crepuscular

outside d.b.a. brooklyn 8/09




Different from the Nocturnal, or the Diurnal,
there is a shy, little known third sleep-habited sibling,
the awake in dawn and dusk,
those who live in the gloaming, only
twilight, Mourning Doves, that nameless rat and deer.
How strange that they have twice as many
days as us.
What will happen
when dystopia finally rolls around, huh?
In that constant grayed dim,
moths beetles guinea pigs
and cats will rule over everything
and be dayless,
sleepless and powerful a giant particulate
Leviathan in the translucent darkness.
And now,
this tangerine tastes alcoholic like a cider
and dusty like moths and garages, and I think
of fathers, yours and mine,
getting troubled in the twilight,
using days up twice as quickly after all,
theirs and ours, and those of many other
Diurnals (now insomniacs) that we love.





Crepuscular is a term used to describe some animals that are primarily active during twilight: at dawn and at dusk. The word is derived from the Latin word crepusculum, meaning "twilight." Crepuscular is thus in contrast with diurnal and nocturnal behavior. Crepuscular animals may also be active on a bright moonlit night.
The patterns of activity are thought to be an antipredator adaptation. Many predators forage most intensely at night, while others are active at mid-day and see best in full sun. Thus the crepuscular habit may reduce predation.

&&&, #1

hopkinton state park, MA / 5.09


I’ve been living hedonistically.
But I’ll always love shade plants more than sun plants,
their humble leaves rounded and tougher, duller darker
nothing showy like those dry bright noisy spangled
sun plants.
I prefer shade plants in the same way I will always prefer
The East Coast.
And still,
for someone who loves weird screensavers the way I do,
I make a good try at being useful.
Post-apocalyptic skills list into the double digits.
I don’t even run from bees anymore.
The houseplant has much in common with the shade plant
And is often a shade plant itself,
taken out of the ground with a little bit of dirt
to help us out up here.
Thanks Spider Plant.
My alley cave seems nicer now.
The day was so dark that the morning birds
never stopped calling. They
faded right into the evening birds.
The one that goes,
{Play or Sing: E sustained, B, B sliding to B flat}.

There’s only so much you can do
with what you get,
a broken chair,
a can of crushed pine-apples.

I Propose A Toast -

knees, mine / central park NY 8.09



Here I am finding myself wishing I’d have made something
and not wanting to make something. This happens to you too, right,
When Son House presents the Pony Blues,
When you hear the insects recently born in your alley,
new empowered party crowds arms bared
legs allowed by the new air’s slow
warmth, when radiostation is being created
somewhere close to you and you know
(because you and radio both agree,
you say Yes, exactly, to it)
and who could know about how here feels if they weren’t here now.
Radio and I should talk.
Someone tell them to say their phone number slower between songs,
like they would if they were expecting someone
to actually call.
There are more electronics home than people right now. When did it become like this?
To Do:
Sleep again
Wake again
Close the windows
Ask the city politely to stop pressuring me to participate
Participate
Pick up laundry.
My spicy breath feels seasonally inappropriate now. I must add
to my list,
Eat a cucumber.
And,
Buy a box of Sun, like the one Cara sleeps with, on like the day, plug
for indoor use only.
Set it on a timer to give the real Sun
a good example. Good examples always help
like the answers in the back of an algebra textbook help lazy students.
I ate the apples you left here last month.
They were gritty and old like the city and fermented like you.
Gritty and old like you too come to think of it.
You too had the chance at those new seeds but I ate them and have shitted
them out generously to this city’s soil,
made previously only of dead squirrels motor oil and newspapers,
now made also of cucumbers, this afternoon’s tacos
and the appleseed’s future apple-trees that should rightfully be growing from
your dead posthumous humus-dirt chest
sprouting in the center of your fertile pickled heart.

To Spring---