Wednesday, June 27, 2012

squatch thoughts, sefvin

Men, you holler: The sun is warm! Warm in the sky above the clouds, you holler!

Reach for what’s warm there, men, stretch for the sun every day, reach for it, but still them stub arms can never stretch far enough. The sun is a near star, men, but still it is far. Tremble, men. Tremble! I holler. The sun is a distant warmth.

distant reach

But see, men, other warm things are near, I holler, always near! Think, men! 

The sun! you holler, as if it alone is warm, men. You holler, men. You holler, the sun!

But the sun warms the air, men. Feel that. And it warms the rivers, too. Reach for that water! It warms the blood pulsing through our bodies, men. That’s warm, men. The air, the river, the blood. Us, men; me, you. Listen! The sun alone is not warm.

What else is warm, men?

The sun! you holler.

What else? The air? The river?

a trembling river

The sun! Your stub arms reach up. You holler, dumbed by the sound of your own tongues.

Think! I bare my teeth, men, and I shake them trees. Leaves tremble down from the sky, men, in a warm green rain. Men, I holler. Think! 

warm, your blood


Mosquitoes in the green rain are warm, men, and midges, men, and ticks. Gnats are warm too, men. All warm with the blood that pulses in trembling rivers through your stub arms and warms the muck of the swamp in your big heads. Holler that!

Now, can you feel what’s warm, men?

Dumb tongues holler, The sun! Dumb arms rise.

The sun is warm but still, men, the earth is warm. The earth is in reach. Kneel to it men, put dumb hands on it, there, and let what’s warm there enter you. The warm earth tugs at you men, feel its pull. What pulls you, men, is gravity. Gravity is warm, men, and it pulls you down to the earth. Men, the earth is warm gravity. Holler that!

The sun's warmth can't pull you from the long dark of dumb death, men, no matter the length of your stub arms. The earth is warm gravity, men, it tugs at you always, and pulls you on the last day into that dark grave of your warm earth. That grave earth, men, is as warm as you should ever reach.

Friday, June 1, 2012

No Trolls in a Decimalized Landscape

Think of it this way: Iceland—from where I just returned—has a strange landscape, one that is both enchanting and alienating for someone that comes from a forested, lake-filled, and (largely) flat land like Minnesota (which is where I make my home). In Iceland, mountains rise out of moss-covered lava lands, birch trees are twisted by, first, too much darkness and then too much light into stunted caricatures of the tall, straight ones I’m familiar with, and the mists that drift around the glaciered peaks are met by clouds of steam that the volcanic earth exhales. Glacier and lava, mist and steam, and dark and light push against one another and Iceland is the result.

I'm seeking to get the rest of this piece published. When I do I will post a link to it here.