Thoughts You Probably Shouldn’t Share
The ferns clamber up the rocky slope, made by man (for it keeps the cars out of the lake).
Or are they climbing down?
You would have to sit and wait for a long time to figure it out.
When you liven a living inanimate animate object, you have to decide.
Because you have lost all relevant hope, the minute you let it decide for you.
I suppose it’s good that they did not choose the road to walk upon.
For, firstly, they have no feet.
And what’s more, they have no feet.
The December mist shrouds the firs, like upturned pens in a pot of white ink.
If I didn’t know better I’d think they went up forever.
But I do know better, though it will not be proven until June.
Seward Park, Seattle Washington
Only As Everything
It is very troublesome being grown up.
No more muddy feet, no more awakening.
Not in the sense of itself, only in the context of ‘other’.
Everything flawed reveals itself. Everything reveals itself.
Eventually flaw falls away, into the category of ‘stuff’ and ‘thing’.
Then everything is revealed again, this time only as everything.
The Little Rivers of Sweet
There was a little left, in the silver moat – around the bottom.
Like the last sip of root beer, and it left my hands all sticky.
A very heavy heel has landed, and it made that perfect noise.
A deeply quenching crunch – simple – but I have been floored,
bleeding my syrupy remains on the concrete that was swept years ago.
Now it has flowed into the valleys made by straw, and an army of thirsty ants is steadily descending upon the little rivers of sweet.
November 8, 2009
Am It Senseless?
Am it senseless?
Or is it full?
Did it makes sense?
I thought nought.
The Sanctuary House
August 17, 2010
Time Hooves On
It just keeps on dripping.
Drip, drop, clip, clop…
Time hooves on.
Time’s hooves dawn no shoes or socks.
Leather on neck or steel on tongue wield no power.
New York City
I do like to fish.
It is a pleasure I have only recently begun to embrace.
I especially like to catch pickled herring on poppy seed.
New York City
You Are MorningEarly creaks. Early cheeks. Early groan. Early knees. A child and a home. What birds? And what bees? In this good winter you find comfort. You needn’t smile child – just do not weep and cry. In this good winter you are warm. You needn’t smile child – for Time will never fail! Be a bundle. It is morning. Wait to kindle. You are morning. You’ve assumed nothing! You know all worth knowing. The Attic
December, 2009 Boarding the Kingston Ferry They’ve got Washington plates.
They’ve all got Washington plates.
But yet, here I sit,
with a twenty-five year old sunburn and an aversion to water, waiting to board.
I’m curious if everyone is as confused as I am-
I am. Edmonds Ferry Terminal
October 28th, 2010
ThanksgivingThanksgiving is coming.
Waddling up with suspenders taut, and unlaced boots- tongues flopped over. I saw the Christmas lights in the square get lit, during a grim, 4 O’Clock dusk, painstakingly, one at a time. It’s sunny again today, and the geese are out, flying around the sky, pointing over toward something I can’t quite see. Just over the horizon, the sea to the North, the sea to the South. Give thanks.
But not too much.
You don’t want to run dry. Lochwinnoch,
November 22nd, 2011 Assured, Necessary Winter The cattails have doubled over. Most of what is softer, or greener or more supple,
has just become completely submissive altogether. Any frost bears a burden. October, November, December, January, February
No partiality. A crisp, crinkly veneer with a soft, green center now sweeter than ever.
The cities still hum, with the occasional gasp and shiver. But they fight it, and they do not ever give up.
The cities’ winter dragoons. Salt and shovels and boilers and central heating and de-icing fluid and radiators and
snow plows and down parkas and studded snow tires and windshield wipers
and the calendar with next summer’s vacation already marked in, with that purple pen that sits by the telephone. All the while, the prairies
and the bluffs
and the knolls
and the oceans
and the deserts
and the mountains
and the rivers lie gracefully down, and gently nestle in,
with a slow anticipation of another assured, necessary winter. Barr Loch,
Thanksgiving day, 2011 Mario + Nicole It seems that I am the only one not talking to myself.
To the left is the lady who is the color of slate, and the zipper on her suitcase is wholly broken.
And there, the man with the wilderness in his eyes and eternal morning in his beard.
Scratched on the wall, Mario + Nicole are apparently forever bound, on the uptown B train. 33rd St Station
New York City
August 3, 2012 Arroyo, April Cardinal copper stained sock rings hang,
Pinned to the side of an ever fugitive dusk.
Black, crescent fingernails claw after the abandon, pleading a useless plead.
Some overhanging, some under. Trickling constantly.
A land mass of a forgotten October, Pangaea flattened, disrupted, dispersed.
The iron must be here, somewhere underground, making pools of jellied Spring.
Some of this morning’s light is caught in the branches of the willow,
hanging like a once been juried epithet.Home
Somewhere in the Humid Middle
I have traded.
Sage for proper Cedar
and sunlight for some coffee in a mug from somewhere near Mexico City.
Through that many rings of growth, and layers of bark,
can the core stay the same?
Can the outlast outwit the outwit?
In the store, I fumble over the small stones in the cardboard carton,
covering the fern’s mossy base.
My lover stands, buzzing from shoulder to shoulder,
with her bag strapped across her chest,
laughing at my
no sight at all.
We talk about the
plants and the
pots and the
people and the
She smiles her smile, and I smile mine.
They differ in approach, but are similar in substance.
They meet somewhere in the humid middle,
left of the succulents,
and right of the terrarium.
Our Lady of The Tall TreesOur Lady of the Tall Trees, and of the Not.
Our Lady of the Desert, and of the Sea.It has been brought to the edge, the edge of something big, but still barely out of view.
Even craning my neck, it is just around the corner.
But the corner is still the corner, and it will not straighten out for me,
even if asked politely.Even Our Lady of the Corner cannot change this.
Our Lady of the Tall Trees, is around the corner.
Ah! She is beautiful. A sight to behold, no doubt.
The Queen of the garden, in her robes of lettuce, and crown of rice.
Dinner is served.
How She Will Go
Fall is bare!I had seen Winter’s shoulder through the limbs.
Delicately draping herself on the valley floor.Summer’s shattered light can fall undeterred to pierce the earth, stuck upright.
This is not an outrage, she has by blessing to lie naked.Naked is how she came, naked is how she’ll go. I-64 Eastbound
2009 Day Is At Home For Day to break, it must have once been whole.
How glorious is a full Day, uninterrupted!The fingers of Night have no right here.
Songbirds will sing, and birdsong will ring,
in the ears of all worldly things!But Day is not broken! Nor will it ever be.
Day is at home in the sky. Day is at home, sleeping.
When day wakes, say ‘Good Morning.’
Chris & Suzanne’s Kitchen
As he greeted, I turned to allow my partner the first formalities.
I pushed through the rusty, iron gate, padded with an old, red scarf
to muffle the comings and goings.
The meadow was still muddy from the wettest June in one hundred and some odd years.
With my lover on the line, in her car, trembling over the bridge,
I debrief the five hour drive, and the advice given and avoided.
July 22, 2012