Sleeping Cars

“Dawning” is a weak metaphor
describing subtlety.
No, this is a collision,
the screeching, grinding, screaming
of a train wreck
reeking of its
ruin.

One can go
for miles,
or days across the desert
absent a conductor

murdered

suffocated in the shadows
in secrecy.

Charting a course
by alibis.
Truth hurts
less than lies.
Run away train
in deft disguise.
Wished it could
be otherwise.

In hind-sight the recollection:
too fast through the small villages
the strange looks on fearful faces
the ringing bells
the wide eyes
and hands
crossed
over mouths.

But the passengers wave,
lulled by seduction
of sleeping cars
while the gaping gawkers
anticipate

the end.

The High Goal of Art

“The high goal of art: Simply and gracefully describe experience-knowledge of the world- that we had not known before.”

A quote by John Szarkowski talking about A. Stieglitz in an exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art New York

seeing past our eyes
relying upon the third
knowledge of the cells

Paisley

Skip

Too long
in this liminal state
congestion
in my rite of passage
stuck in traffic
shaking my fist
at fate.

Betwixt and between
when a fish leaps
when a bee stings
when lightening arcs
moments
between moments

not meant to be prolonged.
From the middle note
of the song
we must not find punctuation
but must move on
or skip
or skip
or skip
until gone.

pink heat lightening
jealous firefly flashing
waxing lover's moon

Tool - Schism

I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering, fundamental differing,
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.

I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesnt mean I dont desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication.

The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
Ive done the the math enough to know the dangers of a second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion

Between supposed lovers
Between supposed lovers.

And I know the pieces fit.

mute, dumb standing stones
witnesses to human rites
temporary noise

Standing Stones

Never Give All the Heart

Never give all the Heart
W.B. Yeats

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

stuck off shore
choked with life
shallow summer lake

Sense of Place

I stood among crosses
Celtic and catholic
and gave away my compass
sword, and stiletto.

I shook my fist
filled with fervor
and Irish clover
and swore
and swore
that there’d be no more.

Time stood still
as I stared through a veil
and saw a future
braided like a stream.
A delta
many branches
choices
chalices
cups to pass
things come to pass
all of them
all serene.

Oaths on sacred ground
all spilled on sacred ground.

I stood on 11^th and E
Southeast Washington
DC
and admired the utility
of yet another architect
enamored with his own
reflection
and the irony in the courtyard
the swaying “forget-me-nots”
where I watched a man die
in a pool of black blood
before the real renaissance
before there was this place
at the departure
of heart and soul.

There is no sacred ground
only the transience of the profane
and the inhumane
and our spying
on sense of place
reinventing the myth
of “happiness”
which is like “happening”
but worse.

A Hard, Hard Rain

What shall we do, says the
pauper to the princess?
Where can we go
from this dizzying here?
We’ll dance on the precipice
the razor’s fine edge
where one drop
one spill
changes all that is dear
where life is the drama,
when love is the soma
nothing ventured
nothing gained
but fear.

But the marrow is often hardened,
not sweet and easy,
and Thoreau
is in no danger
of sainthood.
Confessions
like rain
are beguiling
and pregnant
full of unction
and unintended
consequences
full of fertility
fecundity
entropy
and erosion
deleterious
dichotomous twins.

Precipitation pacified
made predictable
potable
filtered for consumption
impurities removed
with impunity
whether by osmosis
or carbon
attraction and repulsion
the vectors vanquished
properties improved
the vexes and guilts too.

Precipitates, distillates
settle to the bottom
frost versus snow
winter versus autumn
sludge or detritus
description defies us
love or licentious
the Pharisees will try us
righteous or redundant
the Philistines will deride us
deliberate or distant
heaven won’t abide us
obscene or obsolete
we are channeling Aquarius.