Sinuous channels
cut through the
river's muddy
bottom,
carrying clear water
ever downward
- ever onward.
From fortress walls
it's all been seen --
drought and flood,
but something always
trickled through.
As it was before those
stones were stacked.
As it will be when the
last rubble crumbles
into uncut
dust & rock.
One who doesn't feel
a lot at home anywhere
Begins to feel a little
at home everywhere.
He sees not strangeness
in strangers --
No more than he sees
in himself.
Any one place is not
greater nor lesser
than anywhere else.
Lands of gold and riches
are as likely devoid of
authenticity - of soul -
as impoverished places
are dripping with it.
I saw the mountaintop,
but by the time I climbed
the mountain,
I was in the clouds and
could not see back to
where I'd been.
Iron skeleton
spans the water.
Weeds sprout from ties,
rust eats its way under
flaking paint & over
rivet heads.
I remember the whistle's blow,
a long, long time ago.
When you've gone under
a thousand bridges,
and never come across
a Troll...
You have to wonder
whether the Troll is you.
I want a bright Autumn --
brisk & clear.
I want a colorful Fall,
not one in which cold gray
blanches all brilliant shades.
I want a windy Autumn:
full of movement that
swirls & lifts anything
that's light enough.
I want an Autumn that
draws people outside,
not one that pens them.
I don't mind a bite of cold
as long as I can see white
clouds float through blue skies.
clouds drift over
the cemetery -
unseen by all those
upturned eyes.
What a glorious day
to be deceased!
Nothing is what it seems,
or as it feels it should be.
The world is full of
smoke & mirrors --
neither here nor there...
And yet everywhere...
& everywhen.
Condemnation placard
Stapled to the church door
With the commanding tone
Of Luther’s notice.
The Condemned has stately bones
But its skin and viscera
Are in shambles.
Sun pierces stained glass,
Bathing dirty surfaces
With bright color,
But the dust and rat shit
Remain to create a
Miasma within.
One day a wrecking ball
Will make good on the
Condemnation.
The image was hung on the wall
in an otherwise clean and well-
managed business hotel.
I can't really say that I'd ever had
that particular nightmare before
I checked into the room,
But I know I've had it many times
since.
Set atop a post on a brutal white
sand beach in a stifling burlap
onesie -- a onesie that one
would have to have been sewn into,
for it had no zippers, buckles,
buttons, or Velcro.
What was the nightmare?
To be seen, while not seeing?
Suffocating slowly -- held under
the high tide with waterlogged
cloth clinging to my face?
Arms pinioned as the seabirds
went to work on tearing through
cloth and skin in as few
vicious pecks as possible --
pristine white growing
blood crimson stains,
running down the pole,
dripping onto the sand.
All of the above?
I never have a good memory of it.
That's why I'm not sure that I
didn't have the nightmare
even before I ever saw that
poster on the wall of an
ordinary hotel -- far, far
from home.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 