I feel this is one of my best. Took this shot at Sharon Woods some winters ago. Just happened to capture the wonderful mix -- the sisters taking a walk through the tricky ice and snow. Love the "bonding feeling" amidst the cold world. It warms my heart. Hope you like it.
C.A. MacConnell
Wow, this one's from 1992. Well, of course it's been revised since the first version. Actually, the piece did indeed come from a true story, and the whole thing was strangely innocent. But I remember the moment, and I remember the girls' reactions later...all of these whispers...and I never spoke about it, but in reality, it was just this: me and a guy getting warm, sleeping, and connecting through silence. That, to me, was special, and there was no way to describe it, so I didn't utter a word. Some things are best left unsaid. Aye. <3
The Heater.
We were the last two
standing
on the soaked floor.
Together, after the packed
rock show,
we sang Indigo
Girls in his beat up,
blue van.
Modestly,
ears were ringing.
We said so.
The weather
turned cold,
and everything white
fell from an aching sky.
Late, vacant highway.
No, no noise.
We checked in. Two
double hotel beds.
Like brother and sister,
we rested separately
until I sat up
on the bed
by the heater
with my head
propped on my hands.
Soon, blood rushing,
hands and feet
came alive again.
I breathed deeply,
pretending sleep.
He sat up, creeping
over to the heater,
twice feeling the air.
Finally, his slight weight
fell down next to me.
It was five a.m.
Back home, girls
whispered.
Back home, girls
asked me for a souvenir.
They asked me,
What’s he like.
They whispered
and asked me,
What’s he like.
He spoon-slept
by my side,
holding up
his hand, pressing it
against my palm.
We measured,
and I couldn’t believe
that his fingers
were just as small
as mine.
C.A. MacConnell
OOOOOoooooohhhhhh. Haven't I met you somewhere? You look familiar. Lollapalooza '94? Hm, no. Kappa Alpha, '95. No, that's not it. Stanley's pub, '97. That's it! The rain. Again, you say? Out West? 2005? The sun. Wait, ... there's more? 2015. Hm, yes. 2017. I dunno about you, but I've never seen another clown like you.
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. THE HOLE, on Amazon NOW! Click me right here.
She's on her personal, makeshift cat
walk -- it's her body
against
the hang-it-on-the-door bedroom mirror,
and if she tilts it,
she...is...
better,
and the carpet is the wonder of ugly...fat...
beige,
flat in places,
bulging in others,
and she isn't wiry or unique,
and the belly...just...plain
sucks,
but still worse are the thighs --
wait --
yes;
she could tear her fucking face off
and live
forever
C.A. MacConnell
Dear god, the nape of it.
He loves a pale Leo
in November.
His oxen senses,
his driving team,
pull him
into the dream of her
but today,
like yesterday,
there will be no lion,
no afternoon nap.
True, her axle neck
barely holds
her head and heart
together.
And listen
to the sound
of her noel voice.
True, her boy shape
is no pear.
In her hand,
there rests
no frying pan.
Nearly all month,
he has been loping
across the room --
ape-living;
here, empty hands
and empty arms
forever hang loose.
Secretly, he hopes
for a strange,
warm winter.
Home is pretty
this time of year.
He loves a pale Leo
in November.
Dear god, the awake of it.
C.A. MacConnell
This is my favorite from this POV series. From the POV of the wolf. Has a really cool echo-voice going on, like a howl throughout, and some wild, fierce romance, which I love. :) Love to you, C.A.
From the Wolf
You are there to me, Mouth
You are here to me, Ear
You are Teeth and Paw
Tonight, where is Pack, I'm coming
Only the gaping
Hello silence
Then Pretty Wolf, somewhere else, West, calls out, yes,
You
Something Thin is running -- slow Old Deer heads south
We let Him live once, remember
I sing, testing Air, loving Wind,
Like Mother told me way back when, over Milk
Pretty, I hear your tone when You are
Home, at hunt, at play
Last week, we ripped up Rabbit
Seems like always, we have Howling
Then we're trapped in Quiet,
Like the too-long Tooth that never falls out,
When it tucks deep in Cheek,
Pressing there, making a Hurt,
A strange shape in Jaw, no matter how hard Brother plays,
Trying to knock it
Loose
Shiver myself dry, and I almost see your
Black Wet Nose
Whiskers, bring your Face home, here, with me
Man, the two-legged ones dug holes again
So I can't find Father
Pretty, Left Ear twitches for You
Lip curls, for above all, I am
Fierce, first
Neck hair feels stiff
Tell Uncle I smell coyotes
I make Prints
I mark Ground
You will find me if Gray Stray doesn't fight me first
We can have Sleep together
I hear You, but I can't see those
Eyes, perfect, like Moon, yours
Soon
You and me, shredding Meat.
C.A. MacConnell
Heya, how's it going? Hope you're having a peaceful day. Did you check out THE HOLE yet? Find it right here. And if you read already, don't forget to leave a comment! Same link. All right.
I've been recovering from a long streak of sickness. Now addressing the job/money deal. Movement is crucial at this point. I feel driven to write, and for ...let's see... like 20 years, I've wanted to fully devote my time to it, to have the ability to do so. I have worked so damn hard. I have another novel, a book of essays, and a book of poetry all in the works. I also plan to put out a screenplay. I want my work to BE my passion. I can relate to Nomadland. I can also relate to Britney Spears. See, there's a situation. I'm stuck. Anyhow, I write on anyway, because, well, it's in me. :) Truth. Perhaps there are only a select few who achieve the goal of making a life from their art. Hey, I'd like to be in the mix. Just pay the rent and buy some oatmeal, and I'm good to go.
A re-post, but it's cool. From the point of view of the hawk. I tinker w/ poetry and voices when I'm working on new fiction. Helps me focus. And, I enjoy it.
From the Hawk
Time. Some feathers fall out. It happens.
My eyes are rolling now. Got poked
by some twigs. Robin took
my branch, but he won't be there tomorrow,
which is three minutes away.
There. Mine. Now.
Neck.
Achy.
Twitchy.
Mad. All day, looking backwards,
I've been grooming out the bad,
making way for the new.
Belly's rough too.
Hope the boy one doesn't look up here.
He looked.
He cocked his head left, which means me.
Left is my secret smile from his away place.
He's got a voice to kill. Always in the pine.
Even when the sky is white, I know he's there.
Come evening, he'll leave the needles
and fly to the thick, tricky pole.
Lookout.
There, he's taller, but so skinny.
Gave him the chipmunk yesterday.
Together four years now—since the day my Mom got caught on the wire.
A fast flyer, she was.
Wasn't her mistake.
Storms rolled in, making scary sparks.
Old Crow told Mother not to glide so close, but she wanted the fat
mole, and everyone knows it was for me. They still screech about it.
Now most fliers want to help and bring me a frog or two.
My eyes still make me look mean about it all, but the boy one thinks the yellow is all right,
and I guess I love
building the nest. When I'm too tired to fly,
I use the wind, which is sometimes helpful.
Soon, he'll come at me in the air again, but I like him.
He always comes back.
We lost one baby last year. She fell, and before I could claw her up,
the dog was there.
After, I wouldn't stop picking at everything. I admit
that the reddest part of my tail
hasn't recovered.
We have three in the nest this year.
Next week, I'll let them go.
I showed them how to rise up and stay
in the cold,
high part, where it's safe.
I see something moving.
A quarter mile.
I'd tell the boy one, but he'll hear me coming, and he'll already
know.
Now, higher. I stop beating
and glide.
I stop
to thank the sky for the sky,
because even the blue birds know that God
spreads out across the air, and those wings cover all that we see,
even the vultures,
who will one day become
what they eat.
If she wants to, God can fly next to the sun without burning.
Enough of the boy one and being wise.
Planning the dive.
Mouse, you have it coming to you.
C.A. MacConnell
