Spring 2013

Things are changing toward the light. It's a very good thing to have happen right now.

Made of Voices

Through an aspect of love,

the slowly meteoric evolution of the mind

can carry some credence to the theory that we each arise from dust-

a distressing concept for the corpus ardoris humanum

is in reality a glimpse of early ontogeny for an almighty god-

A taste on the collective tongue, lolling about as a liquid licorice,

firing all the appropriate synapses and nerves,

whether we understand or not.

In reality, though,

all music is made of voices; some real and others imagined

from instrumental and percussive personalities.

Ever clear and ruminatory, 

whining betimes and always whiskered through and toothed like the wolf;

each song is a pause before charging the picket

because humming the tune as remembered

might mean survival for another day or enough time for the Worm

to start at what heart remains.

As tears melt from the window down

and onto the clear space where I see the world and road,

it’s odd how I can feel the void and blackness at the edges

just beyond the apathy, the criticism, and everyday worry.

It works like a fog,

entering the barely-open window of the Lord,

and seeping into the dusty corners of this often cold, damp room.

I Turned Older

It's my birthday. 'Twas a good one.

Winter Gets Stale

Winter grinds on. How much longer? As long as it takes.

Rhythm and Snow: A Hymn to Life

Preface:

Within my gloves,

cold sweat still clings to my fingertips as

do drippings from peeling overripe oranges;

memory slips into a place forgotten

for years…

My forearms’ skin,

embossed by tiny, superheated soup bones

left over from a thousand

death-sentence suppers,

reminds me that we must court and woo each feast as it presents:

each with a specific atomic and metaphysic weight,

unique like the quantity of snowflakes

held upon each of ten thousand holy, high peaks.

Canticle:

The rhythm of death’s resignation,

in remembrance of the moveable, jocund dust

of countless questing journeys, embraces me within the day’s dance.

In truth, I am the dust on the floor, on tchotchkes, the sacred relics-

dependent on the memory of your reflection in

limpid, rippling water.

Even amongst the redolent odor of

lifeless percentages strewn at your naked feet,

I remember you as indelibly handsome.

A Return:

Remember, though-

among different kinds of snowfall is this:

pausing to spy the black-capped chickadees brave enough to play despite this cold,

my nose is incessantly tickled by tiny flakes

in this blurry month of January

(in which, as a habit, I uncharacteristically wear no shortpants).

That snow is an irksome ally

though it marks some with a blackened spot,

tearing holes in families, nests, and beaver dams.

As some return year after year to push through the dark,

still others thrive.

Epilogue:

In January, the depth of which is abundance in hibernation,

causality is very often impenetrable

so that we can learn patience.

That which so few of us recognize as

Deep Fear,

after all we can do,

is drawn ultimately

toward the same opaque end.

Rise to the Challenge? Ha.

Don’t simply ‘rise’ to a challenge or change; that is to relinquish one’s responsibility to understand, balance, and to weigh the pros and cons balance of that challenge or change using the wisdom of reflectivity and deliberacy.

While there are those who benefit and even appear to prosper, often apparently without adverse affect from change and ‘challenge’, those are the exception to the rule in the long run. Indeed, these are beings who fail in the imperative of listening to the inner voice and balanced compass that can result from constant consideration of alternatives as changes or challenges present themselves…

Hi. I Ran My Truck Out of Gas Today

The results of a long walk and much time thinking on the day and this fine winter...