Element
animal event (at the school of Taureos)
into the animal event
i have been dragged and well
indeed
every year the same, i guess, except
this time
its me
and like the bull, whos horn, whos unbroken
rage
your hand anointed
when they seize the bodied, lashed and harnessed
nerve by muscle to
the craters edge
as trampled roses bruised into the pass
will grind in
to mud by mountain makers hooves
in magenta-black menstrual blood
my terror
my appetite
//
Socrates: (in Charmides, cont.)
and well indeed into the wrestling-
school of Taureos (where bulls are offerings)
straight down from the temple
of the Queen (of whom nothing is known)
// 153α
καὶ δὴ καὶ εἰς τὴν Ταυρέου παλαίστραν
τὴν καταντικρὺ τοῦ τῆς Βασίλης ἱεροῦ εἰσῆλθον
underneath a circle
the face of the moon
sheds her shimmering veils
until the night sky
goes quiet again
to give the charm or bite the leaf
a river coursing swift or deep
through horn or through ivory
at around noon
grey eyes toward the ground
in swastikasana underneath
a circle of blue
(from a prison cell)
//
Phaedrus:
how (ti) does it shine (phainetai)
by you
O Socrates
the logos?
τί σοι φαίνεται
ὦ Σώκρατες
ὁ λόγος
//
🌑
commandment
the clay was in your hand. life turned
onto the skin. a fountain was desire.
i dipped my fingers in, day after day
to taste this young and yearning body.
you didnt have to tell me even once
until my garden was creased and crinkled.
as later fell, we were unfolding it all
together. the sweet milk of a whisper.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
(love) (ask) (erota)
// 234ξ
ἐρώτα
burlesque empire
to cross the Rubicon, where left meets right,
we found a body. being unrecognized,
we hold it side-by-side her photograph.
the printed animal in black and white
was captive to the scene: how Bettie used
the furniture, her pose and what it meant
to her, her legs and what they wore for us.
stilettos pointed out the stars. surely
they were not hours in bondage to a fault.
the leather business never skins enough,
as keys to pleasure play the vault betrayed,
and suits around her salivate like wolves.
the burlesque empire folds itself around the twain:
a missing woman tangled in the pin-up queen.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but if
(on the other hand)
you still long for (potheein)
anything
leading (the way) and holding (it) (hegoumenos)
to have been left aside (para-lepein)
// 234ξ
εἰ δ᾽ ἔτι τι σὺ ποθεῖς
ἡγούμενος παραλελεῖφθαι
finish fingertrap
finger
finger
finger
finger
thumb
finger
finger
finger
finger
thumb
finger
finger
finger
finger
thumb
Rachmaninov
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
i
(one the one hand)
really
enough (ikana)
by me
practice (nomizo)
the (things) having been spoken (eiremena)
// 234ξ
ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν ἱκανά μοι νομίζω τὰ εἰρημένα
axios
my monsoon, in decline, lets run again. the cocks
roll thunder. high on this island, cloud-blind, some soft
grey ankle socks deliver me. wherever
cast ironies become a blanket feast. the cold,
like snow, but i belong to it. and where i sit,
i am not alone. i am the least
interesting thing about me. morning is a word
upon blue lips. change comes from a beast behind
the oracle. meaning takes a midnight train
to hear the tightropes hum. like details falling down
a face, like curtains swaying in a drift. if
i fail, then i forget. and being neither of these.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but there must be (dei)
not even one (medemian)
harm (blaben)
from itself
and help (opheleia)
born (gignesthai)
by both (amphoin)
// 234ξ
δεῖ δὲ
βλάβην μὲν ἀπ᾽ αὐτοῦ μηδεμίαν
ὠφελίαν δὲ ἀμφοῖν γίγνεσθαι
//
no post again tomorrow
for routine medical & traffic.
enjoy infrastructure. x
🌘
tasty vs stinky
if the (un)father(ing) flew
a pulpy, creamy poem
to feather they were not
a man, what then would
i eat for dessert?
being care-
ful of the spikes —
and mind-
ful of the blast radius —
a durian
released by my small hands,
to share between my friends.
frozen, blended custard; topped
with darkness (chocolate) crackling.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
nor
for you wishing (boulomai)
to be unnoticed (lanthanein) by others
(is it) similarly (homoios)
powerful (dunatos)
// 234ξ
οὔτε σοὶ βουλομένῳ τοὺς ἄλλους λανθάνειν ὁμοίως δυνατόν
//
feet
and her funny expression
the way is borne between
two virgin sisters:
a line for little kings,
a line for little beggars.
if the way feels very long,
sometimes the truth
is this: turn yourself
around to see her face.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for neither
for the taker (lambanein)
(is) the balance (axios)
of equal grace (charitos ises)
// 234ξ
οὔτε γὰρ τῷ λαμβάνοντι χάριτος ἴσης ἄξιον
myth of a hermit crab
when, among strewn stones, the roar, sea-rubbled
coral, drubbed-featureless bones, by the vast
intelligence of salt-lung-water, currents, swells
and cycles of one planet to another
precious, semi-circle moon
when, of intertidal spine or ladder, a rambler up
and down the baking sand, the beach, which burns
my feet, the purge of undertows, the surging rips
and sneaker waves
behind, above, on wind a hunting wing
when, a shadow moving in, to halt
the camera, home, returns me to my knees
knuckled, imprints of gravel on red skin
engraved by seashell shards, held-back, worked-in
to kneeling, as if eons, there, to wait
for when, if ever, the sun can
be still enough to catch
the nestled-in extend
a tentative feeler, a tiny
bristled limb
when those barely let
light breathe or gills retreat
between the lens and
a shuttered eye-
stem
the how-less
greet
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but the loving (one)
would not urge (keleuein) you
toward all the loving (ones)
to hold (echein) this thinking-through (dianoia)
// 234β
οὐδ᾽ ἂν τὸν ἐρῶντα
πρὸς ἅπαντάς σε κελεύειν τοὺς ἐρῶντας
ταύτην ἔχειν τὴν διάνοιαν
//
🌗
rude wisdom
true story, when i was nine or ten
my father, at the time, sat me down
as fathers do, to read Plato’s Apology.
there had been a situation at school.
it was a public school and i was new.
it had to do with bullying and needing
to choose a side. well i guess a child
encounters force beside deliberation.
after i finished reading, he asked me
what Socrates would do. it was not
really a question. and i was no fool.
i said, but papa, i am not Socrates.
this morning, i woke up from a dream
about an oil spill. well the sign put forth.
it grew like coltsfoot in the broken step
where id removed an unbelonging one.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
well i guess (oimai)
// 234β
ἐγὼ μὲν οἶμαι
//
the daddys issue
some days like i become your magazine
some days like i become your loaded gun
these days it makes no difference which (oil spill)
yes i read your letter yesterday and all
the days before, your hollow men, your dump
truck spat into my bed, and im not sure
it got there but i wrote you on the third
to say, how dare you write me when you never
learn to read a single fucking word
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
whether id recommend (para-aineein
for you
to gratify
all
the not-loving (ones) (me erosi)
// 234β
εἰ ἅπασίν σοι παραινῶ τοῖς μὴ ἐρῶσι χαρίζεσθαι
//
oil spill
rose-colored filtration //
myth of sea urchins
oh protecting self of fire, oh siren song
of dragon scales; by glass, a flashing wheel,
honed steel, and feathers through the scapula;
so eager grows her guardian of tears.
so cells divide an urchin by its need
for spine, for swimmers heart, for art. cut us
in half, and each retains their whole of holes.
consistency is pluripotency in love.
so ocean breathes, with grave authority.
and armor makes, re-wakes itself; fossils
desire; marine in-vertebrates our queer
anthropocene; our deeper keys, in blastomere.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not those who
ceasing from desire (pauomenoi tes epi-thumias)
will seek a pretext (prophasin)
for hatred (echthra)
but those who
of ceased season (pausamenou tes horas)
will then display (epi-deiknumi)
excellence (arete)
of their own
// 234α
οὐδὲ οἵτινες παυόμενοι τῆς ἐπιθυμίας ἔχθρας πρόφασιν ζητήσουσιν
ἀλλ᾽ οἳ παυσαμένου τῆς ὥρας
τότε τὴν αὑτῶν ἀρετὴν ἐπιδείξονται
//
(plz dont miss
kate & tori references)
🌖
don’t drop by
tonight; to see you makes me dangerous.
an ember sleeps; you hide yourself.
every soldier in uniform is a suicide.
oh, my friend, don’t drop the grenade, don’t drop
the quiet words. wake me from clay at dawn.
your shoulder lights our temporary weight.
there’s revolution in the research of
a snail; your fingerprint upon my eyelid.
every little life sets wings to wildfire.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not (to gratify or make well)
those coming quickly (spoudazein)
for a brief time (oligon chronon)
but those
consistently (homoios)
throughout all of life (dia pantos tou biou)
will-being friends (philois esomenois)
// 234α
οὐδὲ τοῖς ὀλίγον χρόνον σπουδάζουσιν
ἀλλὰ τοῖς ὁμοίως διὰ παντὸς τοῦ βίου φίλοις ἐσομένοις
guardian (of tears) //
storied desire
cries, the piercing prophecy, momentous
saturation; all breasts equally my mother
back then. the born believe a milky way
is worthy of the bowl-stretched-opening.
my fathered evolution, separation: it
plants pillars underneath indifference.
like siblings on the page, each owns its pain;
instruction speaks the crepitus of limbs.
left outlines carry the crunching of leaves;
a subtle switch, the circumstantial spring.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not only (to gratify or make well)
the begging
but those worthy (axios)
of the act (pragma)
οὐδὲ τοῖς προσαιτοῦσι μόνον
ἀλλὰ τοῖς τοῦ πράγματος ἀξίοις
//
//
🌕
warning label
we have a few best friends
every one of them wears a veil
these are their reasons
when one comes in
(by then its already too late)
the heart itself goes inside-out
every one of them should
come with a warning
label
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and so surely indeed
in private consummation (idiais dapanaein)
it is worthy to call near (para-kaleein)
not beloveds (philoi)
but beggars (pros-aiteein)
and ones needing to be filled (deomenous plesmones)
// 233δ
καὶ μὲν δὴ καὶ ἐν ταῖς ἰδίαις δαπάναις
οὐ τοὺς φίλους ἄξιον παρακαλεῖν
ἀλλὰ τοὺς προσαιτοῦντας καὶ τοὺς δεομένους πλησμονῆς
snowflake (light) upon
moss
were the coming
ears
of spring
lets
not sent ences
this
ill
symm etry
can, in-
to
a warm
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for becoming free (apallassein)
of the greatest ills (kakos)
plentiful (pleistos)
grace (charis)
will go
will come
will be known (eisontai)
by them
// 233δ
μεγίστων γὰρ ἀπαλλαγέντες κακῶν
πλείστην χάριν αὐτοῖς εἴσονται
//
every day
from the other room
Al-Fatihah
ngaji for beginners
toss your compost out the window here
and wake to find a garden of impassables.
the rainy season, barely holding on, nurses
refuse; i think the earth cant help itself.
of course i arrived on an airplane of garbage
along with other harbingers of the end
of the island. i remember motorbike rides
across the sawah during the pandemic,
when it was sinking in how forever i was
here; the tropical scene windswept and quiet,
the people returning to their villages
to farm; it felt as if everyone was home.
back then, we couldnt mampir yet
and i didnt know that if you let a chili grow
it can live for years; it can become a little caterpillar-
munched tree, studded with flaming-hot fruit.
our neighbors treat me like Princess Di.
it doesnt help that i am shy; when we try
to take a walk, we end up seated, with coffee,
small-talk and gossip peppered with serious
conversation; which is my husbands work.
he cultivates connection, setting down
our roots, as i behold, just stupefied
by the spongey texture of community.
and then, i watch out of the corner of
my eye; i fall asleep amidst rotations of rice
and peanuts, tomatoes blushing on the vine
with fields of corn and sugarcane, rows
of marigolds and magenta gomphrena,
patches of green mustard and frilly cabbage,
near densely-shaded thickets of coffee and cacao.
i would absorb the pace of those in steady
negotiation with the sky, and what it gives
the terraced land, absorbing what it can,
for what it gives us — and by my daily plate,
it gives me very, very much.
and too, i read an article about a strong El Niño,
and one about the AMOC shutting down,
and news of friends in Denpasar, their flooded
houses and kos kosans; and always stuck
in traffic, in service to dollars, rubles, yuan,
the concrete surface spreading ever closer.
the village priest asks to send his daughter
to me, so she can practice her English.
of course, i say, let her come, frozen inside
with something like a knot that i cant name.
so im old enough (for here) to be a grandmother
but all the children say i look like Elsa.
so i let them see me picking up plastic,
and in the dirt, on my hands and knees, digging
up peanuts. it used to be my daily task
to ask the young, what is justice?
these days i find my figure lined and lit
inquiring at the city of necessity, ex-
perimenting with my best friends hair — ngaji.
so how shall i explain this, and to whom?
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
yet if it is necessary (chre)
to gratify (charizesthai) most
the ones most lacking (deomenoi)
it is also fitting (prosekein) for the others
to make well (eu poieein)
not the best ones (beltistos)
but the ones most at an impasse (a-porotatoi)
// 233δ
ἔτι δὲ εἰ χρὴ τοῖς δεομένοις μάλιστα χαρίζεσθαι
προσήκει καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις
μὴ τοὺς βελτίστους ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἀπορωτάτους εὖ ποιεῖν
just guessing (silly trilogia)
fool me baby kiss the dice
fool me til my work is thrice-
done and death be (tenderly) well-come
into the mess of heavens nature
(un)tangling dots of fairy light
and solemn practicing of ends
the bodys end (heartbroke) remembering
the sweeter end (lovesong) right here
the strangers end (artist) in-bending-thought
a sandwich (!) for these things are signs
of a long-time friendship of will-
being and where may-happens-wonder
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for these things are signs (tekmeria)
of a long-time friendship (philia)
of will-being (fut. part. eimi)
// 233ξ
ταῦτα γάρ ἐστι φιλίας πολὺν χρόνον ἐσομένης τεκμήρια