Archive for the ‘Nature’ Category

The impossible

gathers twigs–  or feet

that follow it.




ethers of language

pulled taut      or released.


Earth on Fire, dissolved battalions

pouring metal from the sky.


The battle begins

on the afternoon of the full moon

on beds of grass and wild flowers.


Our Love    grows in its belly.


Beasts tear   at the fierce opening

until we are bruised.   And then


Language lifts us up

reversing gravity —-


into a startled leaf bed

born in silence.

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A biologist defines life, or determines it, by a series of divergent paths–the capability to think for one’s self, or sentience. Nocturnal soil is one such life. This takes into account leaves and how green they are and how they train towards sunlight to survive — there is a survival mechanism, a live instinct, to survive. It’s mechanical in the way it is physically embodied and requires the use and presence of musculoskeletal or similar systems. The error of life can never be. We are all patterned forms of the inevitable.


You never know what is going to lead to writing or orgasm so you follow all suits: quartz, hearts, spades, arrows, diamonds, clubs, pentacles, staves, swords and cups.


The road is stained dirt-red and the sky is onyx. The opacity projects a feeling of endurance — the endurance of darkness and light, palomino, unanswerable. The mystic insouciance. These mystic sounds from under the carpet or sidewalk; the truth is out there.


A moored, feathered balloon. (tethered)


But then you are left alone with food and you eat as if you’ve starved for forty years. The incalescence of horror fills your eyes.


One must read and write. One has mists and, from them, sun. One has pulmonary return and flowering lymph nodes.


You have clarified grammar. That is, where the dead are buried, because it’s like words, you think you’re in a song but the trees are dark and disappear like water. I am so far down. The tongue of the water is cold and I am deep into it, into this lake. I am a pattern of forests destroyed by fire; — the fires are natural, you say, in distress of all the ashtrays you left burdened by cigarettes and ashes. You left me.


The dead are hungry.




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            for Olivia


The poet in the field measures distance with a magnet.


A poet at the front. Observe, kneel down.


I chew gum to drown out the maddening hum gathering in the streets. I’ve been reading too much Walter Benjamin. My theory of the world: to bring it closer, as close as I can stand, and run it through thermography. That is, testing its heat. See what’s alive and dead. How much visible illumination does the machine need to see blood or the heart or muscles working in movement?


The dark lights as light gathers.


August 26.


So it will burn—


Back home.


My dream, lived.


Please, don’t become a ghost. The others ghostly are not as apparent in the treehaze, brambly browns and earth encroaching on green shapes. Don’t disappear into the ether, or the earth. Stay with me in this magic that we created in so short a time that the web we wove glistens brightly with its dampdrenched cartographies, sudden attachments and movements of the heart, unmoored,- moor here, with your eyes a boat the mountains, love, moor here.


Café Bustelo coffee in a French press, made in a kitchen where the light burned out. So much white stars. Not white, gold. Not gold, silver. Not silver, sky dominating the visible. East Falls. So much treesun along the Wissahickon.


This idea of home; windswept & angels


So it will burn—


August 25.


What started in sadness emerges from gray, a fog stung by the sparks of phosphorescent insects- peace arises in the body, in the heart; even still with a headache and strong coffee and nostalgia heavy with sorrow; a Plutonian world of the past where so many things happened and could have happened and the trajectory took us somewhere else; a fortified, old brick house with a magic gate; a bronze plaque on a tall metal post announcing the historic man who occupied its dense rooms.


Magical fate is not so much magical or fateful but an orrery of choices made over a lifetime. Still there are these constellations, permutations, responses to circumstances that create where we are now. Then riding through Philadelphia, the stunning string of coincidences that I myself have wrought shines and staggers —




I have finally found my place with you. With all of you in that my intention to spread beauty and be loving and accepting is accepted and appreciated in return. I keep seeing the same house in my mind, beautiful wood floors gleaming in tons of sunlight. Lots of light, windows overlooking a yard, green and lovely, and the mountains. The mountains are the crux of this scene, the center, the heart center. That’s how it comes to me but who knows how it will come in life. Family is here, dense and shadowy and, suddenly, passing a window, drowning in light, white and gold with exposure. It is warm and peaceful and lively, and quiet, too.


Life in the Miraculous Present.


I have found the form. The form is sleep in broad daylight, fastened by the hours, coming into the Holy Time of the year, but all is holy. All is sacred in the dream and in life. We have long forgotten the rupture between Night and Day, Dream and Reality. These notes mean nothing. They don’t exchange one darkness for another. They don’t betray. Calmly, we enter the vestibule. We are forgiven. Charmed clocks and tinker toys. Correspondences with precision. The argument is the absurdity of progress—along a line of questioning that precedes true doubt. To doubt is to love. We doubt the consistency of our lover’s madness for us.


The world is enough. Cutlery and hoard of salmon. There is enough with the wife and son in the yard. We reach into it with progress—to delineate time in a deeper way. Our thoughts mechanize. We are en route to the dream of night. So many things die. I have forgotten the world. I remember the world. The enigma and compactness of depression. The fiery knoll. We are cartographers and : point of matter is where the soul exists. Every day, we are in the New Life. We enter the new day with hope and terror, already anguished from the day before, which we must leave behind to enter, once again, a new realm of experience. The Arcades.


We make light and beauty of it.


There is only ever kindness. When you don’t believe this, look deep into your own heart and see what’s there. Past the hurts and fears, the deeper you go, there’s love and compassion.


One swallow doesn’t make a summer. – says someone in Downton Abbey


There Has To Be Beauty.



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The Sky

Look at the sky. How would you describe it? Look inward. How would you describe yourself? Recognize that you and the sky are the same.

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