
Syntax chains words
To you as if preordained;
There is no control.
(December 27, 2018)
Syntax chains words
To you as if preordained;
There is no control.
(December 27, 2018)
(41)
The sideways shift and snip
Clatters across the sand.
It’s easier to move out of the way—
Trouble passes, one remains
To proceed with plodding step
Along one’s path.
(3)
Time’s slow arc
(34)
All the variables led here
As inevitable as this morning’s
Sun striking the sycamore’s white
Bark; no god laughs as our choices.
(14)
A left, a right, a yes, a no:
Life’s crushed to binary.
(16)
I close an eye
To see the obvious
Connection: the moment.
(15)
I stumble step across a bridge
Swinging above a crevasse.
(21)
No saints guide us home,
Nor care how far we fall.
The emptiness opens
Like an aura.
(43)
This morning everyone sleeps in
As fog drifts between the trees
Near the creek and the gray sky.
The last brown leaf has fallen
From the sycamore; the solstice
Passed under a full moon.
(30)
Dusk and dawn, progressive
And simultaneous, flow through
The landscape. Yet, we think
Our futile actions have consequence.
(19)
Like you,
Light bends
Along each wave’s edge
Into separate
And singular parts.
Owning the room
As he does
With ease,
Insecurity
Blunders
Through the door,
And takes
His place
On the sofa
Near me.
I try to leave,
But can’t.
I’m not sure
Why.
(November 29, 2018)
W
“and I am
out with hanterns, looking for myself”
–Emily Dickinson
Despite the lights in the house,
The darkness penetrates.
It assumes positions in corners,
Presumptuous in its domain.
Like lions pace a cage’s confines,
I am lost in loops of thought
Looking for a set of keys
Which will let me inside.
Yet, there is no rest within
Nor without which can comfort
Enough to bring a closure;
Locked in my obsessions,
I worry each item in turn,
Tangled like tumblers at a fair.
(November 26, 2018)
at best—
a bird flits
across the yard
with a divine grace
from bush to tree top
as if each wing-beat,
dip, and glide
were planned
more likely— I wing
each moment; in chaos
I flail, arms akimbo—
a cartoon character
only cognizant as I fall
slowly through clouds
into a soft puff of dust
that pocks the ground
(October 4,2018)
“Chorus But there is no remembering the human mind.”
— Gertrude Stein
Even in the act,
the mind is not
remembered.
Memory is
remembered
as past.
Yet mind
mediates
creation
of a present
past cast
as memory–
a story still
told today.
(September 27, 2018)
as if an aura buzzed
a neon glow along an edge
of a byzantine saint
a low level dread burns
on the periphery of his days
like a star verging on collapse
everything everywhere constantly
distracts toward simple
chaos toward tangents
askew to well ordered
paths desired in his constant
scrabble for affirmation
instead of beatific joy
in the exploding universe