Notebook Page (or what passes for one)

Eduardo started this drive for posting pages from our notebooks. Which I think is a fun idea. Here are some of my jottings from a document that serves the same purpose:

Petals from the arbor swirl
around the ankles of a couple
walking to the gift shop;
tiny hurricanes
of dessicated tears.
--the whole winery thing -- sensuous heady smell of fermentation--
barrels stained with red wine -- french oak -- "toasted" over an open fire == only a strong red can take medium or more "toasting"
chill wine to stop fermentation
for red wine, crush everything up together, seeds, stems, skin

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You may have only seen
them bleaching and half buried, becoming
their own tombstones.

layered ten to twenty deep in the
tenements of sand

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In January, halls lined
with a forced march of forsythia

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open your bibles to november

it's been a long time since this light
was a river

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starlings -chatter, contradicting the sun (wind), always a different song, lining the wires, sleek, scatting to the/a masses/cadre
of cats far below.
"chatterers in the marketplace, listening or telling something new"
scatter, spurt, chitter, spat, crackle, squabble, eavesdropping, "for company", companies, advertise, birds of the quick connection,
each branch in the cottonwood upholds a different opinion.
cotttonwood leaves pixilating in the westering sun.
they have been clinging to wires too long,
sinking their claws into current
plumage lights up with every color, overlayed with binary splashes of black and white.
until dusk switches them off
into other fields for the night.

snap at each other with coin-purse mouths
morse code--dots and dashes (markings); slick
tv's in suburban windows -light dark light

Probably every reader knows that starlings aren’t really supposed to be here in North America, that they owe their presence in our yards to a misguided romantic named Eugene Scheiffelin, who in 1890 decided that every bird mentioned in William Shakespeare’s writings deserved a place in North America. Accordingly, he imported 60 starlings, which he released in Central Park. Observers were charmed when a pair built a messy nest right on the façade of the American Museum of Natural History. Delighted, Scheiffelin and his followers imported 40 more the following year. But delight faded to concern and finally outright disgust when the starlings made it clear that they intended to cover the earth, or at least the façade, with evidence of their presence. (henry IV) mortimer

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tangled in steel strings, the plot
of polyester fibers thickening
to green us into place; your hands grown into
the soundboard, mine on your shoulders.
We'll be safe beneath the Verilux, 10,000 hour bulbs,
the irrigation of minor chords.
They'll need to bring a backhoe
if they want to tear us out.

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