from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (62)
all
falls
to
ash
(June 16, 2020)
the means’ end
limbo (a reading)
limbo
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (61)
months of laconic weeks drift
past as the centuries two-step
a dance macabre about the village
square like old lovers late at night
dance slowly arms entwined
in a practiced grace
your death’s not important
to them any more than mine
only this dance matters
the horror of it lies
in the death head’s grin
which does not pretend
to hide its deception
there is no skin to map
its laughter into flowers
across our blind eyes
no dead platitudes to act
as balm for our world in flames
(June 14, 2020)
limbo
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (61)
months of laconic weeks drift
past as the centuries two-step
a dance macabre about the village
square like old lovers late at night
dance slowly arms entwined
in a practiced grace
your death’s not important
to them any more than mine
only this dance matters
the horror of it lies
in the death head’s grin
which does not pretend
to hide its deception
there is no skin to map
its laughter into flowers
across our blind eyes
no dead platitudes to act
as balm for our world in flames
(June 14, 2020)
Surface Tensions
“stop, children, what’s that sound
everybody look what’s going down”
—Stephen Stills
Another day spreads across the sky
as the flood waters continue to rise.
There is little to stand upon now
that does not tip into complicity.
Ice melts along its edges. One moment
we are there watching the turmoil
below our feet, then the ice is gone,
and we are all breathing water,
floundering in the lies we live.
Our words fill our lungs, and
silence gurgles past our lips
as we slip slowly deeper
beneath the cold gelatinous sea,
to drown in our undeserved comforts
(June 8, 2020)
Contained & Vanishing Point (a reading)
Contained
“I contain multitudes”
-Walt Whitman
I am not a voice,
but an echo of silence—
before and after.
Like dried flowers in old books,
I live pressed within these folds.
(May 27 2020)
Vanishing Point
“Falling is one of the ways of moving.”
— Merce Cunningham
Finding walls
where there were
none before,
I stumble,
and fall
toward a point
perceived as distance,
yet, always here.
What I see is
only what I know;
perception’s a deception
one swallows entire.
The eye’s led on
from the outside in.
(June 2, 2020)
Vanishing Point
“Falling is one of the ways of moving.”
— Merce Cunningham
Finding walls
where there were
none before,
I stumble,
and fall
toward a point
perceived as distance,
yet, always here.
What I see is
only what I know;
perception’s a deception
one swallows entire.
The eye’s led on
from the outside in.
(June 2, 2020)
Contained
“I contain multitudes”
-Walt Whitman
I am not a voice,
but an echo of silence—
before and after.
Like dried flowers in old books,
I live pressed within these folds.
(May 27 2020)
Control’s an Illusion
I negotiate the moment:
the shape of a shell;
the color of a shoe;
the proper knot for a noose;
what was said when,
and to whom. As if time
whispers the secrets
it finds in tide pools:
what belongs
scuttling in the rocks,
and what has washed in
with the last full moon.
(May 24, 2020)
enough (a reading)
enough
a stir of air around a leaf
a hesitation brief enough
to give pause to be still
to listen through the quick silence
for the birds’ chatter and flirt
to return and then it doesn’t
and it doesn’t matter
that you missed it
there’s always enough
for any day to be enough
(May 11, 2020)
enough
a stir of air around a leaf
a hesitation brief enough
to give pause to be still
to listen through the quick silence
for the birds’ chatter and flirt
to return and then it doesn’t
and it doesn’t matter
that you missed it
there’s always enough
for any day to be enough
(May 11, 2020)
