by
my face blurs as well
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (57)
i walk out into the brush
into a world not home
and there in the stream
in the moon-bright sky
i look from mirror
to water to window
and the air
blurs what I see
when I read it blurs
everything i’ve read
and like memory it becomes
what I know now
what I knew then
the story is seen
as what it is
always present
always a lie
(April 25, 2020)
afterthought
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (56)
a residue lingers in air
it curls like cats purr
their self-absorbed song
between your feet
and the lies you stand upon
most days the end of the sentence
arrives long after your focus
has blurred and you’ve slipped
from the book stunned
by the light in the street
no one but you sees the rabbit
scurry down the hole
for like a wolf the brush devours
any trace of stillness that remains
between the bluebonnets and clover
these are your thoughts your dislocations
like a floral hint upon a breeze
they vanish as you turn lost
in the thought you lost in turn
(April 24, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (58)
the day to day distorts
easier than cataclysm
they bend like fun house
mirrors a reflection
of a persistent truth
rather than shattered
into shards to slice
the skin into tatters
the blood seeps beneath
a blasted bit of bone
one seduces
like a lullaby
one
a merciful kill
(April 29, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (57)
I walk out into the brush
into a world not home
and there in the stream
in the moon-bright sky
I look form mirror
to water to window
and the air
blurs what I see
when I read it blurs
everything i’ve read
and like memory it becomes
what I know now
what I knew then
the story is seen
as what it is
always present
always a lie
(April 25, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (56)
a residue lingers in the air
it curls like cats purr
their self-absorbed song
between your feet
and the lies you stand upon
.
most days the end of the sentence
arrives long after your focus
has blurred and you’ve slipped
from the book stunned
by the light in the street
.
no one but you sees the rabbit
scurry down the hole
for like a wolf the brush devours
any trace of stillness that remains
between the bluebonnets and clover
.
these are your thoughts your dislocations
like a floral hint upon a breeze
they vanish as you turn lost
in the thought you lost in turn
(April 24, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (55)
to see clearly I look
through lenses
made and adjusted
over time as my vision
grew worse
I understand to see
I must cast off
all perceptions
accumulated
within my cliches
like now as i remove
my glasses
and rub
my dim eyes
(April 19, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (54)
what music does he hear
when he wakes in the night
and the moon has slipped
like ice through the window
(April 18, 2020)
by
Everything we do is futile, but we must do it anyway.
—Mahatma Gandhi
she dances
casting off ghosts
like skin
she has no bones
no laughter
to lace
the pettiness
tossed on her
like shrouds
to disguise the decay
she avoids
yet accepts
.
she dances
as her feet shuffle
a stolid beat
to disrupt silence’s
desolate
reign
she has no words
to mouth
against herself
no cloak
against the coldest
wind
(April 17, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (52)
i’m exhausted
all day
yet at night
i cannot
sleep
i slowly stir
in my residual
bits of damp fear
like tea leaves
twirling up
from the bottom
of a cup
(April 16, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (51)
as it falls
from a nearby tree
a leaf twirls
in the wind
like a whirligig
until it drops
silently
in the lazy creek
to spin away
unnoticed
except for me
(April 15, 2020)
The eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary figure is repeated with end.
–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Circles
I do not know where I am
nor by extraction where you
are in relation to me
other than someone else
.
when I look at you you become
the object of my sentence
a reference toward action
that is wholly defined in me
.
my eye contains the complexity
deep within the oyster’s pearl
layer upon layer’s luster
shines with time’s light
.
an accumulation of vision’s
blind devotion to itself
(April 14, 2020)
poetry is nothing
poetry is everything
poetry is thought
poetry is words
poetry is silence
poetry is emotion
poetry is gibberish
poetry is vague
poetry is ambiguous
poetry is precise
poetry is concise
poetry is babble
poetry is light
poetry is dark
poetry is mind
poetry is heart
poetry is hidden
poetry is everywhere
poetry is pervasive
poetry is absence
poetry is laughter
poetry is tears
poetry is love
poetry is hate
poetry is simple
.
poetry is nothing
poetry is everything
poetry is metaphor
poetry is plain
poetry is complex
poetry is slant
poetry is curved
poetry is bent
poetry is straight
poetry is cubed
poetry is convex
poetry is obtuse
poetry is infinite
poetry is hermeneutic
poetry is occult
poetry is transcendent
poetry is god
poetry is zen
poetry is buddha
poetry is Christ
poetry is religion
poetry is atheist
poetry is glib
poetry is serious
poetry is dirt
.
poetry is nothing
poetry is everything
poetry is earth
poetry is air
poetry is fire
poetry is water
poetry is elemental
poetry is irrelevant
poetry is submission
poetry is dominance
poetry is coy
poetry is rude
poetry is blatant
poetry is obvious
poetry is obscure
poetry is orgasmic
poetry is impotent
poetry is sex
poetry is flirtation
poetry is destruction
poetry is resurrection
poetry is creation
poetry is filth
poetry is shit
poetry is dust
.
poetry is nothing
poetry is everything
poetry is breath
poetry is death
poetry is ice
poetry is tongue
poetry is bowels
poetry is piss
poetry is you
poetry is me
poetry is us
poetry is other
poetry is privilege
poetry is poverty
poetry is gender
poetry is genderless
poetry is cadence
poetry is dissonance
poetry is power
poetry is gravity
poetry is nature
poetry is voice
poetry is spit
poetry is sight
poetry is blind
(April 11, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (50)
time does not flow forward it folds and turns
as mind rattles from thought to thought like rain
drops into puddles making the water
wetter as it vanishes from itself
.
the flow turns inward like the subduction
of one tectonic plate to another
it circles back in an eddy’s slow twirl
until its start is lost within its end
.
time takes its time to tell what time it is
what with the past’s present nature
contending with the present’s obsession
with tomorrow’s constant unravelling
.
then quite suddenly it’s no longer there
like your last stagnant puff of fetid air
(April 9, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (49)
our lives changed
around him
the first born
.
that summer he turned one
I read dante and the moderns
for grad school
.
at night I’d rock him singing
row row row your boat
until he’d drift to sleep
.
now he has a child
and that summer
floats away into dream
.
like a mountain river
we happily crossed
splashing in the sun
(April 7 2020)
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