January 5, 2020

Not for sure I’m quite here yet, 
spending time, 
wasting time, 
time seduced by fireworks and frills, 

distraction not being a place, 
a detour, yes, 
a movement smooth and effortless,
away from place and a time notched in meaning. 

Too bad, 
oh too bad this gong of presence is muffled 
in imagined past, and future projection, 
fueled by unctuous schemes and urgencies’ insistent barbs;
unanchored and drifting, 
in the current of lost, 
the waves of losing: 
tactile evidence grounding presence in the world.

Waving the tattered flag of surrender, 
a half-hearted life of neglect:
of discernment of porous beliefs, 
of connections barren and uncultivated, 
sometimes careless, often clueless 
to the ever-changing interdependence,

registering spikes of false confidence,
convinced that
when things go south
it isn’t you.

Early Morning Mind

Early morning mind,
pristine, as sleep 
dissolves into sensation:
   the gentle tap-dance of rain,
   dogs stirring in their beds
      (the sleep of the just),
   summer breeze flowing through
      the screens, accompanied by
      a multifarious bouquet of

   before thought
   and a false certainty
   of attaching words
   to what appears
   and vanishes. 

Lost Capacity

The lost capacity
to foresee
and to forestall.

Margaux makes fresh eye contact,
fibrous slivers,
a sickly resemblance to
scrambled eggs.

Her plan to elude the elderly
resembles the skeleton of
a shark’s jaw;
the rapidly accelerating collapse
of the Great Dying,
a sulphuric stew
with somewhat more circumspection.

The ice started a fire;
there is no other evidence or 
indicia of truth.

She was fully aware of the power
that came with being ill,
and annexed over the future
of the universe.

Like a perpetual motion machine
outside the threshold of
the church,
something has snapped inside,
evil is not subsiding,
an emptiness of the soul,
irrevocable loss weighing
on the heart.

Irving is giving me
a good spanking
with a shoe.