Thoughts, photographs, poetry, music etc.
WE HAD BEEN WALKING
We have been walking out here
For a very long time. The dark
Colored glass of this valley
Was making us sick. It might
Have been the smell that roiled
Through dressed like a five year
Yearning for blind angels to
Ministrate to us about the great
Mysteries.
God, she looked
So beautiful as the ornaments
Of sleep crept into her face.
We couldn’t stay here any longer
Let alone wait for the great
Wings to show us what was
Really meant by those circles
Beaten into the stones telling
Us to love all things. There was
Unrest in the weather.
We watched them cock their
Rifles and come down the rows.
SMOKING
Well something died or sounded like it
Did. There was a sharp crack, but not
Loud, a twig snapping or a glass
Marble checking into another.
The sound became constant.
Then the lurching. It probably was just
Me moving that way but I knew it
Wasn’t. I might see it all. The
Difference with which the minutes
Clicked past carrying foreboding
Like a small caliber pistol
Plus it was dark. I could hardly see
Anything but I knew it was all right,
All correct, all lined up ready to inspect.
Then the words started coming on their own.
They weren’t about to stop or claim
Inspiration. They belonged there with
Or without me at the reins.
I retired to the edge of the mesa where
I could look down on the whole thing
Not away from anything, not connected in any
Way, but so sure of myself I bought a pack
Of smokes and lit them one after
Another until they were gone
THE STONE BIRDS
The stone birds shattered
On the tiles just below the garden
Arch. Broken heads, bodies in
Pieces, more still than death is
Able to make us understand. There
Was no blood. It was not a great
Tragedy, just an unwinding, a slow
Unwinding of late morning
As we returned from the hill near
The edge of the sea, from watching the
Morning slide its fingers into the cove
Through the woods. You said the sun looked
As words might have looked had
There been sound beyond the soft
Ticking of the waves into the coolness.
No, it was just the fact they were
Broken. The end of a sentence or
The beginning of a lesson we hadn’t
Contracted to understand.
“Raccoons”, the gardener said, “They will
Do things like this occasionally. I think
they do it just to see what it looks like,
Just to see what will happen.”
DEAD END
Whatever went wrong went
Terribly wrong. The road just
Ended. No signs at all, no rails,
Just stopped as if there was something
Much more important to do than
Be a road any longer. It was only
About a third of a mile long and
Had begun to attempt a passage
Through a small wooded area.
It looked as if it hasn’t mattered
Much, that no one had come that way.
There was no garbage, no dumping. Just
A stopping, a way of saying that this
Could happen anywhere just as unexpectedly.
A QUESTION OF VERACITY
Brave little moment repeating
Itself, waiting for the mind
With its fine tigers to parade
Through, earnest in their spectacles
Of calm madness hovering
Along the same roads we travel,
Waiting for the mind, for us
To find the crowded streets
Sweating like skin tattooed
With a symbol that will lead
Us through these same stone
Streets always expecting,
Always arranging them one
After another, as if they could
Mean something more than
The borders of our madness,
Our rush to see them sorted out
Hoping this means we really exist.
CEREMONY
So many voices. A chorus
Speaking together. There is
Grace in the way the words
Form here. We have no idea
What is being said. But there
It is, pure and outlandish
As late June with its
Dreams of water and Summer
Love caught in its loins.
We walk along the sidewalks
On the edges of the park.
The fireflies are just starting
To be seen so we sit and wait
For the dark to consume everything.
I am in love with you, you
The one reading this. I want to
Take you in my arms and touch
You intimately, make love with you
With great ceremony and unbridled lust,
To be a chorus within you, not
Singing at all, but speaking so we
May hear in our core, abandoning gender,
Fine and carnal, pleading another kind
Of Summer, another mouth upon yours
Where speech stops attending us
Where all becomes sensation,
Steam rising from the ocean surface
Even before dawn is aware of it.
RAMBLES
The pink reminders of the evening
Have gathered themselves into the corners
Where the light has its own agenda.
The cornfields in their ranks and files
Start their parades delving into the mysteries
As they spiral upwards into fractals
Worshipped like the poor will objects able
To be possessed. We skate among them
Challenged by our wrong intentions, crashed
Into by dreams and ransacked by the arrogance
The mind handles to confuse us with lucid
Moments that defy time, leaving us on
The edge of our beds at three or four
A m trembling and unable to put the body
To rest again so that we may mount
the pastel boats of the nights flickering
Ships and use them as the vehicles
We need to consume the far shore
And ride home again, more or less
Complete upon waking and filled
With tales the night has told morning
Even as it steals from its bower fading
As it does so, convincing in its
Description of foolish wisdom.
A TRAVELER’S TALE
In the blood of evening we wade
Through the moments listening for thunder,
Something we can rely on before we wash
Our legs to get ready for the night.
I do not understand why we continue
To reach for one another but I do
Participate. Perhaps it is for the feel
A hand might might have touching near the heart,
Asking a forgiveness that is non-specific
But well meant, wanting something to be
Done before the whole place becomes
Dark and we stumble from one pool
Of light to another never sure our direction
Is correct or even necessary, Before
It gets too dark to see your eyes
Before me. Perhaps we will be in love.
Perhaps we will find a doorway for a
Moment, crouch there and begin to relate
Stories to each other as if it were
Important for us to hear them.
I will tell you how I came here
Across the wine dark sea of ancient
Time and found myself just outside the city
At this time of day, traveling with
the others past the dim orchards,
Seeing the fires on the horizon, hoping
Rest would be full of peace, quiet
Song and the precious company
And comfort one might find here.
It seems a long way to travel
To find only the bloody failing
the light is intent on illuminating.
We begin to call to one another,
Softly at first, then louder
Always trying to make the new
Distinctive, luxurious to discuss
And comely in its transformation,
Its shading, its interlocked devices,
Our commerce in its patterns, always new,
Always skillful, filled with a fragrance
Unbound by the finality of daylight,
Praying we may never be so totally alone.
HAMMERING IT HOME
This should be a voice.
The should be a red voice.
I did not know that this
Would have this appearance,
That it would seem to be a collection
Of stars at a window, the blue
Eating away at where the moon
Was just reaching. This does not
Appear to be a voice. It is
So silent. I can’t get back
To it often enough. There isn’t
A sensation of sound at all.
Shaking the sleep away with
A voice. How can this be
As it seems. I will write
It down here. I will come
Here to listen. I will not know
Anything but the voice.
I will not be reading at all.
I will know what this really is.
FARM
I was once a farm.
The soft lips of dairy cows
Across my skin. The wheat
Discovering the sun and yes
The vegetables, huge books
Full of them, gardens they were
Called and too the rooster
And the hens and cats and dog,
A lamb, three goats in pens,
A pig, then two and Tommy
Took a horse awhile, and that
Was nice. His day: the pumps
And wagons, tools and working
The while. I was once
A farm. And now, a vacant parking lot
At the side of a Target store.
