Three sights seen on my run in the park:
1.) a pup trotting in yaw as its nose and spine aligned on another dog while its neck followed the vector of the leash
2.) a slim-wristed, kurta-clad woman marching with such vigor of arm swing as to make it appear that her arms were rubber from the elbows down
3.) pairs playing net-less badminton such that making one’s “opponent” take a step would be considered bad form
Rushing water carves rock and clay away,
gouging out a statement in nature’s hand.
Water spatter creates a misty spray,
stinging sharply as pelted with wet sand.
A foamy ridge takes a serpentine form
on the glassy warp field glazing brook stones.
This wild water isn’t born of savage storm;
it’s the effortless effort of Zen koans.
My camera fails to capture the calm scene,
but blurs it into a tiny tempest,
transforming a mundane forest stream
into a world scarring menace.
In these rapids I see a tsunami
washing over isles of Izanami.
And in my dream I saw a vast expanse.
To the horizon tawny hills did roll.
Stood nothing but a tower in stout stance,
to burden the barrenness of this knoll.
Such an anomaly must draw one near.
So I began to march with all my might.
Hours down, feet sore, with vanishing good cheer,
as the tower retreated from my sight.
What devil played these tricks inside my mind,
and thieved that wonder under the blue dome
that suggests the existence of mankind
in this slumber simulacrum of home.
When I awoke the world seemed right again,
a world where all resides beyond my ken.
Captain Ahab, go chase your whale!
Better obsession end in death than jail.
Though Thoreau’s case for the latter
takes task with escapees like Hatter.
But then again everyone needs a head.
Perhaps, just let them think one dead?
Ask Tom and Huck what could go wrong
when found out by an aggrieved throng.
Should one tilt at windmills and take beatings,
or pass upon the heroic moment fleeting?
La Mancha versus Fleming, which one is penned
to know what’s true in the end?
I
lonesome oak on a hill
having outlived your peers
your progeny denied the light
by scythe and mower blade alike
II
it’s said you speak by pheromone
but no whiff is caught when alone
your words disperse unsmelt
lost across a manmade veldt
III
if it’s any consolation
you have our unflagging admiration
you’re the model of stately poise
to all the little girls and boys
who swing about your stout limbs
A man joined me on the elevator.
He pressed no button, but rode along.
When I got off, I said, “See you later.”
The doors closed and reopened with a “bong.”
I turned to see if the elevator’s chiding
would wake the man from his phone-fueled languor.
And put him on the path of proper riding.
Or whether it’d take a more persistent clangor.
The elevator gave up, shut, and ascended
To this day, I can not help but wonder
whether the man’s reverie ever ended,
or whether the phone’s spell he’s still under.
And does he still spend his days in futile elevating?
engine whine, in a dive
pray to god to be alive
when the bombs missed their mark
hit some pristine city park
turf and rubble, an ugly mess
wild-eyed people in distress
and trembling lips do confess
a fugue state born of savage stress
as dreams of a peaceful past glide by
He was an exile.
Shoved through a turnstile.
Kicked to the burn pile.
One day he walked back.
Followed the train track.
He’d no need for hijack.
Then, sitting on a park bench.
Life threw him a monkey wrench.
And he couldn’t entrench
So he got caught by the eddy.
When he wasn’t ready.
“Not again!” said he.
As he swung around again.
Oh, speak true and from the heart,
did you hear my tiny fart?
I tried to keep it pent inside,
but sometimes farts, too, swell with pride.
there’re a thousand shades of silence
in this city’s wee morning hours
when all the sound could be drowned out
by the faintest of spring showers
each silence can be interpreted
by a person of some expertise
the cop’s silence is a din of dread
that can fell one to his knees
hush to the optimist tells him that
among millions, no one is dying
no sirens tells the pessimist
that silence is sometimes lying
silence tells the worrying parent
that they’ve forgotten to breathe
it tells the strung-out junkie
that the world has ceased to be
