tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104907962024-03-13T10:40:20.063-07:00fruitflybyron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-80245060764410941582017-02-14T09:45:00.000-08:002017-02-16T14:34:20.815-08:00The Politics of Sunglasses The Politics of Sunglasses<br />
<br />
I will not start with the ones<br />
I am wearing.<br />
<br />
Reports<br />
of ancient Chinese judges<br />
concealing their tells<br />
with flattened smoked quartz or<br />
the stylin' walrus ivory jobs worn<br />
by early North American Inuits or<br />
the healing blue or green lenses<br />
for better vision or the<br />
yellow amber waves for syphilis or<br />
the mystique of Mr Ray Ban's<br />
cockpit glare stoppers or<br />
like window shades coming down,<br />
the flips in the outfield or the<br />
eyeless two-way mirrors on tv's CHIPS<br />
where I thought I could comb my<br />
hair in their smiles or the<br />
burka-nizing of unmarked cruisers<br />
swathed in darkness or<br />
how now we wear our cars and trucks<br />
like enormous wrap-arounds.<br />
<br />
I remember a film called They Live,<br />
where a man finds a pair of sunglasses<br />
that reveal the true faces and<br />
subliminal messages of aliens<br />
disguised as the wealthy.<br />
Messages like: "marry and reproduce"<br />
and "submit to authority".<br />
<br />
My glasses?<br />
There is nothing special about them<br />
other than their desire for relaxed eyes,<br />
a smooth gray fog of polarization and<br />
a reminder in the visor mirror<br />
-perhaps just a glimpse-<br />
of identity theft.<br />
<br />ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-68522949996975837202016-09-30T18:53:00.001-07:002016-09-30T18:53:54.595-07:00A Reverie<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I am idle and not.<br>In the space between <br>sits a bird on my car roof?<br>I am still, key in hand.<br>I am only guessing, idling.<br>Just this continuation.<br>Then<br>an expression of wings fills me<br>and beauty is on the branch.<br>The smallest of hawks.<br>The everything she sees <br>is a twisting diamond,<br>my face, the car,<br>her food flitting about.<br>I hold her perfect body <br>here and there.<br>She persists in <br>coming from the future<br>until <br>I move forward <br>and slide like a<br>dark touch screen,<br>out of the frame, <br>into memory’s breath,<br>dragging the past<br>behind my growing self.</span>ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-32062419102296126142016-08-12T19:49:00.002-07:002016-08-12T19:49:48.582-07:00Varnish, a firefly, and the vanishing dragonfliesDid you ever read a book that left you with the feeling that there was more there below the surface then you could grasp? Ben Lerner's new book, <u style="font-weight: bold;">The Hatred of Poetry</u>, did that to me today. Especially the last six or seven pages of what might be termed an essay or maybe not. Twice while reading it this AM the eerie occurred. He imagines as a child uttering the words vanish or varnish while pointing at an object such as a back hoe or tree or a neighbor. He says, "If you are five and you point to a sycamore or an idle backhoe or a neighbor stooped over his garden or to images of these things on a television set and utter "varnish " or utter "vanish" you will never be only incorrect; if your parent or guardian is curious, she can find a meaning that makes you almost eerily prescient-the neighbor is dying, losing weight, or the backhoe has helped a structure disappear or is glazed with rainwater or the sheen of spectacle lends to whatever appears onscreen a strange finish.To derive your understanding of a word by watching others adjust to your use of it: Do you remember the feeling that sense was provisional and that two people could build around an utterance a world in which any usage signified? I think that's poetry...."<br />
About four years ago I wrote a poem titled <i>Melancholia and the Age of Varnish. </i>I used those two words varnish and vanish . In my poem they carried for me that same feeling he describes. <br />
<br />
I put this book down to watch a young dragonfly hover over a car parked along the street in front of the sidewalk where I sat drinking coffee downtown. He would zip away and suddenly return to a holding pattern over the car roof. I realized it was gazing at its reflection. At that moment another one entered, zig- zagging around the first. Then they tore off together, one tailing the other like Top Gun. They skirted from one end of the street to the other. I thought of where their home might be. Then the reflection and the arrival of another made me think of relationship. When I returned to the book I hadn't read very far before I came to this: "(A few summers ago I attended an aggressively mediocre opera at a gorgeous outdoor theater in Santa Fe, and when my boredom had deepened into something like a trance, I happened to see from our distant seats a single firefly slowly flashing around the orchestra, then floating onto the stage, then drifting back beyond the proscenium: its light appearing here in New Mexico and then three leagues from Seville, here in clock time and there in the continuous present tense of art...)"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-67013159426302282292016-06-21T08:01:00.001-07:002016-06-21T16:49:41.133-07:00HomThere I am across the street<div>In my yellow raincoat, </div><div>the hooded<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> rain hat, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">the rubber </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">boots clanking.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> Scuffle, scuffle. </span></div><div><br></div><div>She will read to us. </div><div>The Black Stallion. </div><div>I am on a cushion</div><div>made by my Dad. </div><div>I am dreaming as</div><div>She reads. Isn't that</div><div>what listening is?</div><div><br></div><div>The boy is at the center</div><div>of my mind. All day</div><div>and into the night. </div><div>In the middle of the</div><div>night I wake up. </div><div>There is no room</div><div>for anything beside </div><div>the horse. Everything</div><div>is the Black. </div><div><br></div><div>In the morning </div><div>I remember <font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Her voice. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">She is reading. </font></div><div>I am listening...</div><div>I am in love. </div>ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-2007942751413035862016-06-13T10:42:00.000-07:002016-06-13T10:43:24.642-07:00Bhavana<br />
<br />
I tagged the little ant as he scurried around on my car. I was parked in a city lot.<br />
I realized I had carried the ant far from home. Instinctively I brushed him to the<br />
asphalt vaguely thinking it would be safer. As he danced about I began to imagine<br />
what he might be up to. A re-orientation of sorts? I imposed an idea of destination,<br />
wondering if the ant's idea of home included a non-local sensibility. What we did share<br />
was an almost incomprehensible sense of each other. But out of this musing emerged<br />
another: that the ant's situation is mine as well. The Great Movement is afoot everywhere.<br />
The bigger vehicle carrying me is vast and essentially unknowable. Yet I dance, adjust<br />
the dials, ever attenuating a desire to go home. Later, in my driveway, I daydreamed about<br />
a tiny technology that would allow me to monitor the ant's movements. Would he adapt, resettle, carry a bodily habit that informed his journey? Or would a mysterious directive carry him toward home. I stood there looking east toward downtown.ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-51476171885601177212016-02-15T07:18:00.000-08:002016-02-15T07:18:05.651-08:00Strategic WithdrawalDavid James Duncan<br />
Strategic Withdrawal<br />
<br />
any movement inward<br />
-- as into a chair by a window the light of which you use only to stare into a cup of tea<br />
-- or as into a habit of tea-drinking, as opposed to coffee, because the former behaves so much more quietly within the body, so softly helps open the eyes and the mind<br />
-- or as in letting the eyes come to a standstill, in some space on the page of a book you’ve been reading, in order to stare at nothing, or at something inside, or at something neither inside nor out – an association-sprung scene, an entire small world, maybe; a place so pungent you leave your body to stand in it for a time<br />
-- or as turning over a handwritten letter, before or after you’ve read it, to run your hand across a blank side, the written words invisible now, yet palpable in the impressions the pen left in the paper, the strange backward slant you never think of as being there, the earnest weight of the writer’s departed hand, physical track of her thought still traceable, the “handicraft” evident in the paucity of words, the whole page, though we think of paper as “smooth,” as idiosyncratically and subtly bumpy as the skin of your love’s body, in which also dwells a reverse side, unseen side, of breath, blood, inchoate words, nonverbal language<br />
strategic withdrawal: any movement backward, away from the battle lines of one’s incarnation (as in the phrase “spiritual retreat” but without the once-in-a-blue-moon connotations of those two words, because the backward movement needed, the spiritual retreat required, is moment to moment, day to day)<br />
strategic withdrawal: any refusal to man our habitual political or psychological trenches or to defend our turf, for though the turf may be holy, our defenses, when they grow automatonic, are not<br />
any refusal to engage with that testy or irritating or ideologically loud or theologically bloated person in your life – you know the one: the agitatedly racist or religionist, politically powerful or compulsively processing pedant, coworker, parent, friend, or (God help you) spouse whose opinions are too poorly formed, too loudly held, or just too incessantly divulged to allow you to achieve peace in the presence of so much clanging banging editorializing mental machinery<br />
any retreat (however ignominious it may seem to the will or the mind or the ego) not just from all such exchanges but from the underlying tensions and history that launch the exchanges (your side of the tensions and history, anyway: the side you’ve an inalienable right to retreat from)<br />
any movement away from one’s “urgencies,” one’s “this-is-who-I-am” nesses, one’s responsibilities, agitations, racial guilt, sworn causes, shames, strengths, weaknesses, memories, workaday, identity, public or secret battlefields<br />
any movement toward formlessness<br />
silence<br />
emptiness<br />
primordiality<br />
any movement toward a beginning, as in Genesis 1, John 1, Quran Tao Te Ching Diamond Sutra Mahabharata Kalevala Mumonkan Ramayana Torah Gita 1<br />
and toward one’s own “in the beginning”<br />
toward one’s origin (root of originality); toward one’s ignorance (that underrated state the embracing of which precedes every influx of fresh knowledge); toward one’s amorphousness (state of all clay before the potter conceives a form, wedges the clay, centers it, and begins throwing the cup or bowl); toward one’s interior blankness (the state of the paper preceding every new idea, drawing, poem); toward one’s wilderness (wild: the condition of all worlds, inner and outer, before the creation of the man-made bewilderments from which we are endeavoring to withdrawal0<br />
strategic withdrawal:<br />
any attempt to step from a why, however worthy, into whylessness<br />
as in an extemporaneous walk to a destination unknown; a walk during which everything but your movement through God-knows-where becomes the God-knows-what you’re doing<br />
or as in going fishing without the desire for fish so that desirelessness becomes the prey you’re catching<br />
or as in a stroll to a neighborhood café or tavern one or more neighborhoods removed from any in which you’re known, which establishment you then enter not to socialize, read the paper, or eat the (probably bad) food, but just to nurse a single slow drink as you soak, without judgment, in the presence and riverine babble of your city and native tongue<br />
strategic withdrawal: any act you can devise, any psycho-spiritual act at all, that embodies a willingness to wait for the world to disclose itself to you, rather than to disclose yourself, your altruism, your creativity, skills, energy, ideas, and (let’s face it) agenda, myopia, preconceptions, delusions, addictions, and inappropriate trajectories to this world<br />
willingness to drop trajectories; willingness to boot up with all extensions OFF; willingness not to save the world but simply to wait for it to disclose itself to you, whether anything seems, even after long long waiting, to be disclosing itself or not<br />
an act of faith then, really; faith that the world is always disclosing itself; faith that lack of disclosure is impossible; faith that what blocks Creation’s ceaseless flow of disclosure is, invariably, our calluses and callousness, our old injuries and injuriousness, our plans, cross-purposes, neuroses, absurd speed of passage, divided minds, ruling manias, lack of trust, lack of faith – overabundance of faith, cf. Thomas Merton: ‘Prayer is possible only when prayer is impossible”<br />
strategic withdrawal: to step back, now and then, from the possible to take rest in the impossible: to stand without trajectory in the God-given weather till the soul’s identity begins to come with the weathering: to get off my own laboriously cleared and maintained trails and back onto the pristine hence unmarked path by moving, any old how, toward interior nakedness; toward silence; toward what Buddhists call “emptiness,” Christians “poverty of spirit,” Snyder “wild,” and Eckhart “desirelessness: the virgin that eternally gives birth to the Son”<br />
strategic withdrawal: this prayer: When I am lost, God help me to get more lost. Help me lose so completely that nothing remains but the primordial peace and originality that keeps creating and sustaining this blood-, tear-, and love-worthy world that’s never lost for an instant save by an insufficiently lost me<br />
“We’re all in the gutter,” said Oscar Wilde in the throes of just such a withdrawal, “but some of us are looking at the stars”<br />
strategic withdrawal:<br />
look at the stars<br />
<br />
Shepardstown, West Virginia; cross country<br />
Delta jet; and Lolo, Montana: summer 1999<br />
<br />
-David James Duncan<br />
My Story As Told By Waterron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-79653247152751402732016-02-01T06:57:00.001-08:002016-02-01T06:57:49.578-08:00The Remote Bird<b>A code, a lens,</b><div><b>for connectedness. </b></div><div><b>A switch, the taunt</b></div><div><b>string between two cans. </b></div><div><b>-No! Stringless. </b></div><div><b>Just the two. Just </b></div><div><b>the ocean in each one. </b></div><div><b>-No! Just my hand cupped</b></div><div><b>like a wing on my ear</b></div><div><b>and yours the same. </b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b>Why is this happening?</b></div><div><b>-the failure to regard-</b></div><div><b>the distant distance</b></div><div><b>where I carry my heart</b></div><div><b>like a small tree</b></div><div><b>turning to the sun. </b></div><div><b>I turn then, over and over</b></div><div><b>until it feels like a dance. </b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b>The light is always on my head,</b></div><div><b>An earworm, a remainder,</b></div><div><b>a lesson in no news. </b></div><div><b>In that movie</b></div><div><b>I say stop. </b></div><div><b>There again</b></div><div><b>the pointing to,</b></div><div><b>the lack of. </b></div><div><b>Nothing is crucial,</b></div><div><b>not the dying</b></div><div><b>not the grocery aisles. </b></div><div><b>But a just inserts itself,</b></div><div><b>asserting a constant moment,</b></div><div><b>attenuating a frequency,</b></div><div><b>a modulation </b></div><div><b>of longing for</b></div><div><b>your presence. </b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b>Near me </b></div><div><b>A small bird</b></div><div><b>fluffed</b></div><div><b>lands sharply</b></div><div><b>on a branch. </b></div><div><b>Can you hear it</b></div><div><b>where you are?</b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b><br></b></div>ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-70298204636749144722015-08-18T08:29:00.001-07:002015-08-18T08:29:50.213-07:00Crow takes a turn<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">curbside crow</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">lying like</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">dark gloves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">white </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">market body bag.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">trash can.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">night clan dream.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">exhumed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">buried among</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">lilies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">overhead-</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">they count.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-52348051400576161442015-04-22T16:53:00.000-07:002015-04-22T16:53:30.338-07:00Trance/Atlantic<br />
<br />
Take it from me now.<br />
<br />
You are standing.<br />
Facing sea.<br />
When you speak<br />
your voice draws a ray.<br />
You call it shoreline.<br />
The moment you demarcate it,<br />
it is yours, not to be shared.<br />
But then the moon and the<br />
pulling, bruised night<br />
take back this possessive.<br />
You look down. <br />
Your blue feet are an inscription.<br />
Under the hood of cloud cover<br />
you ask for more light.<br />
You need more light.<br />
The shine rolls away, leaving<br />
this opaque gender, loss.<br />
You want to ignore these shapes.<br />
Feet are so familiar, too final.<br />
After endless illuminations<br />
they settle under a shore that sparkles.<br />
Beneath the next moon you<br />
try to explain with gestures,<br />
hands that sign deja vu,<br />
that hold nothing<br />
and release everything.ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-86661216073088200822015-03-03T09:47:00.000-08:002015-03-03T09:47:33.359-08:00Google ThisAll along the mnemonic path<br />
I had left little devices to<br />
Catch those yesterdays'<br />
New things of old.<br />
Snares of a sort, a pinwheel<br />
Or two. Were they spinning<br />
Clockwise or counter?<br />
A cleanly seen associate.<br />
What does that feeling of<br />
Approximation feel like?<br />
The person, the word,<br />
The time of that year?<br />
What I am tempted to do<br />
I fear will destroy that impulse<br />
To natively remember from<br />
Within my own mind.<br />
Once a memory, now,<br />
Just information retrieved.<br />
Much of what is easy is,<br />
Like absorbent cotton, mopping<br />
Up for me. A dumb provider.<br />
Sit down false necessity.<br />
Let me do this myself.<br />
Give me a little time,<br />
Just a little time.ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-39805040602179386952015-02-05T07:45:00.001-08:002016-12-15T15:40:44.971-08:00An Appreciation of the SunThe sun looks for me.<br />
<div>
It is undaunted in the</div>
<div>
Way it searches. </div>
<div>
Not the naked dirty elm</div>
<div>
Nor the highest floor</div>
<div>
Will stand in it's way.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It sketches the winter lilac</div>
<div>
On the house. </div>
<div>
The dog's doppelgänger </div>
<div>
runs across the wall</div>
<div>
Like vanishing Charcoal. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Inexpensive zircon</div>
<div>
sparkles in the snow. </div>
<div>
Glint of tiny prisms. </div>
<div>
Holograms. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The word welcome</div>
<div>
Comes to mind. </div>
<div>
It floats from my mouth. </div>
<div>
A small enough cloud. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The sun climbs on me</div>
<div>
Looking into my eyes. </div>
<div>
dressing me in </div>
<div>
Whatever's available.</div>
<div>
Out of the blue,</div>
<div>
The mysterious blue,</div>
<div>
It buttons each button. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I celebrate mid-morning. </div>
<div>
Such a wardrobe. </div>
<div>
Such an ever-light necessity.<br />
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ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-55620991048155840782014-12-19T09:51:00.000-08:002015-04-19T07:45:17.530-07:00SpellThe marks were of precision.<br>
They ran from stage left to right.<br>
No one remembered <div>the shortness of just hands,<br>
the way they carried water,<br>
the touch of the not visible life<br>
sustained in the same way<br>
we awoke each day and<br>
prayed the sun up.<br>
<br>
The televised life is a sleight.<br>
Sparks of electricity, furious voices,<br>
images formed from small fires.<br>
Long lost immediacy and repetition.<br>
Messages carried by a messenger<br>
bringing the final message.<br>
The thing to be extinguished.<br>
<br>
"I hear voices," my young son said.<br>
The subvocal is shirtless,<br>
squinting, smoking a cigarette.<br>
Now he wears a raincoat,<br>
now a soft blanket over his shoulder.<br>
Finally a dark hat pulled low.<br>
"Don't believe everything you hear,"</div><div>He says. </div><div><br>
The u-turns are flocking.<br>
Through a doorway a long look<br>
grows, breaks the surface,<br>
breathes, then branches down<br>
into the source.<br>
<br>
The look is taken in hand.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br></div>ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-55221444342103867822014-07-28T10:11:00.001-07:002014-07-28T11:00:25.223-07:00Finding the Source ?<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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So we, being Kim, me and kids, set out for Ewing Park yesterday. Sugar Creek quietly slices through this little bird and butterfly watching park. And after a previous recon involving Sierra and me we came dressed to wade the mighty creek in search of its source and encounter it's wild life. But even Kim's waders would succumb to the depths of this deceptive stream. First we encountered a soft shell turtle the size of an eight piece pizza. I picked it up to see how far it would think it was going while practicing "air running". I quickly placed him back in the stream as Jeremiah had warned me this turtle was a snapper and it would eat us. Further upstream we encountered a beautiful butterfly that hitched a ride on Kim's butt. I later identified it as a Question Mark.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivlTOgSfwgHqV_q8v7SIGOEVdwN1rE1QxkLfXmuocYB3XyTg2NbxOIqtoXn75xZ9m283BZ2TjpHbyn283BEO7TzY6nCoytU_Am2m7yHS5Ia5E-tlpSisuvE8vD5gB0WpZxUz-Kg/s640/blogger-image-613593056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivlTOgSfwgHqV_q8v7SIGOEVdwN1rE1QxkLfXmuocYB3XyTg2NbxOIqtoXn75xZ9m283BZ2TjpHbyn283BEO7TzY6nCoytU_Am2m7yHS5Ia5E-tlpSisuvE8vD5gB0WpZxUz-Kg/s640/blogger-image-613593056.jpg" /></a>Not Kim's butt, the butterfly. . Later the kids saw what they described as a Rat snake further down stream. Jeremiah worried it was poisonous but Sierra quickly said "only if you're a rat!" Since we never reached the source of Sugar Creek we will make another expedition in the future with supplies and chips. </div>
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<br />ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-57460494675997090052014-07-28T08:24:00.003-07:002014-07-28T08:26:57.401-07:00An explanation<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Trouble with explaining about poetry:The words are always carrying on a clandestine affair with each other, and implicating the thought.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> -William Stafford</span>ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-38849433200900073702014-05-23T13:04:00.000-07:002014-05-23T13:04:15.566-07:00Free hand<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
I am running out of ways I can note my hand.</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Laying it on a scale is hopeless.</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Each assay takes me further away </div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
from what I am searching for. </div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Like a forgetting, the space around it</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
becomes mapless, without orientation.</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
I am losing my hand </div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
or</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
is my hand lost?</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
I inquire within over and over.</div>
<div class="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_1_1400852622359_2901" id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1400875087333_3835"> I feel like I've just </span></div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
entered another room</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
where I can't recall</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
why I came into it.</div>
<div class="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_1_1400852622359_2905" id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Approaching Planck</div>
<div class="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_1_1400852622359_2905" id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
what appears to be form</div>
<div class="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_1_1400852622359_2905" id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
seems to be dissolving.</div>
<div class="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_1_1400852622359_2905" id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Hand appears and disappears,</div>
<div class="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_1_1400852622359_2905" id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
pouring itself into emptiness.</div>
<div class="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_1_1400852622359_2905" id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Repeating...</div>
<div class="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_1_1400852622359_2905" id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Until I type this...</div>
<div id="yiv9382551898yui_3_16_0_8_1400764465651_7" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-5251274236104040082014-05-02T12:12:00.000-07:002014-05-02T12:12:44.277-07:00Discretion<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Where time was on my wrist</span><div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I find a small feed.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Less time, more minding.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wind is blowing through my palm.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I awaken to a wren tapping</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">on the back of my hand.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All else is so much foam,</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">its false iridescence sinking</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">slowly into the warm waters.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sight down my arm </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">feeling the weather </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">climb upon my shoulder.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The feed is like a tune that</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">holds everything growing.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whether it be dark pressure</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">or something green unfolding</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">what is discrete is </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">becoming what I know.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Only the faint outline of</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">a timepiece remains.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Listen.</span></div>
ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-17291643598731875242013-11-25T08:34:00.000-08:002013-11-25T08:34:42.786-08:00SamsaraI said, "I'm repeating myself."<br />
"The devil may care," he said.<br />
"I need institutionalized," I said.<br />
"The devil must care," he said.<br />
<br />
We were on a junket and<br />
everyone was talking<br />
about the past.<br />
I remember all these people,<br />
the blue turban, the lost pocket watch,<br />
the flying cap, the forecasting.<br />
<br />
Once I was at a horse race,<br />
losing my ticket for that horse.<br />
<br />
"I fired a weapon," I heard myself say.<br />
"In someone's direction."<br />
<br />
"We pick up the path as we go,"<br />
said the little man sitting on the rock.<br />
"Back is gone."<br />
"Choose."ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-87963451212035749562013-11-05T11:29:00.001-08:002013-11-05T11:29:49.209-08:00Necessary l<br />
<br />
When I talk a block of wood<br />
comes out of my mouth.<br />
Something whittles it down,<br />
something slowly rocking.<br />
It sits now in the square<br />
overlooking a few benches,<br />
a gentle. quiet reminder of<br />
what I said.<br />
<br />
ll<br />
<br />
A few debate what the design says.<br />
It speaks to some<br />
and holds its tongue<br />
for others.<br />
<br />
lll<br />
<br />
I sit on one of the benches,<br />
positioned to the left<br />
of what I said.<br />
The sun reaches down<br />
caressing the texture of it.<br />
Traffic slows.<br />
"It deserves more," I think.<br />
<br />
lV<br />
<br />
What I said has moved on.<br />
Was it my comment, my reaching?<br />
A light rain is falling on the square.<br />
From the coffee shop where I sit<br />
I notice the green impression<br />
is still there.<br />
<br />
V<br />
<br />
I can't seem to remember<br />
if I could have carried it.<br />
I conclude it was enough<br />
that what I said<br />
stood alone for a while,<br />
outside my<br />
somewhat restless,<br />
lighter, blue, self.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-18811141964421509812013-11-01T11:24:00.005-07:002013-11-01T11:34:05.667-07:00Nocturnal For Kim<br />
<br />
<br />
I wish I had more time to know you<br />
when we sleep.<br />
The knowing summons me to a tryst<br />
where no one is there.<br />
Not you, not me,<br />
only the tentative cat pressure,<br />
the deep southern groan of the dog,<br />
the rain quietly wanting in.<br />
<br />
As I lay there it feels like you<br />
are the rain, the dog, cat.<br />
Suddenly you release a little snore.<br />
Like a sounding.<br />
"Deep six" says the pole dipping deeply.<br />
No grounding tonight,<br />
safe passage below this tangled<br />
supra-structure of legs akimbo,<br />
arms hugging pudgy white flotsam.<br />
<br />
My legs make a crossing and <br />
we become a soft, implicit raft,<br />
turning, eddying.<br />
Direction is not in the geography<br />
of where we are.<br />
I let my arm slip off the side<br />
into the cool darkness.<br />
Water sings around my hand.<br />
The tune is movement and<br />
movement reaches for me<br />
like a destination,<br />
like home, like knowing you.<br />
<br />ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-76536801818224558152013-10-21T11:05:00.001-07:002013-10-21T11:21:21.489-07:00Return to Normal, situation fucked upLet's look at the expectations: Day one Sunday- nice leisurely train ride to Chicago, art, cultural center, a shoe store the size of Costco, great breakfast at our favorite place, Lou Mitchell's, a wonderful bookstore Unabridged Book Store on North Broadway, check in at our conveniently located hotel. More of the same to come on Monday with our favorite, Patricia Barber, at the Green Mill that night. And Tuesday too, Only thing, the only thing, was at about 5:30 Sunday upon awakening from a little siesta, Kim asks me for her little blue pouch with her insulin and her post cataract surgery eye drops. Only problem is, The Onliest Problem, I left that pouch at home on the coffee table next to the pullover I took out of my backpack. Well shit. The only train to Normal that night was leaving at 7. Now it is nearing six so we bolt, like Jack and Sandy in the Out of Towners. Only matter is, I have been nursing a fever since the day before. We reach the terminal downtown where I ring out my shirt. Only deal is there are no seats says the ticket woman. But the supervisor finds three available if we pay the difference. Since I am considered a senior and look like a senior senior at this point, with temp climbing, we are able to get on with the first batch and sit together. "And sit together" being the highlight of the afternoon. The whole ridiculous thing, loss of hotel room, insulin, Patricia Barber, sleep, etc, was so over the top that Kim and I began to laugh. What else was there? We did buy new running shoes at Galactic World of Feet, left our old ones in the room along with Kim's socks and bras. Chica-go we loved you.ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-70970956145153501302013-08-25T16:49:00.002-07:002013-08-25T16:49:41.497-07:00Sake <div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_58">
<br /></div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_60" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
1</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_124" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
I am pinned down by fire,</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_66" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
-pernicious-</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_69" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
that has taken up residence.</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_75" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
It rides with me,</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_82" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
like fungus under a nail.</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_85" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
Somewhere, deeper behind the scene</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_100" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
it can be pulled under,</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_106" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
meadowed by its imagination.</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_115" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
Brown is greening.</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_118" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_103" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
2</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_134" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
Behind the barn a lovely bird</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_137" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
waits to be seen.</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_141" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
I have seen it thrice.</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_144" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
Each
time it blurs</div>
<div id="yiv6546786588yui_3_7_2_38_1377464190125_150" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: garamond, new york, times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
as it lifts.</div>
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I catch a color,<br />different each time.<br />Has it arrived or<br />is it leaving?<br />Smalt, mulberry, canary.<br /><br /> 3</div>
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More of what I see<br />is less recognized.<br />More of what I feel<br />trumps the
unrecognized.<br />I correct myself:<br />The movement is not<br />in my mind,<br />it is my mind.<br />Add color for definition.</div>
ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-63460972765234906062013-07-13T18:56:00.001-07:002013-07-13T18:56:31.323-07:00Lemon jello <br />
<br />
I<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Everything wants yellow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The morning sand is undressing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The blue-green lake forgets its sunscreen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The sandbar lifts, showing a touch of banana.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Clear glass rests in the sand, a topaz wannabe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Show me," I say to the mallard along the shore.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Here and here," he says without saying anything.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Light.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> II</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The age of yellow is over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The night mountains are gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The sandbar is free to move about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In this time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">there are no designated hitters on Tuesdays.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Television is offered randomly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You may be the one to see it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maybe not...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A church is no longer a place.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is a sound we make when we sneeze.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And sneeze is a clip of emptiness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sacred.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> III</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then everyone slept. For quite a while.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They say it was an extension of giving up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It went on. It passed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The guardians drifted away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Memory lost its static.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Roll miracle of binocular vision.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Everywhere, a flutter followed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">by the earliest idea, then a later one</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">that connected back to the earlier.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wings.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-24354648495594168892013-05-22T15:52:00.000-07:002013-05-23T17:06:35.867-07:00Martian InterludeFor two or three days<br />
you could not remember a thing.<br />
You carried a mirror everywhere.<br />
The bluish doubt, still there,<br />
unexamined.<br />
<br />
You thought about water too much.<br />
So many contexts.<br />
That you had left.<br />
There had been a baptism.<br />
The water was hard and cold.<br />
The bridge shone and shook.<br />
<br />
The radio in your head was maroon,<br />
a motorola, smaller than a lunch box,<br />
that flipped open in the front.<br />
The front cover became an antenna.<br />
The handle on top flexed<br />
like a watch band.<br />
A question grew then.<br />
How could anything so large<br />
reside inside.<br />
But you were the one who<br />
heard yourself say,<br />
"come in."<br />
<br />
Years later your brother found<br />
the radio in his inventory.<br />
He laughed over the tubes and<br />
the big batteries that had powered<br />
it at the gulf shore and the shimmering,<br />
scooped-out, private lake<br />
owned by Germans.<br />
The radio was a reminder,<br />
like the boomerang,<br />
of something you had put out there<br />
because you wanted to.<br />
So this was a history?<br />
It will fit nowhere unless<br />
you set it down.<br />
"Land," they said,<br />
"you must land now."<br />
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<br />ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-23548781024005236002013-03-12T13:10:00.002-07:002013-03-12T16:53:12.317-07:00Crossing Nottingham In memory of Boo<br />
<br />
The machinery was swift, unforgiving<br />
There was no reprieve, no stay.<br />
<br />
I stood on the lawn searching<br />
the gray pavement for your paths.<br />
But you were too light to leave any.<br />
If I pulled up this hard road<br />
and attenuated my instruments,<br />
would I see the tracings <br />
of your passagings there<br />
in the exposed earth?<br />
Take this way the markings would say.<br />
<br />
Before you was not a path.<br />
After, an impression that keeps after me.<br />
You picked yourself up <br />
and put yourself down.<br />
Over and over.<br />
<br />
There is no report on you,<br />
just the hard facts of memory<br />
inside the soft, silent way<br />
you negotiated yourself<br />
through the still light<br />
and the tumbling darkness.ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10490796.post-54816377561878149982013-02-16T14:14:00.000-08:002013-02-18T07:51:32.167-08:00MoodInterior weather moving through,<br />
a color not seen,<br />
muting.<br />
<br />
Always framed for something,<br />
set up to take the fall,<br />
it awakens as transcription,<br />
as the blue diamond on<br />
someone else's forehead,<br />
as advantage taken <br />
of the immobile, immutable.<br />
<br />
It burns down in its holder,<br />
smoke then smell then<br />
just soft grey sift.<br />
<br />
Only in sleep is it read back.<br />
Somewhere the slight motions of<br />
an otherwise still stenographer<br />
capture and release,<br />
ready to repeat as needed<br />
repeat as needed.<br />
<br />
Out of what it comes<br />
is not clear<br />
but what is noticed<br />
is you are<br />
its conformity.ron hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237321662603263344noreply@blogger.com2