Author Archives: Krysia Jopek

VI 1. Nasturtium trumpets, faded goldfish, tumble down and chaos becomes a favorite word in the house where entropy refracts company. 2. Autumn crumpled into a paper ball unfolded in candlelight impatiently: The gardeners are tired and dream of winter. … Continue reading →

I wake to sleep and sleep to wake waking thus seizing that ceasing night’s film      cascade — micro bits        orchestrated without sound    —  [Why is there no sound in sleep, no over-arching score – in the façade of being there … Continue reading →

inch by inch backwards still inchworm green potato vine spilling the patina-ed urn cracked by last winter perfunctorily glued. The lilac and white butterfly spears beckon the pair of yellow finches and sleepy queen bee taken down by torrential rainfall. … Continue reading →

Proclaim WARRIOR Status. Pluck the dead day lilies. The goldfish orange ones, crumpled, and still wet with death. Press down hard when you sign the document for the multiple-color copies. [No. We’re sorry. No e-sign–and extra postage will be required.] … Continue reading →

I am time boxing–slating the hour, unit, segments, arcs, triangles, angles, parallelograms, fractals, Mobius strips, spheres. There is just so much to do. You know. Infinite syntaxes–Chinese boxes. The intricate novel-quilt, Jacob’s magical cloak invented and upended to lead a … Continue reading →

Lost, this. Lost, thus. Goddess of sleep descends. Stream-of-consciousness wages a feeble war to defy her armor. Her edges pull down A tent for the now-superior stupor. The brain—an organ of electro-chemical relationships, toxic or devoid. Transactions missing syn- apses, useless … Continue reading →

Early mornings with café con leche in the Poetry Garden with an assortment of titled notebooks and markers and pens. (Some are permanent. Some with blur in the rain when I forget to fetch them before sudden rainstorm.) Before the … Continue reading →

The silver-mercury train pierces night with fleeting clarity. Write this down. Dump the other notebooks you dug up in the woods (after days of torrential rains) this morning when night hadn’t yet given over (so no one would know)–into the … Continue reading →

Dusk returns. All the colors have changed. The French vanilla begonia appears a soft peach on the childhood picnic table bench; the first periwinkle flowers of one butterfly bush seem blue; phlox petals have taken on a tinge of lavender … Continue reading →

Z:  Does it hurt very much? A:  Yes.   Z:  How so? A:  Everything hurts, darling.   Z:  You should talk about it. What it feels like. I want to feel it, too. And tell the others what is happening … Continue reading →