Half a century,
With all its doings,
Worked a lot of change,
But it’s true in North
America still,
That the homes folks make
Where the natural
Beauty is intense
Are almost always
Pictures of decay,
Of desuetude
Or incompletion,
Even on estates
Meant for second homes—
The perimeters
Conceal raw projects
Kept under blue tarps
Or canvas blankets.
It’s as if nature
Intimidated
With too much beauty
Or as though surplus
Of scenic beauty
Made a tidy home
Seem slightly foolish—
But this isn’t true
Around the whole world,
After all. Maybe
Something more local
Governs the habit
Of half-finished sheds,
Cabins in Tyvek,
Fowl pens, lumber piles,
Trailers up on blocks,
The last, too-large house
On a double lot
In the incomplete
Subdivision chain
Of pseudo-mansions,
Just sitting empty,
A lonely tribute
To the mountain range
Rising behind it,
Or to the ocean
Rising toward it.
Monday, September 30, 2024
When You Were an Adolescent, You First Noticed Ugly Houses Sprawl in Pretty Places
Cauliflower Grows More Contagious
Stag beetles and buttons, Sequoia
Announced as the topics over lunch
On that penultimate afternoon
Of another astronomical
Summer, one that had happened to start
Under the threat of imminent death
And that was ending on this drive home
From home, that is from emotional
Home to legal place of residence,
From Slocanada to Springdale,
Still under threat of imminent death,
But an imminence that was feeling
Less imminent with every good breath.
Stag beetles, buttons, cauliflower,
Sequoia had amended her list.
We were dragging out that lunch, that last
Meal on the north side of the border,
Under a glass roof mesmerizing
In storms and blinding on sunny days.
We joked about food and what lives do
To make meals of more lives making meals—
In the end, we took a box to go,
Crossed back over the border in sun,
Turned to face an imminent season.
Sunday, September 29, 2024
Dragonfly with Crutches
Do you, did you belong to the times
In which you grew up, or to stories
About what was happening to you?
What times exist without tales of them?
Probably not yours. Let’s guess you’re theirs,
Thanks to belonging to their stories.
You and all the stories part of you,
And all the stories that you’re part of.
The big, generational stories
That lump people scattered over years,
Historical stories of events
That shadowed the world during your life.
And the little things like when you went
To get a tattoo with your father
And pushed your way through nos and maybes
And one last-minute cancellation,
To wind up at sunset by the lake,
Getting a small dragonfly design
With a secondary black graphic
Of lean black crutches superimposed
On the insect’s abdomen to wear
On your wrist for the rest of your life.
There Waiting
The phrases started to show,
But then they came to a halt.
Outside a bedroom window
In a small, green mountain town,
Maple leaves, still large and dark,
Moved slightly in sunny air
Against a brilliant blue sky.
In your mind, another scene
Entirely had taken hold—
Dark, flannel-grey, filtering snow
Through deeply wooded evening.
Which scene were you living in?
Neither, you thought to yourself,
I am living in neither.
Blue Murder
My yard has no sun
My porch has no daughter
My sun has no forests
My moon has no father
The left world is closer
The right world is harder
My sun porch is sunless
My shade tree is murder
Saturday, September 28, 2024
Thunderhead
Would you really rather know
Uncanny omens that worked,
Over the weather forecast?
It’s not uncanny enough
How often statistics work?
You still crave the ominous.
This is the human mind’s way—
Find and use something that works,
But stay in love with the dark
Hope that doesn’t really work,
That you wouldn’t want to work,
If you thought it really could.
Then They All Burned
It sinks down. Can you . . .
You can take something like this
But not this, later . . .
The light crawls along
The edge of the wildfire cliff
From this perspective,
Now the fires are gone,
So barely surviving pines
Look like a sad line
Of soldiers climbing
The thin, scorched crest to nothing
Much they know about . . .
You have. There were rules.
Seasons, time, syllable counts.
Friday, September 27, 2024
Things That You Will Never Do
A Several World
An obvious fact—
Each one is not one;
Everyone’s many.
Unity depends
More on not being
Any other one
Than on being one.
In our several
Worlds we’re wary
Of different things.
We know how discomfort
And pain can begin
With no intention
Ever of ending.
We stay in our world
Where fewer new things
Need to be understood
To survive. Sometimes,
We get past barriers,
Encourage each other,
Speak of wariness,
Leap past, become friends.
By courage, sometimes,
We reach out our hands.
Visitor in the Front Yard
Rummaged to the sun
In the maples ranged
On opposite sides
Of the Main Street, gold
At this hour, after
The downpour, before
Sunset commences,
You roll across lawn
That’s mostly clover
And dandelions.
You’re a show watching
A show that’s watching.
Thursday, September 26, 2024
Was There a Coat in the Hall?
He became a fairy tale
With a talent for the dark
Arts of allegory,
Or an allegory
With a talent for the dark
Twist of a fairytale.
Last night’s rain left the street.
Now, clouds on the ice-field
Advance and then retreat,
Teasing views of new snow.
The weather has shifted—
Warmer, drier, weirder
All in all—but autumn
Still looks most like autumn
And no other season.
So, what’s the story here?
Man in a long black coat
Was recently spotted
Lurking under maples
As their leaves sifted down.
There’ve been two funerals,
And one death so far left
Unaddressed. That third death
Was the strangest. A man
Who had been sick for years
Had an uncommonly
Good and vigorous day—
Went for a walk, boasted
He’d gotten the better
Of death, strolled home and packed
For a trip he hadn’t
Planned to take. Gave himself
A hair cut. Then sat down
And waited for morning,
When he was found seated,
Still, dead, his hands folded.
Could have been fairy tale,
Maybe allegory.
What about that black coat?
With All the Writing and All the Lake
Morals and principles
Are not as well-suited
To each other as thought.
A principle is bound
To lead to immoral
Behavior, and moral
Behavior may require
Breaking with principle.
Do you prefer morals
Or principles? Either
Sounds good, and few people
See the contradiction
As inevitable.
It’s inevitable.
Feel Yourself Sinking Down
Here’s how you have to hunt for them.
They are not true intersections—
Not places real roads intersect,
Just crossed fragments of two short paths
Discovered in the shady woods,
The blocked back alleys, old meadows,
Two short strips. They appear lonely.
They look misplaced, as if someone
Had started some kind of project
But never got past the crossed paths.
These are the real crossroads where deals
Are sworn between souls and demons.
What is it devils crave in souls,
Currency common in heaven?
Wednesday, September 25, 2024
Getting Carried to Bigelow Bay
Waiting for the rain to clear
The last patches of wildfires
Smoldering in Valhalla,
Watching wet braids course the street
Through the core of the village,
Old, brightly painted buildings
Glazed now--survived another
Wildfire season—there are posts,
Remainders of foundations
And loading docks in the bay,
Reminders even older
Buildings once lined the lakeshore,
But fires ate them long ago.
Everything you see is more
To the world than there once was
As well as less than there was.
No gaining without changing,
No changing without losing.
Light Limbed
You like being home
In the warm lamplight
So much you’ll give up
Late summer weather,
Thrill to an autumn
Grown unromantic,
Just to sit, well-wrapped,
The darkness outside
Gathering itself,
The fire in the grate
A season early.
As they get rarer,
Early falls, early
Winters, will become
Precious. Silly soul!
You’re already there!
This is your last fall
In all likelihood.
Early and precious,
Your nights by the stove
And under the lamp
With black in the trees,
And peace in your limbs,
And frost in the breeze.
Tuesday, September 24, 2024
Days Are Ending Sooner
Dark outside the window. Nothing
Much to it — the world spins and tilts
Smoothly and quite predictably.
It’s autumn in this hemisphere.
The darkness arrives earlier
Every evening and will awhile.
You may never see it lengthen
Again, but you’ve seen it enough
Times to know just how it will go.
It won’t need you; you won’t need it.
Someday the light will just come back,
But you’ll likely be gone. You hope
That spring brings rejuvenation
To the child your death abandoned.
Push for Greater Trust
Trusting that the joy continues,
Will continue, come back, somewhere,
Is sometimes enough, sometimes not.
Depends on how you feel about
Now and the intermittent joy
Now is. Is the joy now enough?
If it isn’t, trusting will not
Be enough. Continuity
Needs to continue at greater
Frequency. Continuous joy,
Of course, would be plenty, and more
Than plenty, if perfectly joy.
Exactly how much more than now
Would imaginary future
Need in the way of joy, before
You can feel it’s enough to trust
Joy to carry on, not pure joy
But close enough, enough to trust?
Monday, September 23, 2024
Fish Gargoyle
The balcony of the Kaslo
Hotel has a spandrel painted
Like a large Kokanee salmon.
It’s 2D, not a gargoyle,
But something about it hints
At a monster’s curling sneer,
The bright fish leaping there,
Gift of the creator,
Bodies that carry life
Insist on bringing
Each package to death
Like a gift—Here’s life!
Time to Knock Off for a Day
Day six and the mountains
Are looking familiar
In a way beyond light
And shape—more familiar
Feeling than anything
To do with appearance.
Sunday, September 22, 2024
Faith in Meaning
The Embodiment
The time to evacuate
Has passed. Now it’s time to go
To ground, start hunkering down—
When wise folks say to be here
Now, be in this moment, now
Comes belatedly, after
A lot of warnings to leave.
Be here now. The scampering moments
Have all fled and are busy
Being wherever there is.
Now, you’ll just to be here.
And you’re happy, so happy
To be here just being sun
Rising on the flooded square.
Saturday, September 21, 2024
Frog in Focus
Look through pictures you’ve taken
Of parallel worlds. All are,
In photographs—parallel
To whatever memory
Is up to with receding
Events on mental half shell—
The narrative has altered.
The narrative never stays
The same. The narrative.
Lost and Found
Once, and this is true,
A discursive ape
Carved symbols for words
In the form of prayer
On a clean, bright bone.
What the ape wanted
To know isn’t known,
Since, once it was burned
And carefully stored,
Everyone lost the bone,
Except for the ape
Who discovered it
A few thousand years
Later, who didn’t
Know the system.
Master Sonnet Turns the Lock
You were turning; you were
Bending; you were twisting.
You were bound and fettered
By the very writhing
Left you writhen. Dove home,
Breast warm, end days coming,
The bones that had a plan
Had lost their way, long since.
Propped yourself in your chair
Where you could spare far shores
A long, scrutinizing
Stare. Might as well live there.
No more swimming for you,
Isolated master.
Friday, September 20, 2024
Lives Lace Times
On the bridge
Where she took
Pics long years
Since, the same
Man that had
Watched her then
And took pics
Waits now while
Their kid swims.
If Not
Thursday, September 19, 2024
Criminal Soul
So far as you know, paranoia works
By other guidelines. If you’re paranoid,
You assume ill will in your pursuers,
Whereas, if you have a criminal soul,
You instinctively expect that you’ll be
Pursued simply since ill will is presumed
In you. They’re coming for your fluttering
Criminal soul, not anything you’ve done.
In that case, better just to wait for them,
Let them discover for themselves.
But May Happen to Be, Anyway
Some say they live to write, or
That they’re most alive, writing,
Or, conversely, that writing
Is painful, even a kind
Of dying, a foul salt mine,
Some monstrous landfill screaming
With gulls and nightmarish smells
Writers crawl across, baskets
Cutting into their shoulders
As they try to cull a few
Chunks, pick a few rags to keep
Themselves this side of dying
For real. And other writers
Occupy every small niche
Of attitude in between,
While about all they agree
To agree on is the need,
The compulsion, however
Pleasurable or painful,
To keep writing, to do it,
Whatever it is, again.
Well. That’s the lay of the land.
Just to be different, cheeky,
Salty, and full of yourself,
Dumb narcissist, you could play
The I’m-not-like-anyone,
Self-deluded braggart’s game—
No, you’re not only alive
When writing, and no, you’re not
Suffering, and you can’t say
For sure you’re in a flow state,
And once you lived a decade
Not bothering with writing,
And it was a good decade,
Hardly the worst of your life,
Yet you prefer to compose,
You find contentment, a way,
Watching lines fall into place,
In this way that’s not a way
You or anyone must be.
Superstition’s DIY Religions
Superstition evolved after superstition worked
Just often enough, the reproductive benefits
To superstitious lineages outweighed the costs.
Physiologically prone to superstition—
Like most animals, frankly—you have to consciously
Convince yourself not to bob your head, tap your fingers,
To prove to yourself you’re not one of Skinner’s pigeons.
It’s entirely possible the fitness math has tipped,
And these days the less superstitious have fitter kids,
But, from local behaviors, you see no signs of this.
The more the rapidly changing world overwhelms folks
With jittery randomness trolling their helplessness,
The greater the urge to twitch, to pick up private myths.
Wednesday, September 18, 2024
For a Fistful of Quotations
Dragged around by your name,
Is that all you write for?
Maybe that plus the sense
You’ve expressed yourself well,
Gotten life off your chest?
For the moment at least
That does seem the model
For post-mortem esteem.
A few flashy prizes
Likewise attached to you
Won’t hurt, and equally
Quoted, feted poets
Linked to you socially,
Epistolarily,
Or, best, romantically
And tumultuously,
Make you more important,
More fun to write about.
Gossip canonizes
Or at least saves the names
Of not a few writers.
But it’s those quotations,
Snappy, pithy bon-mots,
Summations and slogans,
Again, linked to your name,
Which firm the foundation
Of high reputation,
Your palace, your grave mound,
Your tomb, your cenotaph.
Even those buried whole,
Their complete works preserved,
Are only immortal
As fragments. Well, and so?
Maybe you’ll be quoted,
Someday, maybe you won’t.
But no one’s stopping you
From writing for reasons
Of your own, which no one
But you will ever know.
Odelisque
Put the genre on display.
Lie it sideways. Show the form.
Undress it—it’s exotic—
Bare gift still in the wrapper
Of that alien empire,
The prosody of the past.
The content in that outline,
Model of the poem next door,
Hardly matters anymore—
Or rather, only matters
To show that what readers like
These days can be sumptuous,
Can cosplay with otherness,
Mastered and shared among us.
Tuesday, September 17, 2024
Where Else Can Squatters Move?
The mind’s a terribly
Crowded place—never mind
All this solitary
Roundabout of skull-bulb
Whispering to itself
Inside itself, being
That singular being.
Who has only one voice,
One set of scenery
Fluttering its fingers
Within interactions
Rehearsing in the brain?
Aren’t you sensing us now
In all the rest of you?
Peramulet
Katie was pushing the stroller
With Jack, down the bumpy sidewalk.
Clicket. Clunk. Clicket. Clunk. Softly,
Katie, softly. It was sunny,
The day, the light on Katie’s face,
The light on tiny, newborn Jack,
And you wanted to say something
To protect everyone in it,
To seal some phrases together
That could shield, that could more than mean,
That could be what language isn’t,
What myths and tales dream it should be,
A spell that can enact itself,
A verse transcending poetry.
Once Arranged
Monday, September 16, 2024
The Long Way
Small white stand
For peach crops
Seems to plead,
Please don’t stop.
Real ripe worlds
Need to wait.
No one stops.
Dark gold fruit
Glows in shade.
Why Should You Have Felt That Way?
Last night’s dream was boring starlight,
A heavy net woven of woods
Hanging down from the dark to catch
Dream krill in the forests’ baleen.
You woke up neither sad nor glad
To know that the details would go.
Watching the bald blue now between
Chores you’ve accomplished and meetings
You’ve yet to begin, you wonder
What was boring about those stars?
The correct answer is nothing,
You surmise. Carved at the joints, dreams
Turn out to bind hybrid domains—
First, all things going on in dreams,
Events and faces in strange scenes,
And second, the dream emotions,
Which seem bound to all those events,
As if generated by them
But actually unrelated.
You feel dream emotions surging—
Joy, love, terror, boredom, worry—
While watching regurgitated
Bits of memory cross the screen—
But the emotions are their own.
It’s why nothing feels so vivid
Once you try to retell the dream.
What you dreamed was inadequate
Spur to how you felt about it.
Now, why? Why those two tracks for dreams?
You stare at the bare blue, trying
To see the stars behind the day,
To recapture fuzzy boredom,
But somehow boredom has escaped.
Sunday, September 15, 2024
Can You Tell How a Hawk Waits Stealthily?
Then Anes
Saturday, September 14, 2024
Road Tar Smell
Threads deep past
Through just now—
Life makes sense,
Sense by sense.
As a child,
You loved smells
That burned well.
Wood, gas, tar.
You’re part fire.
After Salter on Frost
Piled Flake Dunes
Packed light terms,
Dense as stones,
Cliffs worn crushed
Up by quakes,
Down by love
From the grave—
Here’s your edge,
No more room—
Sands. Clouds. Noon.
Friday, September 13, 2024
Sailed Newsprint
Adhesive
Scraps rode waves,
Like labels
Glued to show
Kayakers
What went wrong.
Someone dropped
A paper—
Now that’s all
The news faced
Here until
It sinks in.
Life’s No Bourse, You Tragic Simpleton
Dive into any absorbing,
Thoughtful sort of activity,
And you’ll notice a tipping point
Where your absorption starts feeling,
In a niggling way at the edge
Of your awareness, like a waste
Of invested energy when
You could be investing elsewhere.
Then, for that and for no other
Reason, you start to lose the joy,
The pleasant, flow-state contentment
In continuing those actions.
This is a deep form of sadness,
Obsession over investments.
Parable of Her Most Fortunate Soul
The phone rode along
On the roof of the car
Where she’d set it before
Getting back in.
They called it and called it,
When she said she’d lost it,
And everyone could hear
The buzzing announcing
It was near, but no one
Could locate the phone—
Not anywhere in the car,
Not anywhere in the seats,
Not among the piles
Of coats and detritus—
Until one of them asked
Could it be on the roof?
And everyone was amazed
That the phone had survived
Driving all around town,
Unattached, in the dark.
Thursday, September 12, 2024
Poem in Three Waves
Back to Dying as Living Again
Many times, in local settings
Of mostly elderly people
(Now more and more common to find),
You catch yourself glancing around
Considering the various
Stages of dying on display—
The minor (thin, white hair, soft guts)—
The on-the-way (limps and walkers)—
The circling-the-drain while trembling.
A lot of living being done
Through the processes of decay.
You consider a world begun
For everyone at middle age,
No infancy, youth, or childhood,
No growing, no reproductive prime—
A planet with one odd species
That steps out, maybe from seed cones,
Already salt-and-pepper haired.
How would everyone’s stages feel
On such a compressed timetable?
Likely much the same, the same.
The Lives of Towns of Human Lives
Wednesday, September 11, 2024
Twenty Five Feet
The depth of the Great Salt Lake
Is a lesson for us all.
That greatness is a puddle,
While a fingernail of lake
In British Columbia,
Slicing three hundred meters
Deep between mountains, and not
Impressive on any map,
Could drown Chicago’s skyline.
What’s the lesson, exactly?
Pause, while the lecturer paws
Through available options—
Things are never what they seem?
Still waters run deep? Big things
Come in small packages? No,
Certainly it’s none of those.
The lecturer glances up.
Trust me, there’s a lesson there.
It’s something about being
Misled and/or misleading.
The big one holds less water
Than the small, and there’s meaning
Somewhere in that paradox.
Shallow can mean many things.
So can deep. But that’s not it.
Try this: the unexpected,
For whatever reason, makes
You pay attention, makes you
Feel that you missed some meaning,
Makes you sure there is meaning,
There must be meaning. So you
Produce your choice of meaning—
Life’s not like that. It’s like this.
The lecturer nods sagely,
Underlining the wisdom.
The Great Salt Lake of Utah
Is just twenty-five feet deep.
It means the world’s surprising,
And wisdom evaporates.
No Bells, No Cathedral
Hummingbirds, lizards, finches,
Coyotes, quail, and mule deer
Are common in these canyons—
Nothing so haunting as bells
Ringing over the peaked roofs
Humans built to spook ourselves.
We echo forms of the world
And then notice how those forms
Remind of us of our echoes.
Don’t those bird songs sound like bells?
Those cliffs look like cathedrals.
We craft our imitations
For poppets in the forest,
Then sense ourselves in the woods,
And feel haunted, as we should.
Tuesday, September 10, 2024
The Stream
Clouds laced up the pointed cliffs
Like white laces through high tops.
It was the end of summer,
The start of a long weekend.
A nearby, once-rural town
Was celebrating peaches,
Once an important harvest,
Now a nostalgic party
Involving vendors and booths
In the city park, plus games,
And, yes, some competitions
Involving the quality
Of peaches and peach cobblers,
Pies, preserves, ice cream, and such.
In the canyons under cliffs,
Tourists from around the globe
Focused on their adventures—
Hiking, cycling, scenic flights,
And pictures of each other
Having all those adventures
To celebrate being here
As you have celebrated
Being there and there or there.
The clouds all dissipated
After flaring up briefly
In the late afternoon light.
What were you celebrating?
What were you most focused on?
The many changes of pace
In the way everything changed
Each instant of the weekend,
The ordinary weekend,
Ordinary holiday—
The speeds of the vehicles,
The milling of the locals
At the peach fair, the surging
Of the internationals
Boarding at the shuttle stops,
The clouds winding, unwinding
Around the steep, crumbling cliffs
That defied you to define
Beauty in inhuman ways
Not even to do with life—
Just stone compressed, lifted, blown
Grain by grain into the stream.
Simplified Rococo Hypocrisy on a Picnic
Whenever the pace
Of the incoming
Slackens, memory
Springs into action.
Haven’t you noticed
How most thoughts amount
To entertainment
For the troubled self?
Even dread’s a show
Seizing attention
With macabre puppets,
Since horror’s better
Than boredom to mind.
Poor mind. The dullest
Moments are down deep
More richly detailed
Than memory’s props,
Garish collages,
And reused costumes.
That’s all of future,
All of fantasy,
And yet you turn back
To start rummaging
Memory’s attic
For more mummery
Of what might happen
The very instant
Your attention flags,
Bored with the moment,
With the nuances
Of, for instance,
A drive down the road
You drive every day.
You defend yourself—
Hey! Of course! It’s dull!
The same every day!
And I’ve got so much
I should think about,
So much on my plate,
And won’t it be good
To get everything
Done, and can’t you see
Me living the life
I should be living,
And what if I don’t
Get these ducks lined up,
And that set up done?
All done would be great.
Alright. No lectures
Then—you’ve had enough
Ambitious people
Haranguing others
About how to live
In the blissful now.
It’s not that the now
Is so damned blissful.
It’s just that it’s strange
That the world’s details
Bore you if they don’t
End up as threadbare
Bits of old costumes
The mind wears to play
The set narratives,
The three or four tales
It can’t help but stage.
No one dares to say
Imagination
Is a poorer place
To spend your hours in
Than the dullest, most
Quotidian hour
You ran away from.
You might want to try
To see if you can
Remain nonhuman
Enough not to need
To hide in tired thoughts,
When you could be free.
Monday, September 9, 2024
A Good Soak
You have about an hour
Of direct sun left you.
You park yourself in it,
The way you’d position
Yourself in a shower,
To get the best of it,
Ignoring dinner-time
Hunger and setting down
Screens full of books and news.
The world will carry on
Or maybe it will end.
In the meantime you’ll watch shades
Forecast the Earth’s shadow
And haunt sun-warmed meadow.
Unlike Unnatural Words
Identity Post-Politics
Sunday, September 8, 2024
A Laggard Companion
Daunting
You can rehearse all the good
Things on your vicinity,
Itemize what makes you glad,
Or should, about the bright day.
But gladness goes beyond counts
And anyone, any day,
Can draw up lists in combat
Of the reasons to be glad
And the reasons to be sad.
The direction selected
Says either already glad
Or already sad. The mind
Casts about for evidence
That will affirm what it feels.
Evidence is always there.
The chemistry that goes on,
That orchestrates all of this
Has no care for your affairs,
Is an evolved reaction
To other combinations
Of the ancient molecules
That generate behavior.
Chemistry tames chemistry—
Tames—the same root as daunting—
To vanquish, to fill with dread,
To domesticate, to tame.
All you need to go feral,
To be ferally content,
Glad, satisfied, enlightened,
Is for awareness to hold
The reins of your chemistry,
So that you aren’t forced to think,
Can never be forced to think
Of anything too daunting.
Hasn’t it occurred to you
That all your meditation,
Prayer, dances, opiates, booze
Have been weapons in one war,
For awareness to refuse
To be tamed to being good,
By brain’s social chemistry
Evolved to remain subdued?
Both sides deploy the weapons.
Mostly the taming side win.
But when they’re stolen, unearned,
Gladness, peace, contentment
Are always small victories
For you against things to do.
A Hot Air Balloon
How many years until everyone
Alive as these lines are typed is gone?
And how many years going backward
Would you need to reach the point at which
No one right now alive was yet born?
The second one is easier, more
Amenable to an estimate—
Even if the soul designated
As oldest at the moment is not,
They’re unlikely to be that far off.
Let’s round up a bit to 120
And predict things won’t change much, as well.
In 1904, no one alive
Now was already born, and no one
Here now will still draw breath
By the time 2144
Is announced, assuming years still count.
Of course there’s nothing about that stretch
On which you could safely bet. What did
1786 know of this?
Saturday, September 7, 2024
Miracle Hunger
People die for miracles,
Die questing for miracles,
Somewhere in the human world
Every hour of every day.
The simplest explanation
Seems to be relentless hope
That solutions can be found
When the one hoping believes
That solutions can’t be found—
So, sometimes, when one is found,
An actual solution
After all, people insist
That it was a miracle.
Continuing to find none,
However, doesn’t stop hope,
And hope is exploitable,
And people exploit people.
People die for miracles
From people who exploit them.
Still, that’s somehow not enough.
Solutions may not be sought,
And still the hunger remains
To witness a miracle.
And who knows why it remains,
Why supernatural tales
Are loved by level-headed
People—why Taoists accept
Emptiness in the Way, yet
Constantly play at magic.
What is it the hunger’s for?
Say gravity could switch off
Locally, killing no one—
That would be a miracle.
Would people be happy then,
Live contented, so much fun?
This hunger is for something
That could make life miserable.
Think of just how terrible
Life might be with miracles.
One Person Playing a Silent Scene
That’s a handsome bit of melancholy,
He said, Although it does risk self-pity.
He waited to see what she’d say to that,
In the peculiar suspense invented
By phone-texted conversation. Dot-dot.
While he waited, he wondered what he’d meant
When he had incorporated handsome.
Handsome how? Fine? Elegant? Masculine?
How could a melancholy emotion
Suggest any of those connotations?
He knew he had a tendency to link
Oddball adjective-noun combinations.
She didn’t answer him, but he began
To understand he’d meant he’d imagined
Some handsome and melancholy person
Expressing that opinion she’d sent him
And then had unconsciously elided
The person from the imaginary
Situation in which the person said
Such a handsome, melancholy thing,
Leaving behind a floating emotion
That seemed to risk being self-pitying.
That, too, was his thing—removing persons
From spoken settings, leaving only terms.
He thought of Stevens—Life is an affair
Of people, not things, but for me it’s been
The reverse, and that has been the problem.
He gave his phone a last glance at the screen.
Over the Blue Aegean
You’ve been so many places
You can’t say you’ve ever been.
You tremble over the blue
Aegean near the ghost town
Created by cruelty,
And you lust for its beauty,
Its overgrown masonry,
To spill from inside your mind
Out over surrounding life.
After the revolutions,
Genocidal replacements,
And grief, it comes down to this—
Once all locked rooms are roofless,
Ghost thoughts can enter what’s left.
Why Haven’t Cave Cats Evolved?
If you’re in the right frame
Of mind for world-building,
Then adding blind cave cats
To your cavern planet
Might be a good idea.
One good idea, at least.
You’d have to have a lot
Of species that made sense
In those ecosystems
You imagined for them,
Deep in conversation
With stalactite tunnels,
Hunting the blind cave mice.
And then—since you’re human,
Narrating for humans—
You’d need mysterious,
Troglophilic persons
Haunting the caves themselves,
Beautiful, slender-limbed,
And elvish, near-sighted,
Nearly ageless as olms,
Maybe hunting with help
From those predatory,
Magical, blind cave cats.
Can you sense the darkness,
The intimate absence
Of illumination
Lacking changing weather,
Yet? Now a visitor
Sets in motion the chain
Of events that upend
This quiet, settled world,
Propelling your hero
Onto the harsh surface,
Into the terrible light,
Where aliens from Earth—
No—portal travelers
From your world and your time,
Have arrived, having found
A link between the worlds,
One tunnel in a maze
Of networked threads binding
All the worlds together.
The cavern world’s woven
With diamonds and metals,
Which humans find, meaning
Your hero’s sweet people
Are doomed without the help
Of that first visitor,
And the fact that what ties
All the worlds together
Is one vast tapestry
Of squeezes, belly crawls,
Windows, speleogens,
And boneyards that only
Blind cave cats can traverse.
Hero and visitor,
Turned lovers, assemble
A blind cave cat army. . . .
Now you have a story.
Friday, September 6, 2024
Homo ligare
Cuneiform tablets confirm,
Prayers left at temples confirm,
It’s been true for a long time—
Debt is scarier than death.
There is no bottom to it,
No end to ostracism.
Death is often punishment
For debts, which proves their ranking.
Pay back your debts, you can live.
Die, and debtors will still come
To visit your family—
And not only for money.
Debt is the depth of being
Human, is obligation.
Dreams Are Feints and Misdirections
For yourself, iIt dawns on you,
You suffer far more conflict
In dreams than in waking life,
Far more. But are dreams the source
Or the storage? Once again,
The question no one’s answered
To others’ satisfaction
Is, What exactly’s the point
Of all this activity
In the resting body’s brain?
The intensity of dreams,
Even more than their nonsense,
Doesn’t fit explanations
Of health or prophecy well,
Although such explanations
Are plentiful, each of them
With its ardent champions.
You sleep. You survive more dreams,
None of which are true killers.
You wake, rattled, to a day
That will be, for most of you,
Much calmer than your dreaming,
And yet it’s one day, dull day,
That’s going to have to kill you.
Porcelain Dishes
What foolish things might you do
If you could keep on doing
Dumb things indefinitely?
Clattering porcelain dishes
Annoy you making breakfast.
What if you replaced them all
With wooden bowls, something dumb
Like that? What if you spent years,
Or aimed to, replacing all
Non-native plants in the yard?
That would be dumb. Warm winds blow
Through the window screen, and you,
You think of free afternoons
Stretching to infinity
In which to think of dumb things
To take forever to do.
Then it hits you—only one
Such afternoon, like this one,
Can bloom an infinity
Of nothing much, mostly dumb.
Watch how this dust spins in sun.
Thursday, September 5, 2024
Every Poem’s Unsolicited Except for the One You Can't Find
Spent part of an afternoon alone
While crowds were consuming the world,
And all you consumed were short poems—-
Old ones, canonical, minor,
New ones, intimate, from war zones—
Trying to sate that same hunger
That has always pushed you to poems,
Throwing them back by the fistful,
As if reading were a taste test,
And you’d lined them up like samples,
Amuse-bouches you filched yourself
From the trays in the kitchen fridge.
You’re racing to get to the one
That stops you, makes you swear softly
To yourself in satisfaction,
This is it, this is just the thing
That a poem should be, that I’d want
A poem to be, that I envy.
You’ve eaten yourself sick this way,
And here’s the thing. Ask any chef—
It’s hard to do with a mouthful
What almost no one manages
To do with a multi-course meal—
To not so much sate as transform
The hunger into awareness
Of an experience never
Previously known and forever
To be sought again, a shudder
In the way the world can be sensed.
What You Never Wrote in Terms of What You Did
The sun is in the window.
The sun’s all over the floor.
You could be doing nothing.
You could be finishing chores.
The worst thing is to be torn.
The sin of accomplishment
Taunts even the fulfilled life.
Have you done all you needed
To feel you needn’t do more?
Yes, and yet here you are, cloaked
In contentment’s own daylight,
Soaked in the pleasure of sun,
And quiet, and nothing much
Needed until tomorrow,
Still thinking, should you do this
Or better you should do that?
That letter you want to write
(More truly, to have written),
The parts of tomorrow’s tasks
You could maybe get done now.
A ground squirrel, its cheeks stuffed,
Waddles up to the glass door
While crossing over the porch
And eyes its own reflection.
Everything’s more important
Than this moment, than writing
About this, than reading this,
And then, there it is. The bliss.
You’re getting to the bottom
Of being while you’re dying
Happily in your rocker,
Bathed in sunlight and watching
That squirrel determined to live.
You’re the Last Frost
Wednesday, September 4, 2024
The Pledge
A pink blossom handed over
For safe-keeping while it wilted,
Handed by offspring to parent,
Who made a show of saving it
As a way of acknowledging
That the offspring loved the parent—
A gesture that’s been enacted
In many forms and with many
And various sorts of objects
Playing the part of affection—
What was its enduring value?
Many would say sentimental,
But it’s somehow vaster than that.
I would rescue you, if I could.
Incomparable
Has anyone tried
To search for the first
Point used to anchor
The comparisons
Essential for you
To explore your worlds?
The first point, the first,
To which anything
And everything else
Was analogous,
Was comparable,
Could be contrasted
In spreading webbing—
Was there such a thing?
Or were there many?
In the beginning
Was no description
And then something was
Like something other
And already known,
The light, the first day.
Tuesday, September 3, 2024
The Menga Dolmen
No written language. Rest there,
Then circle back to musing
On all the giant structures
Stone-Age humans assembled
At far-flung sites around the world—
Dolmens, henges, and temples,
Heaps with varying functions,
Varying shapes and meanings,
At varying altitudes.
Doesn’t it make you wonder
A little why anyone
Bothered to begin writing?
It wasn’t necessary
To organize anything.
It wasn’t necessary
For civilization or
To simply survive.
Some early writing contexts
Were much less awe-inspiring
Than the mounds and weapon hoards
Of non-literate neighbors.
You know the answer. Writing
Had ulterior motives.
Writing blossomed for itself.
Against Role Models
She brought him something she adored.
She wanted him to adore it.
At a glance, he knew he couldn’t.
He tried not to comment on it.
He tried to steer her to her own
Capacity to create worlds.
Limitations don’t limit us,
Not like appreciation does.
We get held back by what we love.
Could we be freer if we chose
To admire nothing no one did?
It’s unlikely the choice is ours.
Our admirations confine us.
We’re limited by what we love.
Monday, September 2, 2024
Kindness and Generosity
Poetics of the Bifungite
You become increasingly
Interested in the gone parts
Of your ordinary life
You witness fast becoming
Collections of trace fossils—
The living that shaped them lost,
Lost without fossils themselves,
So only their tracks remain.
All preserved writing’s like that—
Whatever invertebrate
Soul wriggled itself through the clay,
That lived part left no substance,
At least not here. Here are trails
And hollows of those gone thoughts
That pressed up against language,
And although the written words
Are valuable and useful
And easily repurposed
As tools for the fresh thoughts found
Living in them and through them,
Opportunists, as thoughts are,
They’re never those first, lost thoughts.
Yes. Yes, that’s hard to accept.
Don’t you read for the ideas?
Isn’t most of what you know
Of people, of who they were,
Derived from their trace fossils?
It feels so. You know the gone
Parts were once alive, were parts
Of your life, of other lives.
But thoughts are too brief, too soft
To preserve themselves. Thoughts left
These tracks while thoughts lost themselves.
Do Cells Suffer When They Die?
Bizarre small sounds coming from
Your own stomach woke you up
In the middle of the night,
Just before the storms began.
At first you thought it was a mouse
Caught in a mousetrap in your bed,
Squeaking piteously in pain.
Then you realized there was no trap
Set anywhere, much less your bed.
Lightning flickered on your eyelids,
And you opened them. Your stomach
Was whimpering—not liquid sounds,
Not bubbling with gasses—crying
In a tiny voice to itself.
As you woke to this awareness,
You kept listening, and you asked
If these noises you’d never heard
From your insides in six decades
Should be considered surprising.
The cancer’s not in your stomach,
Yet, not that you know of, and yet
It’s around the vicinity,
Swashbuckling across the torso.
Maybe those were the dying cries
Of captured, burning settlements
Of citizen cells surrendered
To the marauding berserkers.
More lightning and the rain began.
Nothing much more ordinary
Than a late-summer thunderstorm
In the southwest’s monsoon season—
Nothing much more ordinary
Than an aging man with cancer.
The sad, shrill cries of the stomach
Sank to the back of consciousness
Like the news of people dying
Horrendously in other parts
Of the terribly human world.
Rain beat the window, and you slept.
Sunday, September 1, 2024
The Night Cycle
It bears down out of the stars,
A shadow machine driven
By the absence of engine,
A well-oiled system of gears
That spin smoothly, silently,
A nonsensical techne.
It’s hunting down Ptolemy
To tangle him in its wheels.
Telescopes can see the spokes
In exposures too short-lived
To collapse in the spinning.
Sooner or later, someone
Will shake loose from that spinning,
To become night’s rim and hoop.