I can almost see the sun move
near the tree tops, he says,
then I hear the kettle whistling.

Spent the day indoors,
a crossfire of vices.
Don’t know what to feel,

the cassette whispering
from my room: as side B plays,
A runs in reverse.

So I’m wondering how
to see all events equally.

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Another Night

April 12, 2017

The dust of the earth
Settles in the horizons;
Atmospheric window-pane
Becomes unclouded.

The tarnished moon,
Cleans as its edge may seem,
Suffers eons.

It seems the stars
Sing muted melodies,
Forlorn in their age.

Consumed by time,
Separated by time,
This universe.

Constellations
Traced by my tired eyes–
Is there a story
In entropy?

And I wonder
what the ancients saw at night.

The River

May 20, 2016

I have found my path,
Springing from the earth
In accordance with my
Innermost necessity.

Truly have I felt
Inexhaustible,
Carving myself a place–
Being nothing but motion

Indeed, I shape things,
Fitting them to me.
Still, I am diverted:
I, the river of willing.

A poem by Basho

March 28, 2016

One after another

In silence succession fall

The flowers of yellow rose —

The roar of tumbling water.

 Matsuo Basho, Records of a Travel-worn Satchel

19 Feburary

March 3, 2014

The atmospheric masses headed West today.
And I am perusing the cypress here
Wanting nothing.

The garden-lot is dimmed
For their eternal migration,
Closed in on itself,
Having been passed over
This afternoon. The lichen,
And even the frustrated vines
Have on the brick wall taken on
A steel-blue, pallid hue.

The occupants of this garden
Are not without indifference to horizons but
also possess
Some kind of permanence.

Great literatur…

February 28, 2014

“Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree.”

Ezra Pound

“If your daily …

April 5, 2013

“If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches…there is no poverty and no poor indifferent place.”

Rainer Maria Rilke, from the collection of Letters to a Young Poet

In Our Honor

October 11, 2012

You and me and all our friends and

We are all the shit.

We are all the shit.

 

‘Til the culture flees, escapes us

Dresses us in clothes outdated

Even then they won’t replace us.

We are all the shit.

We are all the shit.

 

By the virtue of our knowledge

Tuned to tact and what makes most sense

Don’t forget within this sector

We are all the shit.

We are–until

 

Earth with its unbiased vengeance

Cuts the leash on microorganisms

After our own bodies play the traitor.

They will join the cycle:

We will all be shit.

We will all be shit.

Dance of the Fly

Gratuitous petals that fall from the brink
Cause a pretender, waken the sphinx
Clasping grenades with the plunder anew
Breaking a still in a bottle.

Unspeakable flongos that scuttle the wake
Gird a reliant, sufferable fate
Grasping the bridge that pretendeth the night
Stooping a stalk to the water.

Bring a collective to settle the walls
Taking a bath, scraping the calls
Fidgeting stopholders blending én rue
Pouring a gallon gallomph.

SPEAK TO ME TIDES O’ER STRUGGLE A’YONDER
SLICE OPEN TIDES TO THE PEALS OF GREAT THUNDER
CORNER THE FRACTALS IN ALL OF THEIR ESSENCE
SQUANDER A SPURT OF REDEMPTION.