we are never quite
where we are, never long
for the ungrabbed hat
acres are a toss away
from somebody’s grazing lot
from every pressing affair
the hallway leads
the bell rings
If a thing didn’t last
what was it, back when
it was everlasting?
we keep a second
set of books, an eye
out for the prospects
but the dusty warehouse
where the heart undresses
is an unbreathable atmosphere
we hold our breath
make quick little visits
more and more I am less and less
loss and increase, rushing the doors
each by the other’s entrance
a deluded equilibrium sprayed
through the stencil of things known to be
cash or credit, movement or dead still
path with mantra, a mass with a host
mastery of the enclosing nesting doll
in preverbal childhood, before a self
got on to it, on a blanket in the yard
you pointed and said “da” in wonder
it could have been anything
now I wonder why we can’t leave
wonder alone, and when we point and
open our mouths, out comes
a meaning, a stillborn concoction
landing with a thud
Myself, 1955, aged eight months.
Where on earth do things come from?
Everything is introduced to its environment, like the Indian Peafowl was to its range in North America. They are native to the Indian continent but no one talks about where they were before that. They have been introduced to many locales around the globe, where they form semidomestic or feral colonies. Here, they ignore their domestic heritage and roam free, yet they are not wild. Two of the females walked right up to me, in the manner of domestic pets. About a dozen there that I could see, on a rural stretch of the near-west end of the island.
I’d heard about them, and I had seen several in a ditch a couple of years ago. On this day I stopped and we visited for a while. The females are described as drab but up close they look striking. Big beautiful eyes with a dress of delicate pompoms on the head, bright turquoise and green on the breast.
The males are haughty and spectacular, familiar to almost everyone on the planet. They kept their distance across the road from where I stood.
There are stories but there are no true stories, everything is based upon something. Collections of fact are called nonfiction, a term in denial about the relationship between fact and what we imagine to be absolute truth.
We are ever where we find ourselves. Relative things abide in the complete absence of non-relative conditions, established as things only in relation to other such things. The contemplation of such truths does not seem to have a payoff so they remain, mostly unexamined.
There is no absolute peahen, though there she is, if appearance is taken as true-penny.
The snow lives, and drifts
here in the sunny South, with
gulf breezes, and egrets’
snowy whites accumulating
on fence posts, the dress
whites of warm winters.
Snowy Egret, Egretta thula
The lens is a monocle
a mockingbird flies right through it
and focus becomes a kind of concern
a bird’s eye does this too
Around every worldly focus
sharp like a chirp, the felt impression
of the periphery is vying, but
I am locked in your focus
And you in mine, and as for
the glassine other, it is wending
its way through the inattention
like noises from the kitchen
I’m thrilled that editor Kerri Farrell Foley of Crack the Spine Literary Magazine has accepted my cover design for their very first themed anthology “Routine” which is due out soon.
They have also accepted one of my poems, Still Life with Meals for inclusion. Looking forward to seeing myself in print!
Update: Routine is now officially in print.
rabbits do not frighten
easily, they live upright
in hastily adopted meadows
at the edge of danger, they
play at being ready, jump
at the right signals, not
fearful, but ready
the vultures need not wait
for a beast to grow old and die
but soon, a creature will cross the road
just as a car comes racing by
under Texas skies
roadrunner, the coyote’s
after you, beep beep
come right into the campsite
I belch, they scatter
one here, now one over there
almost like weather
everything is damp
mosquitoes buzz in my ear
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.