On other people I will speak to the frail light I see,

temporary and menaced by fear,

they endeavor to make permanent something

ever becoming something else,

and struggle to make themselves full

and cover their oblivion

with firm ground so that they may reach for the sun,

like flickering nameless candles

extending from the wick,

all these flames waving with the winds of circumstance

seeping through the unclosed openings of their houses,

menacing each given purpose.

The flame maintains the glow so long as there is the wick to feed it,

and there is darkness to enjoin,

and a house to shield it.



I measure my time against the bloodless clock,

in tiny rebellions that mark where I have been, now here

recalled as moments of no definite duration.


I make this temporary thing with other real temporary things,

like a chisel at the outermost edge of my mind

I chisel into and out of the fluxus

of all the moving parts

and strike for something that is my own.


To give freely is to not know:

gifts live on the inside,

and grow or fade like seasons,

they grow and fade as living monuments to a passing moment,

their lives measured by every tiny step.


Who will receive this temporary thing?

I give to moving forms made from light and shadow,

who know and don’t know their gifts,

who see and don’t see their own lights and shadows.


In full rebellion I strike against the surfaces made hard by hardened hands,

hardened in the light and shadow of the clock’s futile measure.

In soft and imperfect moments each bidden gift

springs to be seen,

to be received against the false fluxus

imposed by that unbending tool,

and gives freely to the air;

each gives of itself, like the air, impossible lightness to each tiny step

which springs from a single immeasurable moment,

to be bidden in another more distant,

impossible to know for the one who is here and now.


On Love and Loving

Pleasure and pain dance in the midst of a shared cohesion

captured by many hands from the mist in between themselves

to at last cast wide around them a brand new dimension.


Out of longing I am seen propelled as will’s charge flows

towards a different light in likeness,

and stopped in firm captivity by Pleasure’s light reach,

impressing a lasting reign over all I know and don’t know.


With Mystery closing on this given day, ended landing fully in darkened air,

you alight in my reflection atop all those known held captive in the dance

who have forgotten,

in the towards and the away,

to look for what is missing.



Do I see myself in you?

My blind pushing and probing, with hands and sharper things

I extend, and extend again from the extension.

What am I looking for?

To be viewed,

to see with the same eyes myself in you.


On Being Small

You have won

This glowing orb of flying blades became useless one fine moment,

My time crushed like so many eggshells,

trampled on by the army of your distaste,

you thrust your coldest hand past feeling ribs and living blood

and in victory left lingering heat to receive the rising ground.


Force against force, leaving unequal impression to live on in each,

hot and cold bargained for days over what remained above ground,

nested in living warmth,

against the blades and bugs,

and above the primordial burrow

of my convalescence,

there was found a pulsing poet’s heart.



If only…if only this or that were believed or not, or known,

then this or that would be known to then do the next,

the next depending on this, which is known or not.


To be sure, or not, this comes from this, the thing after this

will be sure, depending on what there is when that becomes this,

which is uncertain, but maybe, if only this were that.


But new things emerge, always, and maybe then if only that

other thing will stay a that and not be this when that time comes,

because I know I’ll do anything to make that stay a that.


On Embodying Tradition

I do not possess this,

the words and deeds assist and point time’s arrow back on itself,

and is aimed beyond all the countless forgettings that have kept this day,

past the stream of moments

felt by breathing bodies beginning and ending,

this moment here remains purely observed against all that it is not.


My sustenance is theater,

the holy imagination on this day serves memory through each revealed moment

before all the living, contained in every deliberated deed

meaning to dispel all it does not seek to be,

in projection and impression that can be nothing other than new,

this meaning will live as long as the memory.


The whole wide world is full,

full of everything you see and don’t see.

It reaches out and up and in and yearns like mad

to close the ache

between the spaces you and I make.


It aches at every edge,

at those impossibly small planes,

at every depth and number

which you may plumb or utter

to anything known in the whole wide world.


There is no remedy;

you will still find that the ache of missing unity

remains in all the observed things.

There is no remedy except to continue, in found ways forged

between all the things which will not unify so long as they are observed.

So long as they are observed

in this whole wide world

there is only letting go.



I know where not I know,

Science versus the Heart

in battle high and low

within culture’s rampart,

each internal and determined

where to put what and why

for the rest to comply.


What guides this hard shell? In

or out? Machine Logic

in hard formed intention

ever to bring Magic

low, disenchanted fall

pressed by Flatland’s thrall

to make the One be All.


Truth’s discerning blade held true in the senseless solid hand’s

moneyed precision, programmed against soft life.

Memory pulled from timelessness and compressed in hot bands

of one’s and zeros, heat rising in record digits rife

with obscure accountancy; true life will outlive them all.


Life’s prime living light

inside each wise ape

guides, between love and

oblivion, towards

them both; turn and

uncover the dark

of all your long harm.



What is this voice?

Rising from deepest dispersed illusion

it does not stop but moves

like water around a stone.


It is as real as sound.

Words appear by chance or emergence

in every present listener.

The way water leaves memory penned across the land

in rivers and streams is the same as the Muse speaks.


Words are like the leaves on a tree,

they ache for the impossible sun

and find their place in this world

by way of fleeting felt perfections.



Fills every corner,

sinks down into all the cracks,

Always flat on top.



Dug into the unknown all else

where many digits more than all possible fingers greet the darkness,

names clutch and begin their real work.


Some names become the furniture, and fewer are sacred places

where the mind fits fully, completely inside like an actor taking a role,

saying the same names faithfully each time.


Mystery’s eternal new darkens the long inside

where the impossible becomes the necessary,

shown in flashes back by perfect screens

to protect the shame of incompleteness.


Clutching again, anew, each time building with imaginary hands

onto the old, like leaves layer the ground, or words heard from the screen,

projected speaking faces impressing through layers of endless falsity

made by creative real hands clutching after real impressions.


The unity of every received name defends itself with uncertainty, desire

cast out against the screens to protect the shame of incompleteness,

to retrieve a certain name directly from the sun.



It begins all fucked up.

Doesn’t matter how far deep

you look, truth spills over the cup

and soaks hot; steam’s a slow creep

so know it’s all fucked up.


You keep saying it, like a pin poke

through paper it’s all fucked up,

across the day’s offered yoke

puffed vibrations that truck

steam past some unwritten joke

told between the clouds and muck.


There is no you to swing cool

blades at, only your shared eyes,

held captive in the same pool

as the moon and all that dies

and all their truths, in witness

to what is the same under

the moon unholds bitterness.