Paranormal Gardening

Word is out, more and more
Americans have been
Getting fascinated

With the paranormal—
Spooky places, haunted
Houses, that sort of thing.

So long as you’re taking
Leave of senses, why not
Try some paranormal

Do-it-yourself, a bit
Of landscaping, a bit
Of senseless gardening?

Find an ugly, barren
Patch of ground and bury
Offbeat oddments in it.

A diet, by and large,
Of cake and supplements
Will serve gnomes well, so long

As you don’t get them drunk.
Plant pastries randomly
Among dandelions.

Plant whatever you like.
If everything you plant
Wilts, good, you’ve got fairies

(Faeries, if you’re gothic).
Go gardening at night.
Dig in dirt. Scare yourself.

You will sense the shadows
Dancing all around you.
You will miss every sign.

Slow Improv

Like Wayne Shorter said
Of composition,
True for poetry,
Too, and why not? Here,
Have some slow improv,

A little faster,
Maybe, than most poems,
But slow for improv.
All pace, anyway,
Pace Shorter. Boom!

Went the Cambrian,
How many million
Years spent unfolding?
Jazz improv is slow
Compared to neurons,

You know. You do know.
You’re cranking out cells
That will compose you
When the rest of you
Living now is dead.

You’ll still call that you,
Until one day that you
Starts decomposing.
Composition’s slow
Improv, fast compost.

Why You Just Stepped Aside

You can say you made your mind
Up, but you know your mind lies
And is probably lying—

A whole body decided
To take action, and the mind
Caught up slowly, debating

And passing it on to you,
So you could feel you made up
Your mind what to do, although

Mind was made up for you. Now,
You have something to tell us
For why you did what you did,

But we’re on to you. You know
You’re all liars in language,
And every word is a lie,

And if it seems cynical
Of us to say it, well then,
Make up your mind it’s a lie.

Ex Aspiration

Why do you try
To do what you
Can’t do, don’t want

To do, just since
You want to be
One of those few

Who can say they
Themselves are those
Who have done it?

Possession Is Nine-Tenths of the War

Hibitive, habitive, let’s have at it.
Where inhabitors are prohibited
They still, uninhibited, exhibit

The habit, dagnabbit. It’s just Latin,
Just one language family, but give it
Credit—human having and habiting

Have always been linked to misbehaving
By the haven’ts in the eyes of have-its
And by have-its according to haven’ts.

Maybe vacant landscapes’ inhabitants
Could disperse without first some skirmishing,
But habitat misbehaving’s habit.

Habere. Who has no home to habit
Will scruple differently from who has it.

Falling Angels

The kissing and soft,
Ticking, touching sounds
Made by wet fall snow

Decorate the road,
And normally dry,
High desert air sighs

With its scents of wet soil,
Rabbitbrush, greasewood,
Juniper, and oaks,

A dirt smell, but clean,
A dirt-branded soap
Hinting greener things.

Falling on bared skin,
It’s almost too mild
To chill. It tickles,

Picks up in a wind,
Flicks blinking eyelids.
Get your own heaven.