mei mei berssenbrugge


You may find at the market a casual comment swerves into 
conversation that’s deeply metaphysical with a young man by 

He wears a white T and jeans, ordinary yet careful about his food.

“Every time I meditate, I begin in space among the stars,” he says.

“Many of these beings,” he continues, “are not physically 3-D, so it’s frustrating to describe them.”

“I have the impression their silver color comes from within.”

“They look at me with tremendous love from almond-shaped eyes.”

“There’s no sunlight. The whole cloud structure is luminous and the ground crystalline.”

“A lot of purple and blue, like twilight.”

It’s a complex, partly inarticulate narrative, perhaps because he feels I won’t believe him, yet he’s spontaneous.

I don’t need to question the reality of his story.

He’s sincere.


There’s more energy now as heat, connectivity, radio waves, data, X-rays, and all kinds of interactions.

We operate with higher electrical current inside, which can 
rejuvenate you physically by the nature of connectivity, moving 
freely around the body.

The next week, smiling, mid-sentence, “seeing Earth from deep space, blue and alive.”

More often now, ETs are discussed at the co-op, also, coincidence, spirit molecules, time tunnels, and quanta uncertainty, since we’re close to The Institute.

I like that he expresses himself to me as a kind of witness in transition.

He’s read my work, and thinks me more knowledgeable than I am, since my poems aren’t true.

“Pleiadians create new visuals through which I can imagine,” he says.

My care is required for witness to resonate energetically with listener, however nonchalant I appear.

The more compassion one has for non-normal experiences of others, the sooner consciousness will shift toward the stars.

To him, this means shifting the ethical structure of communicating a narrative.

“I think of myself in a service capacity.”


“One silvery insect was seven feet tall; I shook his claw and we 

“Sometimes reptiles hoard crystals to send and receive information.”

“They can space-travel versions of themselves here, as snakes.”

“Lipids in a membrane behave like that, channeling the atmosphere.”

At home I write, “The membrane is like a liquid crystal to the sky.”

Next week, in line, he’s with a beautiful woman with a worn face who knows me.

She’s not well, and she wants me to visit them and their animals.

“They know they don’t end when they die,” she says; “It’s sad they’re leaving, but it’s voluntary.”

“They’ve relatives on other planets, sentient beings with the right to vote.”

“Have you ever watched an animal and suddenly it disappears?” he chips in.

Witness involves a significance equivalent to truth.

“The whole idea of visiting another planet, communicating with a being from another world, to me that’s spiritual.”


“When they speak, they subtly vary certain sounds; I hear words, but their sound carries different meaning to my body.”

“Some words I read weren’t there when I began.”

“Use these new words, enhanced by your imagining, to allow our 
dimension to emerge.”

“Imagination stabilizes the shift.”

In Santa Fe, in Tucson, Lima, La Paz, people see extraterrestrials.

When I step outside, a velvety multitude of moths and insects, 
transparencies, on my screen door whirls up to the porch light.

Milky Way shines 3-D with white clottings and dark rifts, covering the ground and trees with phosphorescence.

Comets, asteroids from deep space, planets moving at will, contribute 
to this glamour of wonder.

He shows me how to pull frequency, starlight, down through his body into the ground, and I try it; I’m more open now.

I can carry more light, which fuses with similar energies in mass 

Earth will radiate this consciousness as a star or sun on horizons of his other worlds.

“Let us hold that portal open for you, in the form of your little crush on him, of light streaming down, and feel a surrounding new ideal,” they say to me.

“Now, imagine yourself in the Pleiades.”

“You wish to give a present to the source, like compassion or rainwater 
from home.”

Early on, I divined that this book already exists in the future.

After all, I’d thought of it; it’s a probability, somewhere, complete, on a shelf.

My intention is to seek that future edition and consult it to create this one, the original, for you.
—  Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, “The New Boy 2”


The reservoir is trying to freeze over
with an expanding map shaped like an angel
Separated lovers on a coast keep walking
toward each other. Low sun reddens
their faces without heat

They are weary of always moving
so seldom touching, but never think
to move inland, massive and stable
Imagoes hatched on thin ice, it’s
their illusion membranes are brighter
than occluded flesh of interiors

Membranes have the density
of an edge, and edges violent as lava


All day she walked across the tundra
He began to drive away obliquely
at exactly her speed, so she altered
her angle, aiming above him, as in a current

He departed in a zone that solidified
at his whim, so she reached for his hand
Land cracked with their weight. He seemed
to reach toward her, a hand like paper
twisted and folded over, only a surface
with wan modulations, like a map


Then she delicately stepped out
toward the edge, tenuous as a leaf
as if waiting for a letter
but it froze too swiftly before her
At dusk his voice broke her concentration
She turned, vexed, and saw he had not spoken.

—  The Reservoir, Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge (Guest reader, 2008)

Red Quiet, Section 3

Our conversation is a wing below my consciousness, like organization in blowing cloth, eddies of water, its order of light on film with no lens.

A higher resonance of story finds its way to higher organization: data swirl into group dreams.

Then story surfaces, as if recognized; flies buzzing in your room suddenly translate to “Oh! You’re crying!”

So, here I hug the old person, who’s not “light” until I embrace him.

My happiness at seeing him, my French suit constitute at the interface of wing and occasion.

Postulate whether the friendship is fulfilling.

Reduce by small increments your worry about the nature of compassion or the chill of emotional identification among girlfriends, your wish to be held in the consciousness of another, like a person waiting for you to wake.

Postulate the wave nature of wanting him to wait (white space) and the quanta of fractal conflict, point to point, along the outline of a petal, shore from a small boat.

Words spoken with force create particles.

He calls the location of accidents a morphic field; their recurrence is resonance, as of an archetype with the vibration of a seed.

My last thoughts were bitter and helpless.

Friends witnessing grief enter your consciousness, illuminating your form, so quiet comes.

—  Mei-mei Bersenbrugge
from Fairies by Mei Mei Berssenbrugge

Fairies begin their day by coming together a moment and sharing joy.

They love the feeling, which dew on the leaves draws from grass, lilacs and the response of meadow and flowers to the dawn.

Diminutive green sylphs now run in the grass, whose growth seems intimately associated with theirs, a single line of concentration.

They talk to themselves, constantly repeating, with an intensity causing their etheric doubles, grass, to vibrate as they pass, vivifying growth.

To rabbits and young children they’re visible, but I see points of light, tiny clouds of color and gleams of movement.

The lawn is covered with these flashes.

In low alyssums along a border, one exquisite, tiny being plays around stems, passing in and out of each bud.

She’s happy and feels much affection for the plants, which she regards as her own body.

The material of her actual body is loosely knit as steam or a colored gas, bright apple-green or yellow, and is very close to emotion.

Tenderness for plants shows as rose; sympathy for their growth and adaptability as flashes of emerald.

When she feels joy, her body responds all-over with a desire to be somewhere or do something for plants.

Hers is not a world of surfaces—skin, husks, bark with definite edges and identities.

Trees appear as columns of light melting into surroundings where form is discerned, but is glowing, transparent, mingling like breath.

She tends to a plant by maintaining fusion between the plant’s form and life-vitality contained within.

She works as part of nature’s massed intelligence to express the involution of awareness or consciousness into a form.

And she includes vitality, because one element of form is action.

Sprouting, branching, leafing, blossoming, crumbling to humus are all form to a fairy.


Guest House in New Mexico commissioned by Richard Tuttle and his wife.

From the architect’s website:

“The form allows turbulent wind to blow through its center. The stressed skin and aluminum rib construction is prefabricated in Kansas City, then bolted together on site.”

She would remember that it was a place of the wind. She would think that she would remember the site of sun, and light without sound or without value, but her body is pushed and drawn on by the force of wind on the ridge, every day, so that someday she would remember that she had lived in wind.

Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, from “A Context of a Wave,” Conjunctions (no. 17, Fall 1991)



My soul radially whorls out to the edges of my body, according to the same laws
by which stars shine, communicating with my body by emanation.

When you see her, you feel the impact of what visual can mean.

Invisibility comes through of deep pink or a color I see clairvoyantly.

This felt sense at seeing the rose extends, because light in the DNA of my cells
receives light frequencies of the flower as a hologram.

The entire rose, petals in moving air, emotion of perfume records as a sphere, so
when I recall the emotion, I touch dimensionality.

From a small bud emerges a tight wound bundle of babyskin coral petals, held in
a half globe, as if by cupped hands.

Then, petals are innumerable, loose, double, sumptuous, unified.

I look through parted fingers to soften my gaze, and slow light shining off the
object is filtered, and then with feeling I look at swift color there.

It’s swiftness that seems still as noon light, because my seeing travels at the same

I make a reciprocal balance between light falling on the back of my eye to optic
nerve to pineal gland, radiance stepping down to matter, and my future self
opening out from this sight.

A moment extends to time passing as sense impression of a rose, including new
joys where imagined roses, roses I haven’t yet seen or seen in books record as my

Then experience is revelation, because plants and people have in their cells
particles of light that can become coherent, that radiate out physically and also
with the creativity of metaphor, as in a beam of light holographically, i.e. by
intuition, in which I inhale the perfume of the Bourbon rose, then try to separate
what is scent, sense, and what you call memory, what is emotion, where in a
dialogue like touching is it so vibratory and so absorbent of my attention and
longing, with impressions like fingerprints all over.

I’m saying physical perception is the data of my embodiment, whereas for the
rose, scarlet itself is matter.


The rose communicates instantly with the woman by sight, collapsing its
boundaries, and the woman widens her boundaries.

Her “rate of perception” slows down, because of its complexity.

There’s a feeling of touching and being touched, the shadings of color she can sense
from touch.

There’s an affinity between awareness and blossom.

The rose symbolizes the light of this self-affinity.

I come to visit drooping white cabbage roses at dusk.

That corner of the garden glows with a quality of light I might see when light
shines through mist or in early morning, reflects off water.

I stand quietly and allow this quality to permeate air around me.

Here, with a white rose, color is clairsentient, this color in the process of being
expressed, like seeing Venus in the day.

Walking, I move in and out of negative space around which each rose is engaged
and become uncertain of my physical extent as an object.

Look at the energy between people and plants; your heart moves into depth
perception; for depth, read speed of light.

I set my intention through this sense of moving into coherence with the bio-photons
of a plant and generate feeling in response.

A space opens and awareness gathers it in, as at night my dream is colorless and
weaves into the nuance.

I can intentionally engage with the coherence of light beams, instant as though
lightless, or the colored light of a dimension not yet arrived, as our hearts are not
outside affinity with respect to wavelength, shaping meaning, using the capacity
for feeling to sense its potency in a rose and to cultivate inter-being with summer

—  Hello the Roses – Mei-mei Berssenbrugge
Though relations with oneself and with other people seem negotiated in terms secretly confirmed
by representation, her idea of the person’s visibility was not susceptible to representation. No matter
how emphatically a person will control his demeanor, there will be perspectives she cannot foresee or
direct, because there is no assignable end to the depth of us to which representation can reach,
the way part of a circle can be just the memory of a depth. The surface inside its contour,
like the inside of a body emits more feeling than its surroundings, as if
the volume or capacity of relations would only refer to something inside, that I can’t see,
that the other person and I keep getting in the way of, or things in the landscape while they are driving,
instead of the capacity being of your person. The volume of a bright cottonwood could be almost
a lack of volume or lack of space inside the tree, the way a membrane is the entrance of an organism.
—  Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, from “Honeymoon” 

Placing our emotion on a field, as I said, became a nucleus of space 
defined by a rain of light and indeterminate contours of a landscape 
like the photograph of an explosion, and gave the travel of your gaze into it 
     or on me 
imaginative weight of the passage along a gulf of space 
or a series of aluminum poles 

She walks through the rooms of blue chain-linked fence, a spacious tennis court 
of rooms on concrete, instead of the single movement of a room where sky 
     and earth 
would come together

Outside is the field she is thinking about, a category of gray dots 
on a television screen, of star data, representing no one’s experience 
but which thrills all who gaze on it, so that it must be experience, and 
the land at large becomes the light on the land

A coyote or a flicker’s call 
is transfixed at the moment before its dissemination across the field
a sediment of, instead 
of the tracing of feeling, the ratio of people to the space

I pass through focal planes of blue tennis court as a scene of desire
The material of the sky adjacent to me eludes me, 
a pure signifier, and shift of sense 
the sky or space a gradation of material, the light a trace
of mobility like a trace of light on a sensitive screen, extended
into the plane of the trace 
and marked by light poles or drawn close by a planet at the edge

Your name becomes a trace of light. Through the movement of the trace 
its repetition and deferral, my life protects itself
from blurs, time lapses, flares 
of the sexual act, its mobility of an afterimage

Then I can understand the eye’s passage into depth
as an inability to stand still for you to see

One wants experience from one octave transmitting to others, like vibrations across water.
—  Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, from Hello, the Roses
The body is the space of the point of a moment in your seeing him or hearing him.
You can calm yourself by moving toward one of these points, the way you move along your own breath.
—  Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge