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I tried not to write these words... I couldn't help it... it just happened... like the nebulous cluster that burst to give us earth... and sun... and Venus... and venus/// where do you get off... the gravity that you know... better than me... about fate... and the things set before us... and all the carpel tunnel syndrome... associated with writing/// and how you think it's an enigma... a question wrapped in a conundrum inside a riddle... when all I say is meant to be clear... like yes... no... I only came out to see you... and who has time for the truth... when you're in the middle of the meander of life... when you write these words only for yourself/// instead of alone

Things I think I know:

am i alive
is there another life
is there meaning
if there are others
if now is precious
if two is a special number
when to follow suit
why

why bother
when Venus rules
is the cat a beautiful creature
or not
if love is lovely
if lonely loves regret
if I behold
anything

What the Sphinx said of the Secret

I want to speak but I don't want to tell the story. When I move my lips the words turn to sand, like they were made to order in a stone grinding factory in my mind.

I think you're right when you say that you can't trust people to tell their own stories, that they'll give you a necessary fiction, tailored to suit your own. All the things you'd never share with a soul with a soul ...

So I'll skip to the part where I say that you'll never understand the depths my claws now reach -- where what cloaks you behind the world's curtain and your ashes turns to ash. No earth, no morning-star or stone-chat. No souls.

Then what silence will speak the language of alone? Then what fiction? Then what trust? The veil is thrown back as time roots out the festering unbidden and all is absolved.

To you I seem untelling silent: you simply do not hear. Each day I grin an earful at Ra for all fades away ... nothing will remain ... there is no secret worth keeping.

Where there is any doubt ...

... there can be no doubt.
This is a world of half talk --
a darkening place which lives
in the corner a hanging forest
dripping ever more questions
on the ground's answer
while fear or fate laughs a foul stench
and melts into blackness.

Two rules:

Fifteen minutes of pleasure isn't worth one second of someone else's unhappiness.

Where there is any doubt there can be no doubt.

Two Whats, Two Whys

W T F

W T F

W E B

W E B

The Street in Front of the House

Taking notice of bright surroundings:
houses tailored in half winter grim
over half selected shades,
poles and wires glazed,

cold cars owned, but ownerless,
no man's land where the path would be
now only trod by crows feet.
Moving across slick surfaces,

shoes softly and decisively
seeking clear patches of pavement,
lifting leg knee high,
finding perch on a cornucopia

of snow formed ice.
Someone, no one to clear it away?
Nature's formation in our place,
in our space.

As I land I find a man
with grunts and groans worn on his face
as he carries snow from one pile
to another pile some feet away.

I see great effort,
but I see no great effect,
for snow is snow
and doesn't care where it lies.

I continue with a smile on my face
that no one sees as my eyes look down.
Though I journey down streets of man
nature has smeared

a crisp canvas
in alabaster oil paint.
Being happy and travelling quick
I do my best to avoid a fall.

Catalogue of faults

They keep a catalogue of faults
that all relate to me --
greed, judgment, regret, doubt,
deception, vanity,
San Andreas Fault and

(Writing is more harder than forget,
more caloused than forgive,
more phoenix than fire,
more pillar than pyre.

Writing is watching a rhyme bloom
and not cultivating it
because it's mismatched
with the garden.)

lastly, of course, is averice is
take a breath and exercise my vice.

You do not have to be good --
you must only
let the warm soft soul of your body love what it loves
and fear not the fault lines.

Crooked line to a diagonal future

I keep counting and waiting and waiting. I keep figuring that everything's going to be alright. I keep my fingers crossed because the wind changed and they got stuck that way. I run until my lungs feel like bubble wrap -- alveolar-ripple-puddle. I want to be there, where the drip joins the rest, where the sea sprays the air...

I just want to hear. I just want to see. I want what is real.

Kittiwake

"Forget it. I'm Ok.", said the Kittiwake. They're remarkable creatures. Think about the place that they are born into. I mean look at it. Yet you will never hear a Kittiwake complain, or be pathetic. They just get on with things. They are held in the arms of nature, and in a way, as a group, are protected, without them ever trying or knowing about it. Their biggest threat is us. We threaten the eggs which balance on the cliffs by our breath, and still they stand fast.

"It's no big deal," said the kittiwake "Everything balances out in the end."

In The Land of Inside Out

In the land of inside out
I felt awash in gentle rhythms
like a rinse cycle --
danced a thousand tangos with magpies.
I so wanted to understand
their laws of gravity
and traffic,
I kidnapped a cop,
made him drive in circles
while I tossed apples at taxi cabs.
The drivers cursed me in Dutch
and gave me money --
I was rich as a cat
and ate spider plants for water.
I'll never own a fur coat
so fine as my cat coat
in the land of inside out.