Places
as harmonium despair (we trial six-handed instruments) as immortalities
exhalation:
we need every breath you give
we must bind it with our own
so the One receives our dyad
inhalation:
(word being soul)
instrument:
by through-takings, would you shelter me,
O whistling, flute-playing-Pan,
through the body of a child,
through-bodied-father
embodying the all —
turnings-conjoined-
round O whole-
playing-part
grown-in, would you put-on your hands?
chord:
to take care is to hold
sisters crying-out
in-visibles
to cure
//
ἐκ δὴ
τούτου τοῦ λόγου
διαίταις
ἐπὶ πᾶν
τὸ σῶμα
τρεπόμενοι
μετὰ τοῦ ὅλου
τὸ μέρος
ἐπιχειροῦσιν
θεραπεύειν τε
καὶ ἰᾶσθαι
156ξ
//
mogis pos
of generosity in a state of war
two blood-soaked abortions (at least)and decades
of(mind)(mood)(me)(them)(-altering)birth-
control
for lack of place
for lack of safety
for gluttony of fear
my fear to bring a living thing
into the state of war
the all-against-all
so leave me, lead me inside
again and again, layer me in
your wordless moment
your clothes, your close the door
felt hard and soft and then gently
until its just us here
and those in the palaestra, altogether
(i was)(they were)flowing around us, in
a circle(it would)(will surround)entirely(shelter us)by care
until now
as it grows binding
and needful
O well-begotten, world-suffering, well-
begetting one, would you be born
could you still hear
my word to call my child
by fathers countless and guardians mighty
as our enfolding of generosity
καὶ οἱ ἐν τῇ παλαίστρᾳ
ἅπαντες περιέρρεον ἡμᾶς κύκλῳ
κομιδῇ
τότε δή
ὦ γεννάδα
Charmides 155δ
cf Aristotle nic ethics 1100b30
my dawnlit daybreaker
there beside himself he would sit
until (their own) (dawn)
of the (ones) seated at the eschaton
the (one we) raise up
the horizon (we) throw down
ἵνα παρ᾽ αὑτῷ καθέζοιτο
ἕως
τῶν ἐπ᾽ ἐσχάτῳ καθημένων
τὸν μὲν ἀνεστήσαμεν
τὸν δὲ πλάγιον κατεβάλομεν
american shade
well that was a beautiful city
i think he had a beautiful tan
i heard he tried to make peace
in the tropical asian southeast
left footprints on bigfoot and a beach
made marilyn milkmaid the moon
runaway chevy fifty-seven bridegroom
the flag that got left on her face
and then he lost interest
when he lost faith in my body
i assumed it was me, in washington d.c.
my mother my father implicitly
somersaulting the scene
there were sprinklers and sparklers
and lipgloss from a rich invitee
at my eleventh birthday party
so it must have been me
was i jackie or sara
should i have offered my face
like courtney then lana and everyone else
become a magazine fiction
lolita fillers, no filters, no friction
trade a dick in for my diction
go down for an icy-hot la embrace
but i assumed it was me
i bought in, i got out, i was clean
now im your summer ambition
if you cut me down to your size
you can grab me by the waist
be the one to take me back
if you put me in my place
will you teach me willing words
will you rearrange my face
i strip naked for a tune
if you touch me like i touch me
reach for my dangerously thin body
when i put makeup on my eyes
i can still look twenty-one
its when i start to cry for him
its clear im done and dying again
but now that ai fills the sky
we could really write a hit
throw pinecones from behind a tree
and when you dont show up for it
ill cry for a squirrel
he got famous with a book
from a girl it took the look
but it will never be okay
for me to hook an iamb
i tried to be a flesh machine
i fucked the literary scene
all the women there were mean
and the fathers gave me hpv
i thought it was a dog disease
that was the shape of me then
when he lost faith in my body
and i assumed it was my face
i took ballet classes in houston
practiced lightning earns his grace
i was too stubborn, it was me
everyday a tempest fought a system
i parted so many ways i parted
the ocean
even so, most days i dont know
if i can make promises again
even for roses, violets for you
eve or the planet or my ghost best friend
for who made me, who left me, i left him
cherry-black abortion vasectomy
and he was a baby then too
and i know what it looks like now
babies having babies
he was the last american man
it was a dream and he was dead
before my life even began
face of an unsolved mystery
slid right through when previously
sleeping through history
i assumed that bob did it
but it was just he, most easily
who delivered the unfortunate news
//
nevertheless, this
he was saying
if he would be willing to strip
he would seem to you to be faceless
so all-beautiful is the form
οὗτος μέντοι
ἔφη
εἰ ἐθέλοι ἀποδῦναι
δόξει σοι ἀπρόσωπος εἶναι
οὕτως τὸ εἶδος πάγκαλός ἐστιν
154δ
as the tombstone of a dead president
oh sally, oh sally
its always been you
youve always been my one
let me sign that draft
with autopen, in-de-pen-
dence dec-la-ray-shun
did even tender roses
launder their senses
inside the wicker fences
at monticello
//
and (he) Chaerephon(you
summoned)ing me
what to you
appears t(he) young man
(he) was saying
O Socrates
(is he) not handsome (?)
154ξ
καὶ ὁ Χαιρεφῶν
καλέσας με
τί σοι
φαίνεται ὁ νεανίσκος
ἔφη
ὦ Σώκρατες
οὐκ εὐπρόσωπος
moving (on purnama) with sisters R. and N.
yesterday, the family toppled
an altar and dug up the vessel
of ancestors who had been
held there in the earth.
they cradled the thing.
they placed it amongst sacred
objects and offerings on a truck.
they drove it across the island.
we drove it over and around
the lakes and the mountain
on roads like melting hairpin loops.
we called them wrinkles.
we arrived at the older
the older-newer
present home
where home would be.
they placed the ancestors
underneath the altar
in the older shrine, to be
held there in the earth.
over sticky jajan and sweet coffee
we were laughing about
how complicated everything was.
any simple story.
imperfectly
a jepun tree was in bloom. the night
sky was almost free of clouds,
turning and keeping it alive.
//
and after we have had (or held) our fill of such as those
in turn i was questioning them(selves)
about the (things) by this
ἐπειδὴ δὲ τῶν τοιούτων ἅδην εἴχομεν
αὖθις ἐγὼ αὐτοὺς ἀνηρώτων
τὰ τῇδε
horses into Potidaea
as orders taken, given. your hands
across my escalating
surface. unrolling
her
slight
resistance. as
i grow dependent on the flow
and pressure. here, faint
ridges. your soft uneven. catch,
drag,
time,
deposit. yours
until lazy again. until we depart,
until we let loose
the battle. they had
been born into Potidaea.
//
slight
until we depart
until we let loose
the battle
they had been born
into Potidaea
(her) this very moment they were (surfeit)
by this(her) those having learned it(her)
// 153β
Ὀλίγον
ἐγεγόνει
ἐν τῇ Ποτειδαίᾳ
ἣν ἄρτι ἦσαν οἱ
τῇδε πεπυσμένοι
Happy Birthday to Her
(got resurrection
yet?)
last night, we had a birthday dinner for Blih’s fiancée.
having lived with him for years, we have a lumayan
understanding of his habits in relationship. and i hope
beyond hope that they can make it work. because i love
her, and already, i feel like she is my sister.
so we take them out, to the restaurant at the end of
the island. where, for one night, she and my brother
might dine, and be treated, like we, who bring foreign
money here. and i will tell you frankly, the dining scene
is fucked-up. where even to begin.
(someday maybe i’ll know how to share Mak Sun’s way
of making krawu. that day is not here.)
the maskmaker and i are semi-regulars at this restaurant,
a vegan place, where the staff know us well enough
by now, and treat my husband with dignity and respect.
nothing puts a damper on a lovey-dovey date quite like
everybody assuming he’s a delivery driver.
so we order a variety of delicious dishes, none local,
all absurd, decadent, and as fun as we can manage. well
it seems, in Bali, and from all sides, that foreign money
will buy you anything; will fix any problem; will satisfy any
want. and foreigners arrive so ravenous for grace.
(not to be confused with Grace, who is our bossiest hen.
we do not eat her for a reason.)
where was i? as fun as we can manage. but from the start,
i can tell, my brother and sister are exhausted. perhaps
from arguments. this is okay. we are family; we have
been stuck into each others tangled lives; we have seen
the messy, the tearful, the claws; the krawu.
my sister explains the facts of her new job; reception
at a salon, where, with a similar disability as me, she can
work seated. it has better incentives than her previous
job; but demands a 60-hour week, leaving her one day
free, for her children, from a previous marriage.
not to mention, Blih. our brother is a tough and heartfelt
man. he connects diversities of jobs; he body-builds, covered
with tattoos, with discipline; often on sosmed; he hosts
and keeps the family guesthouse (it’s complicated); and
he does security at cockfights.
we listen, express sympathy, and take note of what
our loved ones need; what we can say that might help,
and what we might possibly do; to be good friends
and keep our family together and strong; as our family
has done, does, and has the will to do, for us.
at the end of the night, after (surprise!) chocolate lava
cakes, rich molten cores melting into vanilla-laced, coconut-
based ice cream; the waiters having sung happy birthday
(in English), coercing the entire room (of foreigners)
to sing along; my sister and i share a hug.
send me a message whenever you need, i say; and come
visit us, whenever you can, or please. i know, i say, that he
can be a big, overgrown child, sometimes. (of what man is
this not true?) but he has a good heart. and we all pray
that he remembers it, in good time.
she murmurs several things in reply, one of which
is this (in Indonesian): i don’t want to be a bother. to which
i say, my voice as firm as i can muster: don’t you think
about that. jangan begitu. we are all afraid to be a bother;
when nothing on this earth is worth more than a friend.
as we drive home, the maskmaker and i discuss the All.
(it’s what we do. it is what marriage is, for us. just fyi.)
we both have hope, though he’s more optimistic than me.
that is his habit; he has his reasons. go tell the ai, we all
(Alhamdulillah) have our reasons.
it isn’t until the next morning that it clicks. our brother
and sister had wondered (i didn’t quite understand it at
the time), whether we do any markets (or smthng). now
i realize, and grab my phone to send the urgent text: DO NOT
give your nest-egg to crypto, mlm, or any other scam!!
after which
i say, to the giving sky —
if i am a golden calf
lets take me to the bank
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but equally (isos)
it is fitting (prosekein) to gratify (charizein)
not the ones in violent (sphodra) need (deein)
but those who are most able (dunamai)
to pay back (apodidonai)
the grace (charis)
// 233ε
ἀλλ᾽ ἴσως προσήκει οὐ τοῖς σφόδρα δεομένοις χαρίζεσθαι
ἀλλὰ τοῖς μάλιστα ἀποδοῦναι χάριν δυναμένοις
//
eta note: i am taking a rest day tomorrow
for a routine medical procedure. x
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
Ophelia revisited
my grief remains for the flowers, the herbs,
the growth habits i learned to recognize,
the pungent smells of bruised leaves, and
a lake with which i had grown familiar. only
with hesitation do i crush a sprig of rosemary.
the plants and seasons here are different.
i try not to use Latinate species names, or
the determinacy of words to describe life, as
a guest. sometimes it seems inevitable, and
i contribute to the loss already underway.
nothing is more miraculous than a human
body. becoming container for the self-strange,
unbecoming as that may be, mine followed me
here, reiterating its lesson without the black-
clad metaphor: no entry gained by force, beyond
barest survival. and the last time you
came begging here; when her hand was offered
to mine in marriage, now as i was candlelit royalty
in a fortress built of aging apples; the last time i
invited forth the rampaging fourth wall, to cross
the threshold of my door, to hold the iffy
soliloquy of me; would be the last time for
it all. no other help to meet the human
who doesn’t make and keep a home to serve
the stranger, the migrant, the nameless refugee.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
primarily not
to present-being (pareimi)
pleasure (hedone)
(for you)
will i together-be (suneimi)
(with you)
attending (therapeuein)
but to lingering-doing (mellein)
help (opheleia)
to-be (esesthai)
by you
// 233β
πρῶτον μὲν οὐ τὴν παροῦσαν ἡδονὴν
θεραπεύων συνέσομαί
σοι
ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν μέλλουσαν ὠφελίαν ἔσεσθαι
//
photo from April 2019
not the Minotaur
but how we have hollowed such
a complicated animal
your desire surfacing
my darker ways
as your surface
of underlying fear
known suffering
like capacity
slow as
(a baby runs barefoot across the concrete floor
surrounded by the whirlwind seat of family
his mothers place their hands over sharp corners
his grandmothers grab him before he exits
the door left open to the porch warung
where the local autist mampirs for a treat
off the street of his village neighborhood
as great-grandparents near-toothless smiles
play peek-a-boo for kisses as he toddles by
like every baby his worst enemy is “no”
and in his hands a wooden dragon chomps
at cookie tins and plastic-wrapped sugar snacks
the loudest tyrant in the room screaming
his raw desire to be louder than U.S. America)
the end
a little bull in
a spoked labyrinth
our babbled reckoning
but these things
are left behind
as remembrances
of what will come to be
a sacrificial self for self-legibility
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but these things
are left behind (kataleipesthai)
as remembrances (mnemeion)
of what will come to be
// 233α
ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μνημεῖα καταλειφθῆναι
τῶν μελλόντων ἔσεσθαι
like a nightingale
as we are leaving
i am caught by a voice
she is singing herself to sleep
i touch his arm
and when he hears
he takes out his phone
as she sings her song
i watch his calloused fingers
fumble on the glass
i should have done it
i will realize later
stunned with regret
she has no clarity left
Mak Sun whispers
tidak jelas
so like a nightingale
i couldnt say to him
maybe it will happen again
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
it isnt likely
that these things
which they enjoyed (eu paschein)
would make (poieein)
their friendship (philia)
less
// 233α
οὐκ ἐξ ὧν ἂν εὖ πάθωσι ταῦτα εἰκὸς
ἐλάττω τὴν φιλίαν αὐτοῖς ποιῆσαι
//
first impression (after 7 years) of Java
i speak for no place
but Java is an island
of inwardness
there is no welcome sign
there are no gods and no
it would not like to sell itself to you
a hot shower is hard to find
the homestays are all syariah
the call to prayer interrupts your sleep
yet the women press you to their breast
the coffee served is bitter-sweet
and Tengger keeps the everlasting gravity
in cedars saw we held a hidden rustle
of greener paths behind the highland cloud
in dialogue among smouldering volcanoes
if i could live in Java
i would never need
to write another poem
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
who (were)
being beloveds (philoi ontes)
to one another
before they did (prassein)
these things
// 233α
οἳ καὶ πρότερον ἀλλήλοις φίλοι ὄντες ταῦτα ἔπραξαν
//
(photo from April 2024)
on the day bus to Java
tucked into my cubby
on the day bus to Java
after rushing to get out the door
a recliner in a great steel whale
the machine suspension floats
and jostles over potholes and gaps
as the island of gods carries on
im swallowed in the passing-by
a blur of gardens and crumbling
concrete drenched in sunshine
sway me to the window
sway me to the other side
its not running naked but
its almost person-sized
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but as for the nonlovers (eran)
// 233α
τοῖς δὲ μὴ ἐρῶσιν
//
mothers
we are invited to mampir
so we visit many mothers
they serve us coffee and jajan
the mothers always cry for us
one of my first lessons was
the mothers always cry
all the rivers of this island
from the secret doors of sight
must be their tears
//
🌕
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
so there is much more hope (elpis)
for friendship (philia) for them
from the deed (pragma)
rather than hatred (echthra)
to be born (genesthai)
// 232δ
ὥστε πολὺ πλείων ἐλπὶς φιλίαν αὐτοῖς ἐκ τοῦ πράγματος
ἢ ἔχθραν
γενέσθαι
just you
the thunderstorm came and clapped
and passed through like gods
practicing my animal ears
until i could take a deep
and fearless nap
of dreams
i woke up wanting
just you
all over again
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but however many
as happen (tugchanein)
not
(to be) loving (eran)
and otherwise
through excellence (arete)
passed through (prassen)
those they want (dein)
//
ὅσοι δὲ μὴ ἐρῶντες ἔτυχον
ἀλλὰ δι᾽ ἀρετὴν ἔπραξαν ὧν ἐδέοντο
//
this limasan is not a terror dream
(or how i came to Potro Joyo House)
strange and for a few years
maybe 2018 to 2022
(i moved to Indonesia in 2019)
i dreamed mostly about a flood
lately we live on the sawah
and i dream of earthquakes
(what happened in 2023 was
the dream to build a temple
transparently that is the one
that grabbed me by the throat
that was a hard-yanked chain
to re-make my heart pounding)
anyway i am in a skyscraper
(in tv cities like Philadelphia)
it starts to quake
the building sways as i rush down
the stairs or ladders or chutes or waterfalls
until i come spilling out into the street
well my dreams are hacks
last night as i ran out i looked up and saw
the tower sinuous begin to buckle
and bricks were busting a volcanic bubble
as i ran down the mountain to escape
the expanding smoke and debris
this limasan is not a terror dream
i do not wake up in a fright
(no real nightmares since U.S. America)
but they are disaster dreams
just now maybe like working it out
or making something from dream rubble
and last night it was a real earthquake
not too distant not too deep a 4.6
our home is a cathedral of teakwood
beloved architect vernacular
when it jiggles his bending pillars sound uncanny
old joints of salvage living in the ring of fire
//
the maskmaker writes
like gotong royong
& Hong Ulun Basuki Langgeng
🇮🇩
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and when (as seems inevitable)
disagreement comes to be
and the mishap
in any other way
would be set down as common
to both
// 232β
καὶ ἄλλῳ μὲν τρόπῳ διαφορᾶς γενομένης κοινὴν ἂν ἀμφοτέροις καταστῆναι τὴν συμφοράν
//
selamat calendar complex
Ogoh-Ogoh for tilem today
and family calls and the gamelan calls
(seen here, here, here, here?, nsfw?)
when having constructed our demons
we carry them through the streets
and shake them and fight them
and turn them and burn them
and ooh and aah and waow
and laugh and breathe fire
and then
collapse
into
Nyepi tomorrow
no outgoing or talking
or fire or electricity
or internet
or working
or lovemaking
we let the ogoh-ogoh
believing it to be uninhabited
pass harmlessly over the island
so tomorrow will be silent
in the valley as well
no posts from me ok
then (we await
confirmation from the village
its all local time) Eid al-Fitr . . .
//
new years 2026
i witness your erosion through the glass
my history disappearing by the hour
and snow consumes to whiteout; i am cold
turned witless by distance and disbelief
and there are no more familiar houses, faces
are spreading, thinning, greying, pale, the young
mere vanishing into the adult flood, like
we didn’t want any of it
the cruiseliner is sinking into sand
nobody made the call, nevertheless
it’s all you ever say; whoever has a camel
hard fast to roll the tents and carry it
how do you chase your longing through the dunes
and did her caravan leave any trace
or do you doubt if she was ever there
or do you see her in the doe, the goat, the raven
do you become her in the cursive carved
by thirst, the desert bridegroom winding through
until you haunt the edges of their encampment
inhuman as the hajj, kin to al-Shanfara
locals popping-off begin at dusk
explosions quickening unevenly
as child-sized rockets into midnight, when at once
fireworks engulf the island, terrifying animals
i turn a light on for the chickens
Black Ajax has fallen out of his black tree
he gibbers darkly as he hobbles toward me
the light, a blacker perch; gibbering, i walk him through it
//
selamat tahun baru🥂
//
our chickens are
most junglefowl
we don’t fight them
as, with cocks, is done
but they are fighters
//
my hollow
your darkness and your might invisible
to me, my pale eyes sun shy, your body
at noon, under pitched roof these lines
of wood i measure, cut, re-stood you up
to feed an appetite for shade, i am
a miracle for trees; and what i build i must
maintain, stretching, pressing, inhaling
every season warping edges, exhale down
shelter; my daily coir, your angle slant
corporeality; my hollow here
and where to see you, if, once i’d grown
my fill of this inside, the outside known
by doorways, windows, the tunnels ants dig
out foundation for the sponge, this marrow
empty nest of the mud wasp, left dust
unsettled; your crevice, my cusp, bright-daggered
lapses; your love letters, my red rose
replies; a jepun tree grows over my grave
shaggy roots to the unscripted bone, home
to fallen flowers light on my unmet nature
//