from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (62)
all
falls
to
ash
(June 16, 2020)
-
limbo (a reading)
by
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
by
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)
-
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)
by
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
by
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)
-
dark earth (a reading)
by
dark earth
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (60)
obsessively the earth gives birth
to its dead rich and fertile
safe inside itself unseen
unvoiced like ecstatic dancers
beneath a moon-bright sky
the earth lifts the rose
the oak twisting and throbbing
into the air so i burrow deep
beneath the black soil a worm
gnashing rocks like prayers
until i find a darker god
and somewhere in the black clay
an old woman natters
lost in perpetual disappointment
as a death skull’s laughter’s
trapped in his life’s delusion
(May 7, 2020)
-
dark earth
by
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (60)
obsessively the earth gives birth
to its dead rich and fertile
safe inside itself unseen
unvoiced like ecstatic dancers
beneath a moon-bright sky
the earth lifts the rose
the oak twisting and throbbing
into the air so i burrow deep
beneath the black soil a worm
gnashing rocks like prayers
until i find a darker god
and somewhere in the black clay
an old woman natters
lost in perpetual disappointment
and a death skull’s bored laugh’s
trapped in his life’s delusion
(May 7, 2020)
-
Infinite Watched Pot (a reading)
by
Infinite Watched Pot
“That is, if you write it has it happened twice”
—Michael Palmer, Notes for Echo Lake
I woke and now it is now; the sun’s setting.
Was the writing the thing that happened?
Would today happen without being written?
Are they two events or one?
I see something—
like a car crash,
or water boiling on the stove.
One’s disconnected,
one’s intentional, possibly
even a causation; for example;
I’m hungry, so
I hop in the car for a burger.
She was in a hurry. It was
raining. She slams through a yellow light.
The driver in front of me dies
on the wet street. Or,
I’m still hungry. I hold dry
pasta knowingly, and watch
as the tiny bubbles form
on the bottom of the pot.
Did anything happen?
I am hungry, and will be
each time you read this,
even if I was the driver
who died, or I just wrote
it down; even if something
more than this
was in my thoughts
as I waited for water
to boil.
(May 3, 2020)
-
Infinite Watched Pot
by
“That is, if you write it has it happened twice”
—Michael Palmer, Notes for Echo Lake
I woke and now it is now; the sun’s setting.
Was the writing the thing that happened?
Would today happen without being written?
Are they two events or one?
I see something—
like a car crash,
or water boiling on the stove.
One’s disconnected,
one’s intentional, possibly
even a causation; for example;
I’m hungry, so
I hop in the car for a burger.
She was in a hurry. It was
raining. She slams through a yellow light.
The driver in front of me dies
on the wet street. Or,
I’m still hungry. I hold dry
pasta knowingly, and watch
as the tiny bubbles form
on the bottom of the pan.
Did anything happen?
I am hungry, and will be
each time you read this,
even if I was the driver
who died, or I just wrote
it down; even if something
more than this
was in my thoughts
as I waited for water
to boil.
(May 3, 2020)
-
fog
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey”(59)
of course it’s never either or
a yes a no one path or some other
no matter how far you attempt to see
before it bends in the brush
or how detailed the pro con list
you lay out with little checks
primly contained in tightly drawn boxes
your life is always cluttered
with could haves would haves buts
yets and never-minds
all the vaguely grey spaces
where it’s troublesome to see
as if your smudged glasses were removed
in order to clean the day’s detritus
away and what blurred clarity
you possessed expands and smears
toward an ever-darkening horizon
(May 2, 2020)
subtext 