poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Wednesday, July 21, 2010


When roads are too thin to be anything but letters,
and now that you’ve seen them that way, they will never stop being ciphers
when clouds pass too quickly and you’re going too quickly too
here you are, in the ear popping raw honey of sunshine
clouds clump together in the first level of the aerial landscape
this will be the coral, the formations that make up the sea floor
and here’s a sudden break presenting the cuneiform of highways again
and then that gets swept away too, with the myths, there are no angels here
just clouds like white trees and clouds like white bread molds
in the clouds you never forget what you were trying to say
the center of your body is full of meaning, each small breath another infinity and each swallow
makes the roar louder in your pops.

The propellers of your lovely mechanical bird
beat through the round clouds leaving them long and smooth like raked beach sand
blank sky sprees of no clouds yawn at you
sun spaces
clouds speckle the metal of the wing
here you are, at the tip of the Giant’s beanstalk
while smaller planes speed by below you, descending into unknowable Arkansas
through see-through clouds and clouds of white styrofoam and opaque mushrooms pushing each other whitely over the edge of logs in dark forests
fungus on fungus/ snow white on bone white/ blue white on winter white
on pale silver and dove grey (the color of the breath of the sky)
shot through with spokes of filmy sun
shot through with cerulean.

All the down-there things still exist
all the things that twist your tongue and vague your mornings
up here you are all meaning, all visceral reaction, altitude-intoxicated
you are all tree-trunk/ xylem and phloem
everything you think and want and are, they coalesce, they turn strong
your blood is sugar-sap you want to use words like “port” and “starboard”
as the reflection from a river like the fat in a strip of bacon glistens up
that’s not bacon, it’s the Mississippi River, as a loose snow of clouds pass
and then clouds shaped like the brain hemispheres
if they could join, a great white whale might take shape around them,and make a tail,
fins and a blowhole altogether worthy of worship (and you would believe)
lamb clouds with streaks of white and blue all the way through them
your fear of death up here is making you taste all your feelings
and fear is hot bacon.

You wish to see the whole glorious shape of Texas but already the plane is dropping
through the film and froth of the sky
the ground is grey-green and grey-brown
microchip towns send out tentacle highways
the mechanical bird tips her tail down
rivers are making ribbon-dance passes
the sun is pointed at your chest
this cloud is whipped cream and has claws
If only the white whale could reach it and assemble!
Find this tail through the thick feathers and the spume and the dollops
the inside of a shell pink and pearl essences
the dashes and waves of a white sea
and a rainbow straight from the sun.
The sun is the eye of the white whale that is always with us.
Up here it is no longer America.
Let’s make a new country.
Let’s write a Magna Carta.
Let’s formally declare our intentions to stay.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

I like it

I like it.
You like it?

I think it's strange, yeah.
You think it's strange?

Well, do you like it or do you think it's strange?

I told you, I like it. Rena, I think all of your poems are strange.