneath it all, a young seed planted, slowly grows.

Unsure of what will grow, but I can feel it.
No form and no shape.

Prediction is a game that passes time.
an ultimate plan of symbiotic bodies.

A bumble-bee lands on the poppy that sprouts through a crack in the ice.
Then—and only then—will it make sense.

The Rose Garden

2008-02-19T00:17:00.001-08:00

The air was neither warm nor cold as they held hands and walked through the rose garden. Pinks, reds, yellows, and whites exploded. She walked to a bush and touched a flower. Look, she said, this is the only dead one. She held the few faded red petals. He let go of her hand and touched the rose as another petal fell to the dirt.

remember december

2008-01-26T12:26:00.000-08:00

countless trips to her breath-taking lips
I returned every time with the same line

my words—stale
were slowly inhaled

I remember her, in December
wrapped in a peacoat down to her knees

her lips were cold when we kissed
it's those moments that I miss

an unbelievable response

2007-12-05T01:23:00.000-08:00

From The Totality of Causes: Li-Young Lee and Tina Chang in Conversation
To read the interview in its entirety click here.

Chang: In "Black Petal," you write of your brother's absence, "He died too young to learn his name. / Now he answers to Vacant Boat, / Burning Wing, My Black Petal." Do you think that absence has a presence, too?

Lee: I love that question. I've been thinking about something for a long time, and I keep noticing that most human speech—if not all human speech—is made with the outgoing breath. This is the strange thing about presence and absence. When we breath in, our bodies are filled with nutrients and nourishment. Our blood is filled with oxygen, our skin gets flush; our bones get harder—they get compacted. Our muscles get toned and we feel very present when we're breathing in. The problem is, that when we're breathing in, we can't speak. So presence and silence have something to do with each other.

The minute we start breathing out, we can talk; speech is made with the outgoing, exhaled breath. The problem that is poses, though, is that as we exhale, nutrients are leaving our bodies; our bones get softer, our muscles get flaccid, our skin starts to loosen. You could think of that as the dying breath. So as we breath out, we have less and less presence.

When we make verbal meaning, we use the dying breath. In fact, the more I say, the more my meaning is disclosed. Meaning grows in opposite ratio to presence or vitality. That's a weird thing. I don't know why God made us that way.

It's a kind of paradigm for life, right? As we die, the meaning of our life gets disclosed. Maybe the paradigm for living is encoded or embedded in speech itself, and every time we speak we're enacting on a small-scale, microcosmic level the bigger scale of our lives. So that the less vitality we have, the more the meaning of our lives get disclosed.

out under by Ian Ernzer

2007-12-01T14:43:00.000-08:00

out under

crickets! don't you tell the truth?
whistling tunes
I despise your songs, they're the same every time
in a dry desert
paralleled by the indelible dead
things in the sky
down low is a high where some are scared
white sun on a black canvas stretched—
unfolded across the yellow sand and
tumbleweeds and needs are always moving
crickets keep singing

Been digging on Berryman

2007-11-25T21:18:00.000-08:00

To hear John Berryman read this poem himself, you can follow this link:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15206

Dream Song 1 by John Berryman

Huffy Henry hid the day,
unappeasable Henry sulked.
I see his point,--a trying to put things over.
It was the thought that they thought
they could do it made Henry wicked & away.
But he should have come out and talked.

All the world like a woolen lover
once did seem on Henry's side.
Then came a departure.
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don't see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived.

What he has now to say is a long
wonder the world can bear & be.
Once in a sycamore I was glad
all at the top, and I sang.
Hard on the land wears the strong sea
and empty grows every bed.

From The Dream Songs by John Berryman, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Copyright © 1959, 1962, 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, 1968, 1969 by John Berryman. Used with permission.

Wheat Fields Under Thunder

2007-11-15T17:30:00.001-08:00

Wheat Fields Under Thunder by Ian Ernzer

I look to the horizon, where bulbous clouds radiate a soft glow onto everything around. The sky and clouds look like they’re within arms’ reach. I feel like I am in a gigantic terrarium, though I walk to the seemingly closer horizon, I continue to be equally as far from it. I don’t have a sense of time as it is impossible to tell; it’s looked like sunset for many days now—though I cannot see nor have I seen a sun in the sky. Ambient sounds echo and resonate through the air. I do not know where the sounds are coming from; I seem to be in an open field with big, round, soft, and smooth trees that shine like plastic. Only pastel colors exist here, where they subtly fuse and morph into each other if I stare long enough. I step onto the green grass, which is soft and feels like a foamy cushion; I want to walk forever on it. I feel like I am in a Wheat Field Under Thunderclouds. I can hear melodies blowing on my skin, traveled with the warm wind.

the leverage of everything and nothing

2007-11-15T17:29:00.000-08:00

the leverage of everything and nothing by Ian Ernzer

it goes on and on and
its leverage—lifting and
unwinding and
showing us there and

there was the boat house:
just a surface reflection
on a lake at night
and this, is just a section
of your life—
reaffirmed
by your suspicions

it was too bad
we tried to listen
but couldn't hear what was there
we couldn't see what wasn't there
the sun sat on the other side of us
somewhere

Alpine Desert

2007-11-15T17:26:00.001-08:00

Alpine desert by Ian Ernzer

An alpine mountain on a desert plateau continues spanning from here to there.
Underneath it all, a young seed planted, slowly grows.

Unsure of what will grow, but I can feel it.
No form and no shape.

Prediction is a game that passes time.
Will the seeds still grow once time passes or is it an infinite loop?

Master design: an ultimate plan of symbiotic bodies using bodies to pass life.
Conquer the season but that does not exist, so you continue.

A bumble-bee lands on the poppy that sprouts through a crack in the ice.
Then—and only then—will it make sense.

A walk in Atrani

2007-11-15T17:25:00.001-08:00

A walk in Atrani by Ian Ernzer

stepped off the train, and saw you.
different smile, different place.
we walked along
the sun-washed white buildings, in the village.
I dragged my hand along a wall, slowly
listening to you
tell me how things have changed,
and how you've changed.
below, the water was aqua and tan from the sand.
I saw the rocks and reef—
extensions of the mountains' foundation,
we walked along.
leaving, we rode the train
through the steel-grey fishing village.
the sea was smooth.

a statistic

2007-11-15T17:10:00.000-08:00

a statistic by Ian Ernzer

                                  …clack, clack
                                  and suds swallow my arms
              …crimson sidewalk
              scalding water to my elbows, scrubbing
  …white eyes
  brittle porcelain like these bones
       …staring into the future
       that ache, continuance of, doing good
              …red and blue flash
              in confined space

  …CLACK, CLACK
                  telephone rings, hello? yes, this is her
                                              …he is on the floor

                       and the phone drops into the sink
                       not yet seventeen

  …clack, clack
                      …snaps the clasps…
                                                   …on cherry cedar