words.

Words are great saviours
even when there aren't enough of them
So that paragraphs of people passing through
black frames
into fields  clouds  blue sky
a colour i cannot explain
although cerulean is my favorite -
applied thick, forever elusive
like fishes - petted but never owned
scaly   shiny   satin   skin
altar of movement - lithe, freedom
a salty tip-of-my-tongue kinda
place
beautiful, full of light house
magic    butter    light
warming, drunking me
hiding the truth, lonely    solitude
waking disoriented daily
she leaves my dreams -
slips out the back
before the sun comes up
or prussian night blue-black
gets watery.

Words
save me
Sometimes

But
Sometimes
i want to send a painting
sometimes i think in museums, or collections
or a retrospective i saw, alone, at the Whitney
where paint brushes walloped a canvas
slapping, fucking it into an image
coaxing the truth out, or its truth
and i believe
for instants glued together
that i could, perhaps
live in one image
but -
soon i am hungry
to dance or eat delicious food,
stand or lay in a field of pea tendrils
slicing peaches, braising leeks
drinking roasted coconut milk
Fried chicken in Harlem
jukebox the main attraction
24 hour fake wood walls and plastic flowers.

He taps my breastbone, somewhere near
the bone that creates a space for water
to sit and says
"Home is in There."
and the boys at work
who only have one thought
between them, say
"Everyone returns to the place they're from--"
calling it Home
    but i think
"HOME IS COMPLICATED FOR ME"
because it has fish qualities
slips out of my hands
even when i think i've caught it for sure
and it's mine
then it dies.

The siren who can't live ashore
the woman who loves her is mortal
they can only be together, swimming
instants of breathholding
aquamarine cobalt forest green
libraries of sea life creatures
temporary for feeted ones.
In the Ocean
words do not live
gravity is defied
joy is dense.

Words are for naming
and sometimes
i want to live
in a car
speeding
through
Or -
collecting images that don't normally live together
- protesting words
languages challenged
pulled like strudel or phyllo
melted until the molecules are drunk
like chocolate
sliced, grated, juiced cucumbers

and then swim away

like fish.

march 20, 1998

Comments

[Jill]

YES. Fuck, yeah. Uh-uh.

[Jill]

Fuck, yeah. Uh-uh. YES.

[Aaron]

I think that's my favorite one to date. I also love those old typewriter letters. Is it because I come here with associations of food, or do the ones on the bottom remind anyone else of food...specifically individual ganache filled tartlets?

[Kelley G.]

This is my favorite one too. This idea of home being complicated speaks to me. And yet it is you and others I have gathered who comprise home for me. I feel so siren-like much of the time. My hair helps.

[Monkey Wrangler]

Damn Shuna, that shore is purty!

It makes me wonder though, as I have already suspected, that you are one of those rare creatures that expresses enormous talent in just about anything you set yourself to. I say add poet/chef to the list of classic brainy pairs: mathmatician/philosopher, quantum physics/religion, you get the idea. Obviously.

[E&G]

This made me think of Adrienne Rich: "Diving into the Wreck." I think it would be great to hear your poetry read aloud--on the radio? a voice in the dark. on a hot summer night. like when people used to sit on porches, together but quiet, and listen to the radio. Thanks for sharing. E&G