November 29, 1995
Each drop traces a path
from puddle to river.
Water runs deep.
Gradually, I turn toward home.
I become angry, more at myself . . .
Only I can take me where I need to be.
(from “My Book of Changes,” 1994-1995)
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Hubris Waits in This Illusion
so self-assured you knowwhat everyone must doso easy to dictate other’s actionswhen you have nothing to loseso simple to be idealistically cleanwhen living within an abstractionso trapped in your tacit visionthat all must see for redemptionso sure your way is the wayfor everyone to blindly craveso oblivious to your echoesof those you claim to fight(December 13, 2013) -
to sleep perchance
by
if I could sleepeven a littleinstead of wakingthrough the nightto listen like nowto the darkwithout a pento answer backthen the day’sdistractionsmight pull awayand not intrudedomineeringwhat I say(December 11, 2013) -
trees and shadows
by
somewhere norainbows yetsomewhere yesother than herewe tussle somuch we becomesomething noone can knowwithout becomingas well whatwe abhor soinstead desireoccults our mindto avoid fulldischarge beneathan unforgiving moon(December 11, 2013) -
parsing
how do words meanwhat process unfolds the soundwhen do words meanbefore after or as we speakwhere do words meanwhat context allows a spacewhy do words meanwhat desire pulls the earwho do words meaneach one together alonewhat do words meaneverything and nothing(December 10, 2013) -
Look Up, Look Down
December 8, 1995The lake reflects the skyonly along the still surface.I tread water in the middleof a lake, softly floating, watchingthe clouds dance with their driftingreflections across the sky.(from “My Book of Changes,” 1994-1995) -
there
too tiredto think evenif it fits intothe only timeto think morethan is possibleas you scribblefrantically to catchthe final breathbefore hubrisslaps you sharplyand you wonderwhy you cringebeneath what yousay to hide whatyou want to sayso you leave itthere unsaidon the edgeof the marginbefore the pen’swet nib setslike a kissonto the acceptingsurface of the page(December 8, 2013) -
The Well
by
December 5, 1995With no one to talk to – –friends depart or lose interest.I look down into a well.The water remains clear;fish swim happily.I pick up my book and leave.(from “My Book of Changes, 1994-1995) -
if everything is art, then nothing is art
“nothing comes from nothing”William Shakespeare, King Lear, Act 1.1an arrogant yet thoughtlessaesthetic with only elanand a memory for namesto bastion his opinionsagainst irrelevance’smocking laughter(December 7, 2013) -
after waking
by
the dream drapes the air in discomfortlike an unwanted houseguestwho will not leavelong after the conversation has stalledand everyone is leftstaring at the flooras if praying for absolution(December 7, 2013) -
controlled breathing
I write tocontain if evenfor a momentthe slow breathas the wordbeneath the lastof the conversationslips into thisworld and shiftsslightly butsignificantlyeverything I seeto such a degreethat my bumblingattempts at lovefall into mockeryand self-flagellationand frighten youaway like a rabbitinto the brush(December 7, 2013)
