i called the time of my father’s death
now i remember it every april 22nd
the moment is in the morning
looking clear but it also might rain
there’s a strong breeze flying clouds
.
i’m the clock with a brain and eyes
noting how his last breaths go in and out
his pursed lips as if he were taking air
under water through a reed
each breath a little less and a little less
to the point where i had to lean over
and listen & listen all receding into silence
then nothing how could he be so still
.
later we had a wake and cut slices of cake
there were sunflowers
he loved sunflowers
i never knew
there was much about him
i never knew
.
we flow from moment to moment
in this life like we are fixed here
or as if riding on a gentle stream
but the current is deep
and it ends in oblivion
but enough of that
enjoy the scenery with me today
look at the banks of the river
the sky and all the things we can see
choose to enjoy it despite the fact
it ends in so many ways
though exalted and amazed
in what you receive
everything granted
is also being taken back
tut tut let go let go
breath
breath
breath
....
...
..
.
.
.
love this
and you will
find freedom
----
for my Father
"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.
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
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Bruce Lee comes over, while I am discovering the dryer didn’t dry my clothes, and one of my shorts has snagged on a pin that keeps the dryer door shut, and it has wound itself around a bunch of shirts, turning them into ropes. It requires a lot of untwisting. Bruce sits on the couch smiling, twinkling his eyes while I untangle them. He’s like a cherub or an angel, just perched there on the couch in the living room, surrounded by paintings. When I get done, I close the screen door to the patio, and I smile at him.
“Are you talking today?” I ask.
Bruce Lee doesn’t reply.
He keeps smiling and looking up and down at the magic wonder contained in everyday things. He does that long enough, I can’t resist seeing it myself.
It is like the livingroom has become a fantastical garden, clothed in endless gems. There seems to be an inviting melody too, played above.
Then Bruce leaves.
It takes a bit, like a drawn out sigh — the other reality slowly seeps back in, like a fog.
But it is as only as full of sighs or as foggy, as I’ve decided to grow up. So I keep seeing hints of gems, and I’m reminded of bits of cosmic music.
If I tell Bruce Lee about this if he comes back, I bet he’d be proud. But I don't know if he’d talk.
— -
CM Evans
Quail Meadow
this word salad
with robot dogs
a carbon neutral clown
able to cry and save the world
one flea at a time
----
seven inches of snow
projected to fall
*
flexibility to share
and feel accurately
cooperate with cross people
technically minded
and slyly knowable
bringing out the best
from bad situations
with a pinch of excitement
and everlasting love
*
It wasn't my problem, and the solution was not an exotic one. We simply needed to get the appropriate specimen. We'd wire them into the cage, and extract a portion quickly, they'd barely feel a thing.
8
The aliens that escaped the containment fields were all complete, unique, and yet similar.
Dr. Maarten was eaten first, there was something about Mrs. Ktech that caused them to totally disregard her.
#
In resignation I stared out the small window, on that long fall day. The world was full of color, dazzling yellow leaves twirling past my view. As a renunciate, I was permitted only to whisper if someone came close enough to my square porthole. It was the only light into the tiny cell behind me, with a small table, a cot, and a large holy book. In article XXII, I was permitted to look out this window between the time of noon, until the sun touched the tower over the sanctuary. I had no idea how long I had been in here, but my hair and beard were down to my waist.
*
Not being native speakers of English, my parents decided to name my little sister Division Rebellion Preoccupation. It did not matter how much I pleaded, or begged, for them to reconsider. To them, from the small place they came from, these words sounded exciting, powerful, compelling. Which happens to be my name. I sign it as "X". My parents are deeply in love, and so happy for us, even so silly, that I end up forgiving them.
-
Every June 13th on the Foolish Calendar, we commemorate the Raising of the Chin. This is when St. Abracadabra fell into the open sewer and was able to get his head above the surface one time, before he was drowned.
_
For that small piece of paper to disappear -- a well worn stained hand-written claim, it was no small action. And I suspected there was a certain primal, mutual feeling between me and the clerk: for me, they would never find the gold. For the clerk, they'd never discover the body.
_
At first sight, there was no pleasure to see that gate. But then as it creaked and rattled, metal quivering as it was raised, a strange calm came over me. The spikes were dripping and had muck on them from the river. We bobbed under them, the oarsmen silently working, averting their eyes. A dot of black landed on my sleeve. There were many lords and officials to see me up the stairs.
I bought the lie-detector from a merchant in the jungle. It was brand new, still in its box and shiny plastic wrappings. The box was a bit battered and stained, but it was oddly thrilling to hear that crinkling noise and the faint whiff of "new" when I unboxed it. It gleamed like a jewel under the swaying flickering single bulb light, on the rickety bamboo table. I took a deep breath and wiped the perspiration off my forehead, cheeks, and jowls. I avoided looking at myself in the small mirror, above which was a small crucifix. With the dim lighting, the mirror appeared to be a deep hole in the wall.
"Bring the señor in." I said, almost to myself. "And a sturdy chair."
Abanto, sitting on the other side of the door jumped up, to obey.
I watched the swaying single light.
"Doctor, the señor is not here." said Abanto.
I looked at him, we looked at each other without expression.
In the room made of concrete blocks, the shackle and chain were gone. I tested the bars on the locked door, they were firm and beaded with humidity.
How had he escaped? And now what would become of I, and Abanto?
After the crash, I found a berry, a single berry, on the point. The point was a place that was high and windswept. I put it under a lid. I looked at the looming trees all around, the deep forest that surrounded me. Who knew what was in those woods? I was probably going to starve.
---
i remember you teaching
on those hot summer days
how i longed to see you
ask you a thousand questions
you were only 1 door away
and you would have been
happy for my visit i am sure
but i acted like i wasn't allowed
there were many of us
vain imaginative excited
and a bit overdramatic
but always welcomed
now mellowing with time
missing you just the same
and i aim to fix what does
not need to be fixed by praying
devotedly and attempting
to spread what you were really teaching
and what was ever in your heart
then you remind me again
everything is resolved in its own place
from the beginningless beginning
from the view
love unconditionally
this endless beauty
and be aware of now
--
July 22
Minneapolis, MN
For Lama Tharchin Rinpoche
away you go on this day
like off a spingboard or
on a rocket
or i am off the
board and flying
on the rocket
ultimately we don't
come or go so much
as it seems
---
LTR
The body was laying straight, forearms up. Clothing & skin had a thin layer of frost mixed with soil of a uniform brown color. The face, almost unrecognizable, was contorted.
I looked at the two, who were nervously shifting foot to foot.
"We should go over your timeline again. This is very important."
"Yessir."
"Tell me what happened first."
"Backed into the wall."
"Saw a hole"
"Then we saw a body."
I looked at them steadily.
"How long was it between when you put the hole in the wall, and you found the body?"
"Um. Er. Right away!"
"You are lying to me."
"No sir!"
"Why are you lying?"
"We aren't."
"You are! There had to be some time that passed between you backing into the wall, and then you retrieving your vehicle, and then finding a body."
"5 hours." said one of them
"Because it was stuck?"
"Yessir"
"Anything else you want to revise?"
"No Sir."
"Pardon me. But how did you know at all these boys were being dishonest about their timeline? How does that influence the fact that a body has been found?"
I looked at the superintendent. "It has everything to do with how the body was found."
The superintendent widened his hands, "So?"
"See the crystals and tearing on the edges of the clothing? This body has been moved from a different location. Someone placed it here after the hole was put into the wall."
There isn't supposed to be murder on Mars. That is an Earth custom, a sense of the old barbarism from our planet of origin. The body was found in the old tunnels, it had become freeze dried where it had been stashed.
"Tell me again how this was found."
"Varne Warren226 backed a sledge into the wall there, and we saw a hole."
"What were you doing down here, past the 3K markers?"
"Rat hunting, scrapping."
"They say these tubes here are haunted!"
I could see how someone would think these were haunted. Gloomy, unlit. Frosted. These were the old warrens and access corridors, bored through the Martian rock.
When I looked at it, I involuntary shuddered. Lights from our headlamps slashed and raised monstrous shadows.
"Have you touched the body, moved anything?"
"No sir."
"Hmmm" I could see that someone had.
i watch the clouds
at night
i listen to the
pine tree
blowing in the wind
in the backyard
>
i imagine
it tells me
of every rising
and setting
sun moon and
star it ever
felt and how
i am so young
and how
i will be
gone so quick
>
scampering
some more
memorable
than others
>
so now
for my tree
i give it
a fine bed of
needles for
the snow
to fall on
as if
i could
keep it
warm
>
do trees
actually feel
or think?
i ask
the sky
>
no reply
yet but
the magnificence
of every
thing i see
hints
—
CM Evans
