Tuesday, February 20, 2024

i say i will

i say i will 
not shudder

but i do 

and i feel 
a certain injustice 

that says more about me 
than you 

and you 
knew this 

and i do
too

Monday, February 19, 2024

men and women see places in the night differently

men and women see places in the night differently
men see doors and the kind of entrances and exits
women look to the windows and all the glittering 
i lingered by the base of the tarpeian rock on a winter evening
and i imagine the kinds of shadows and echoes that floated
high over plaster ceilings with oil lamps held by slaves 
and the ramparts supposedly secure a night owl calling to another

we are responsible for everything we do hero or villain
the response and magnifications of the world are harsh 
even absurd to the level of myth that keeps one forever wondering
when were we truly innocent &
trying to remember all the feelings
when one was 
that way  


*
 


"Honey, Mr. Bee is not from dimensional space ... "

 "Honey, Mr. Bee is not from dimensional space, so his attempts at humor will be different from ours. But he is not harmful. He never has been." 

"Yes darling, but when he turned your face blue, it was just for an afternoon, and Mrs. Simmons wasn't bothered by rhyming every other word over that 3 day weekend. She said it felt novel. She is a poet, after all, and she still teaches him poetic theory on Wednesdays."

"I will talk to Mr. Bee and remind him, most firmly." 

The caller then noticed me, after he had placed his phone in his pocket. "I do apologize if my conversation was too loud." 

I shook my head.

"In any case, our lab is funded though the public, and anyone is welcome to attend ... a totally open and above board program, with no hidden agendas." 

I nodded.

"Here is my card, you are welcome to drop by anytime and talk to the Departments."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Oh, the Departments? Time, Space, Novelty, Linear Theories, Circular, Things, Clouds, Weather, and Harmony."

The train pulled up to the station.

"Goodbye!" said the caller with the card.

Saturday, January 27, 2024

at dusk i hear a man whistling




at dusk i hear a man whistling
just a few notes 

he's going somewhere
on the sidewalk up front 

the sound of the tune
has to bounce just right 

to reach my ear 
in the very back room 

as i type

.

.

.

but how do i know
he's a man or he's going?

or they are whistling
a tune?

i go to the front
and look down

no one is there


*

say i am thinking about nothing




say i am thinking about nothing
i say i am thinking of nothing

what i am thinking about is how we take on new names
i am thinking about when separated we all get older

i am thinking about the soft shock sometimes when we meet
after many years and what that would be like magnified by never dying 

vast trees and mountains with a view of the sea never move except for growing 
what is seen is always in sight for them so they are not disturbed this way

i will never be immortal nor will you always coming and going 
meeting and remeeting each other over waves and foam of beginningless beginning

we should become like little birds that ride on the tides of becoming & destruction 
never ruffled or afraid or feeling away from home as the swell goes up or down

even when time seems to break into a storm 
full of prayers we go along

and then when the air is calm no concerns


**



Monday, January 01, 2024

every day should i allow myself to enter it with grace



every day however i see it and allow myself to enter it with grace
becomes that absolute solace of 'everything is new' but acting so seals the deal 
.
no matter what this is the first day of all the days and my lack of mental control
makes it seem like a bouncy house i blame you for the turmoil
.
later of course i love everyone like the statues of beings that love 
i have gathered a few over my bookcases and paintings
.
they are as indispensable as railroad crossing signals 
or the offramps trucks can ride into when they have no brakes
.
if you are there look at the chamomile blossoms on the hillside and red stone you tread on
i took them all for granted but now let us set that aside and have this new day 


---

1/1/24

Sunday, December 31, 2023

down by a lost stream after the rain



down by a lost stream after the rain
in the back of an office park seen better days 
.
ducks by small pieces of trash the ducks looking good
earth on the riverbank black with glistening roots
.
i've lost the love of someone it happened the other day 
ducks in the water now swimming splashing washing 
.
they can be fine in a castoff creek by a shamble of a place
so i can be as well no matter what or how i think 
.
living with broken plans until they are not seen as broken
an Almighty dwelt as if from a great distance with aims
.
then no distance no other personality or plans or mind required
faith by not believing in what seems impossible but through seeing 
.
realizing what one did and a few vital actions
while visiting the ducks the trash the stream

*

12/31/23

Sunday, October 29, 2023

A report from the edge of night

A report from the edge of night: Bikini clad girl immerses herself in the waves, the surface looks like silver strands. She adjusts her top and dives under the curling water. Someone methodically breaks down a beach umbrella, clack, clack, noises almost like shells and stones rinsed by the surf. A father holds his son’s hand as the small boy goes round and round and round his father. Now the sand looking like aluminum in the fading light, streaming sheets of water put up by the surf. There is a claw of a cloud that raises up to grasp at the half moon, but it is untouchable.

In the fading light at the beach, it becomes light purple. On the horizon are rain clouds, across this view teenagers run to the surf. They grab each other’s hands and run back up away from the waves screaming. In the fading light a solitary beachgoer doomscrolls, then they put the phone down. They sink into a trance, resting their chin on one hand. They’ve connected with the horizon and the rain on the edge of view with the fading light. More people appear talking and talking … ready to take pictures of themselves, then forgetting in the fading purple light and the smell of the ocean overtakes thoughts, pretense, assumptions, perfume. The half moon overhead, over everyone’s shoulders. It smolders like a white ember in the sky, or possibly it signifies a clock half run to some end. The solitary beachgoer grabs their shoes, and goes.


— -


Cove Beach