…Our age of global positioning, of cursors
sweeping across the Arctic
Circle- you keep everything you know tied
in bundles of zeroes. And back here it is growing
dark, and humid the heat rises from the edge
of the street. Where I am
the chamomile comes to me dense and citrus.
And in a million years, when you find
notes in a ruined language circling
some black, collapsing star. I wonder
will you focus lenses to catch the light of this blue
place, will you remember how cut grass
overwhelms a lung in summer, how asphalt
burns from the ground up, what I mean is,
after so many flights and landings,
will you remember, will you come back?
an excerpt from Letter to the Astronaut
from Music For Landing Planes By – poems by Eireann Lorsung
8:23 p.m. in Los Angeles. The warm air from the day is being replaced by cool. I am halfway finished watering my trees. It’s amazing how they respond to the deep watering by putting out new leaf after new leaf. Having baby trees is deeply satisfying. In 50 years no one who now lives on this street will ever remember a time when my long sweep of front yard wasn’t a shady little paradise in the middle of the city. I don’t have children. But I have trees.
When was the last time you saw a fellow walking up your street with a big dog and big surfboard in tow?
In between bouts of mailart I still have time for my true love – my visual journal. These are last weekend’s pages. This weekend’s are peeking out from under the long strip page.