Or else a possibility

His temples sparkle in
The moonlight’s dark
Slow-motion emptiness

Cloacal echoing of beats
A bowl chipped —
Promises till death

A secret harvesting of
Seed sown in season


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.