What All

or, real as a
boulder clutched by five
hundred-year-old roots
in the fluid of a mountain’s
gradual crest

or, our own
skeletons remain
clutched by continuity
in the fluid of a moment’s
gradual assumption

assume rise
crest fall, and
what all

Campsite Haiku

seeing jackrabbits
come right into the campsite
I belch, they scatter

~

infrequent raindrops
one here, now one over there
almost like weather

~

everything is damp
mosquitoes buzz in my ear
happy misery

~

a persistent rain
the wiper blades tilt and swoon
no birding today

Out camping in the Texas Hill Country until next week. It is raining today. I’m parked by the ranger’s station to leach some wifi signal. Don’t let the world go crazy without me.

Making It

If thinking is what makes the world
then fish thought up the sea.
And earth worms thought about the soil
that’s how it came to be.

When monkeys put their minds to it
they thought up all the trees.
And flowers spread their pollen wide
by thinking up some bees.

The air itself, it drifted in when
lungs began to swell.
Then eardrums, bored with all the silence
thought us up a bell.

Then humans got their bellies full and
crafty, they construed:
They started thinking “what if we,” and
now we’re nearly screwed.

Cell Division

Peace, it doesn’t thrive on growth
it’s conflict that takes naturally to
the idea of possession and expansion.

How often the fights we have
within ourselves get out of hand and
spill out into the wider world.

Where the path to reconciliation, once
much simpler, has branched out, circled
roamed, split, and split again, until
simplicity begins to lose its memory.

Cell division looks painful, does
it not, to a peaceful frame of mind.

But looks exciting and beautiful
to the enterprise, one becoming two
grow, it says, or die.

And we look everywhere but within
when, seeing it all spin out of control
we finally become desperate, and ask why.

how galaxies form

Something on the tip
of the universe’s tongue
no more than an unclaimed
memory: a vanished recollection
that picked up a few

carbon atoms, like sticky-burrs
on its pant leg, on the way
through some asteroid belt

where it began to accumulate
the stuff of it, mass, hording
the entire periodic table
and packing every room
to the ceiling with it, no order
to it, no time to sort it out
the spiral arms of a neglected hallway
closet, packed full and slinging
merciless gravity waves

like a kleptomania of the cosmos
or, something else, it’s just on the tip
of everyone’s tongue