"Resistance is Fertile," "Without a Word," and "Unidentified Satellite"

Resilience is Fertile

i prefer an indirectory, how not to get here,
patiently undefining, stubbornly indefinite,
feats of towering unstructured, my regional flexicon,
like i know the sway, raging against average
making the mean relax and smile, dehomogenizing
i’ll do you a flavor, mixing what grows here
with what i’m carrying, yeast from all directions
breaking down to break through, digging a whole,
spirals in time not elevation, it’s wise to rise
these warehouse clouds, between their linings
acres of filtered-outs and sprouts. trimming
and skimming til brimming, emphasizing the velopment
the tential, before the afterthought, a continuous taste
seldom fashionable, often seasonable, no reason for reason
cause resilience is fertile, imbued to bursting
without braking, so much a skin can hold on its surface
waiting for the next waft or rivulet, where air and water
co-fervesce, no need to separate the crystals from the solution,
curdling is just one way:  engage   marry    ferment    and proliferate
no need to be yon or else, the world is our kitchen
our cellar, roofs but not ceilings, see through floors
and walls ready to open anywhere, no fence,
we get our stratagy from the sky, there’s grounds for everything,
what all roots lead to, routing the static, strata in all its shapes
and interminglings as parallels meet and co-branch
always some blossoming, some seeding, where minerals
talk to trees message birds translating insects in a furling skein
of imagos, larvae, what comes in isn’t who comes out
when a window is a mirror is a vertical pond
i will never be that still, that opaque and mono-thermal
rushing to read what the rain tells the street
before a wet crowd instills a sheening wash
intones an om in no language, not enough space
for melody or chords, whether bodied or not,
crawling or flying, i evaporate before entering,
carry no water but know every language for thirst,
hunger seldom leaves my eyes



Without a Word 

a bit of orbit, a tree in the street
there are handles in the air if you know how to grope
a wind blowing out of my face
sometimes it takes too many people outdoors
     to make the clouds leave, other times a chain reaction:
          fewer clouds attract more people driving more clouds away
               then the empty houses begin to pull back, to croon at higher frequencies
                    as clouds and homes are mutually dependent or is it
                         how much walls and floors need roofs
                               to be safe from what clouds bring
maybe some animal and plant species die off just to avoid
     being given the wrong name, being cursed in
          a language of desiccated thunder

do we call the second moon the second moon, the other moon
     or must we at last give them both proper names
          as I know of no river river or mount mountain
I repackage all the food I buy into containers
     with just pictures, no words, no promises
          sometimes I have to taste it to know what to draw
               though my artwork is less legible than my handwriting
                    so I got a keyboard that produces shapes, not letters
                         the keys blank and changing attributions every night
                              my hunger has other sources of information
I plan to land
go to ground
arc every corner
meditating on the median
when right of way is a privilege
expecting gravity to hesitate
as every lawn is a page or three
every vehicle that doesn’t stop
when I decided to have just 5 days in a week, making more weeks
     it became difficult to meet up with anyone, months also had to change
          I didn’t want to do the math so returned normal, but by then
               all the calendars were sold and I was at the mercy
                    of my phone who thought we were 3 time zones west
                         so I couldn’t get deliveries and had to  buy maps
                              which have been illegal for years, so costly
I once had spectroscopic vision but was unable to move
     seeing all those ingredients, the loose hungry threads
          where can I step, what’s not really there
               so many things I would have avoided
                    if I’d known what all was in them
                         and those colors/frequencies
                              we have no elements for



Unidentified Satellite

Mixing across geography
invisible from above
what could get through
as villages were tight internal communities
across dozens of generations
always some blood coming in, going out
spilled seed, windblown or planted
When the odds weren’t right
isolation leading to different molecular bonds
socio-molecules or abandon ship
how a planet might give birth
as much empty space in me as the universe
dense at the curb, fleet as the street
As we spend more generations naked
we evolve pockets in our skin
inset rings in our shoulders to clip cargo to
carrying an flute down my spine
the way a ronin would carry a sword
Let sleeping dogs dream
next time i’m the dog
the dog’s behind the wheel
skin on the drum of a life
living in a roofless cylindrical house
the rain’s hands of all sizes, rainbow storm
marching through the cityscapes, the tree-less future
As if the clouds are a series of models
filling the horizon’s runway to show
what will be wearing us down next season
why i’m charged every time i look up



dan raphael

dan raphael's most recent books are In the Wordshed, from Last Word Press, and Maps Menus Emanations, from cyberwit. More recent poems appear in Impspired, Mad Swirl, Lothlorien, Otoliths and A Too Powerful Word. Most Wednesdays dan writes & records a currents event poem for The KBOO Evening News in Portland, Oregon.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Monday, July 5, 2021 - 22:01