Friday, August 28, 2009

The Controversy

Upon the so-called death of a Beguine, Marguerite Porete , at the stake, in the year of our Lord, 1310 AD.

His Timing was impeccable.
She had waited, not knowing where or when.
Her patience, a small carved wooden box,
a lock of hair, a tuft.

In that last year she had become lost in Him,
speechless to this world,
Only hearing her Beloved.
All else was babble.

She burned brightly, her body a flare,
not so much a distress signal as a call,
her desire, her Everything, slowly winding up,
His Focus, spiraling down to her.
Braided in a final endless Embrace.


Tuesday, August 25, 2009


Let each eye be a swan
that I may know the feeling
of that movement that I
know as sight. Let sight
be a mixture of transparency
and dark wet earth, of the
rough edge of a camel's back,
held together by the cold blue
sky. Churn these bits into
movement and the idea that I
send out my world when
it's ready, when it's the
yellow of an egg, and not
a moment too soon.



I nailed that sucker down
to the hot wood and leaned
over it, deepening it with my
free shadow.
"How's that feel," said I.
"Sweet fellowship," said the dark prisoner.
The day was moving and life was
Changing for these jet lovers,
the one crucified, the other faultless.
After the sun went down I used the
rudiments of triangulation.
Location, location, location...
Knowing the geometry of nails
Doesn't lie I stirred the black
crepe from its dozing.
"In your element, aren't you?" said I.
"Darkness, darkness," shrugged my shadow.


Monday, August 24, 2009

After the Operation

"Seriously," I thought, "I can work
my way back to the center."
It's a conversation I'd already had
but I felt sure it needed a beginning.
With one hand on the wheel and the
other on my mantra I looked back to
where I'd come from. I decided it
would be best if I backed my way
up to the emergency exit so I could
get a running start.
"At least you've got your health."
He smiled into my wet windy face.
"What?" he cocked his head, hand to ear.
"I said I'm getting there."
The aquarium day tilted it's light
toward my cap, featuring it in the
rearview mirror. At the light I
noticed two derivatives in the trash
bin by the crosswalk. They looked
tired, the color of two day old Key
Lime pie. I could taste the tang.
But I knew if they came for me I
could move on. The operation
had been successful.


Love Poem #1

You must not miss this moment.
Please watch her face, her eyes.
The spotted dog flushes the birds.
You turn. Lower the weapon.
Do not fire. Watch as they float
up, an abacus airborne.
Feel into that as you would her face.
Something is rising, like bread, like
standing up. You notice a shelf there.
And for the first time you see its surface.
There is water on it, suspended, held
there like mercury. But now it is thinning
And rolling off the sides. Things are going
the other way now. Down and in.
Never take your eyes off her face, the shelf.
In a moment it will be dry and calm.
Nothing is left.
Almost nothing.


Friday, August 21, 2009

The Dazzle

The beech leaves move up and
down my spine, shimmering,
flipping like cards-from mint to
scalding white. The wheels turn
in the vegetable light. Pin wheels.
Somewhere inside me is
condensation, breath on
clear glass, thought hushing
the place where things stick,
where a mark is a diamond.

My hand is growing in the
grass, wondering itself in
the simple form that contains
everything. My name is not
my hand. Only the sun, falling
in sheets, patting my head,
patting my shoulder, knows
the name of each thing.

Each part is jigsawed to fit
somewhere, to hold itself
against another. We keep
coming back, the picture
grows clearer, the gaps
shrink and our resolve moves
across the ground.
Things fill in.

I see that it is moving inside
Something else. Evidence is
all around me. Something
green is scooting through
the tall grass. The wind is
such a puppeteer I think.
Now my hand is resting
just below the surface
holding everything like
A waiter with a tray
held high overhead,
about to serve.


Sunday, August 16, 2009

Transatlantic Blue

I get up in the morning
And brush my teeth.
Behind me in the mirror
Is a shale blue waterfall.
I am closer than I think
To being outside in the velvet
Of rain, the rawhide belts of
Trees, the smells prying at
My nose, scanning the diary
Of deep green fragrances.
But what a mess as I come back
To the sky blue tile, the reptilian
Tube of toothpaste, the floss.
I turn the head and notice the
Hand propped on the counter.
Again I reach for land, I reach
For discovery. Now this way
And that. Through the shiny
Feedback of this loop behind
The sink, like a drive-in movie,
I lean back, letting evening in.
No more delay in the night's first
Stars. Just this double feature
Falling back and back to morning,
To the stillness of trance.


The Loneliness of the Car is On-going

The loneliness of the Car is on-going,
not like reading a newspaper
where things seem to end.

I sit inside the Car
behind the wheel. Its
life can be felt here in
this seat.
But with limitations.
If I talk to you
something different happens,
subtle or not.
But here in this space
looking out on the road
it feels like my eye. My
eye does this one thing.
Only this one thing.
Meanwhile I do the
looking. The Car is
like this. It carries,
I travel.

In it's loneliness the Car
craves my voice. It wants
to be soothed. But I look
over it or through it. I absent
myself from its heart. It sits
in the rain, the snow, the
hot sun, and waits for me.
It is not going anywhere
until I engage it.
What does all this mean?
I wonder as I stare at the
Red dash lights.
How can I bring this form
into my arms?
If I close my eyes the
Inside of the Car seems
a dark blue in the evening
light. When I open them
it has no color. Just darkness.
It is peaceful, like bread,
here in the Car. I fill
the Car while the Car
takes me in. It seems
I am everywhere in the Car,
in a way that is necessary.
The Car is obligated to let
me have these thoughts:
that I am driving, that
I am going somewhere,
and there is no Car.


Ghost Deer

A little light was left,
enough for the ghost deer.
We stood by the fallow
corn field, she and I,
listening until they appeared,
blinking, two, four, then seven
or eight, then fewer, finally just
the color of evening, muted, stretched.

Now it's late afternoon, two hidden birds
screech across the head high corn.
I stand where we stood.
The finches drag yellow over the
soft open thistles at the back of the field.
I mosey through an alley of green thinking
of Cary Grant in North by Northwest. In the
thistles, I kneel, listening to the woodpeckers.
The ghost deer are still here.
Maybe we were asleep that cool night
Maybe we dreamed of the ghost deer.
But I remember them now as
I experienced them then.
As a memory, that quiet, moving out into
our presence-- As if I recognized them then
the way I still see them now.



I am transferring some of my poems from Ron Hardy's Blog — Gaia Community
to this new site.


We are not alive yet. We skitter along the top of a bridge arch and peer over the cornice. It is a distance we cannot judge. There is no reference point. But eventually a native sense rises, telling us to go, to let go, to do. The one who sustains us is nearby.The thing about falling is that eventually there is a constant- terminal velocity. All things become redundant until we slow or accelerate.The wing is just attention. The beak is only focus. And the eye has such clarity that it sees the future coming. The raw data always indicates somewhere something is not possible. This will pass for hope. This will save itself. This will restore the colors as the spell is broken. This will disguise itself as a solution in a world where the answers evade. At that moment of terminal velocity we can still find a way to tuck a little tighter, breaking the given.


Saturday, August 15, 2009


A monarch
so orange the color is sacred.
Burnt orange bellows, black panes.
Fractals of breath that are wings.
I try to breathe like that.
But mine is hidden, unconscious.
The monarch's, exposed, precious.
Orange. The monarch wearing its breath.