Sunday, May 26, 2013



Been down this road so long
don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore,
if anything other than the way it is.
Set out to find something, be someone
and found I was the journey itself.
Passage, my destination. Always
just in time to say farewell to my arrival.

The still point of a black hole
in the gravitational eye of my awareness,
change and change again the most
stable foundation stone of my continuum,
it’s like the wind talking to the night stream
in whispers of moonlight that take
possession of my mind and voice for a moment
as if something prodigious moved
on a far hillside and you couldn’t help be all ears.

Life of the Mind. Function or Source.
Light or lantern, or inseparable bodymind
reflected on its own waters, or
the optical illusion of a dream grammar,
a cosmic tweaking of God-particles
in the third eye of a hurricane of stars
like a mirage in a sandstorm the washerwomen
in your eyes rinse out in tears after
beating your brains against the moonrocks
wonder keeps bringing back from your heart,
convinced there are hidden jewels of insight
in the ore. Even the way you’re weary of thinking
is perpetually new as a patina of light,
constellations of fireflies holding their lamps above
the ancient loveletters of the waterlilies
renewing their virginity as they’re writing
to the stars. Who knows what it means?
Don’t trouble yourself. Make one up of your own
like a bored artist trying to paint picture-music
on the shield wall of plywood boards
around a construction site with siege equipment.

You set out on a grailquest to discover
the meaning of life, and it’s a bad hangover
when you drink from your own skull,
and the next night, you’re drunk, dancing
around a fire with the life of meaning and briefly
you know for certain that mind is inexhaustibly more
than a ghost dance of the flesh longing
like a marriage bed to be crucially urgent
with desire again as a distraction from the pain
of remembering people and things as unattainable
as their memories unavailably lost forever
in the abysmal solitude of an indefensible human
listening with her heart to the irrevocable echoes of time.

Songs for the nightbirds. Sad music of the mind
putting shadows like treble-clefs and semi-quavers
to the riffs of a widowed guitar proud of its scars
as if that were proof what it sings of sorrow
can be believed like words that silence the heart.


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