When all was birth

And so it goes the world
Descends into the void again
With ancient echoes of a mother’s
Empty arms embracing darkness
Dead eyes and bodies and the blood
Beats out its hungry rhythm

In streets monosyllabic borders
Spring like concentric rings of thorns
An endless maze of nos swells
Like the aftermath in their imaginations

Beware there is no hate but fear
That tongues its serpentine ascent
A curtained missile launched to rob
The blind their dreams of being dreamt

The silent prophets of the subway trains
Their mothers’ eyes are in my skull and yours
The nerves that tether us to everything we are
There is no them or us or pain or lust
There’s only water and the sky just as it was
When all was birth and birth and birth

Durable goods

What durable goods do I possess? I don’t own an MRI machine, so I cannot see into minds. I do have a couch, a stove, a coffee maker, a ukulele. But are they my goods? And are they durable? And are they good?

What are my durable goods? Are perseverance, loyalty, stubbornness goods? They are certainly durable, but are they goods? My clothes are older than my teenaged children; I drive my cars into the ground. And what about people? I keep them, perhaps past their sell-by dates. Is that a durable good?

And what are durable bads? My loyalty, perseverance, stubbornness, they are as much durable bads as goods. Or is durable indifference really the mirror of goods? What are my durable indifferences? No, it’s easier to think in goods and bads; indifferences are elusive, they are not something I want to admit.

And what about love? Is that a durable good? Insofar as it is a transaction, it is a good. But durable? Only up to a point, and sometimes quite slippery, not durable, but to be endured.

What’s next

On the eve of illegitimacy
How can I condone this destruction
Yet how can I stop it?
The laws, godlike, are here to hold
Replicas of devoured extinction
Heat seeps into the crevices we create
Slips into my irises burning like a
Forest fire consuming that which is ready
Making fertility possible for what’s next

The call of stone

I am an insider on the inside. I know all the nooks and crannies of this fortress. There is a moat around it, and watch out if you get stuck there – fearsome creatures will eat you down to your bones. There is a portcullis that is controlled by an exquisitely sensitive ego, eager to press the button. Here I am, in my finest linens, and all it takes is a soft alarm. The gate slams down and I am safely trapped inside. And all else is out there – foreign, alien, unfamiliar, treacherous. I can sit in my fortress for weeks, months, years, and you cannot get me. This is my legacy, my dowery, my box full of snakes. I bring it wherever I go. Some people think it is lonely here. But was Rapunzel lonely before she knew love? Mine is the fallacy of coastal living, a Ring of Fire, a Cascadian Ridge fifty years too late for a melt-down. All is quiet here, but I am not prepared or preparing. My fortress sits untethered to its foundation. After the shake-up, it will still sit here, but the foundation will drift away into the ocean. The only thing to do is to get some leather stirrups, a saddle and a crop and to ride off into romantic distance, the ultimate in living cross-sectionally. We are all simple slices of geological space-time, and our bidirectional blindness is a survival instinct. Behold the fortress as it heeds the call of stone.


A human walking among
Grass blades and whispers
Where time is not measured
By seconds’ relentless beat or
Google Calendar’s bleating
But by the light’s falling on
Water as it ripples away
By the morning glory’s offering
By the warmth of your skin
On the creases of my hand