a butterfly hangs
upside down,
but it seems upside down
is as meaningless an
an abstraction for it
as the two million km/h
that a human sweeps,
spins, expands, etc.
through space
is for the person who
feels only the couch
against his backside.
what must it be to not know
upside down -- to feel free
to fall, knowing the air
will catch one?
On a scale from
"this is cozy"
to
"my skull is cracking,"
I wonder how the fig tree
at Wat Mahathat treats
the Buddha's head?
A gorgeous day:
the sky is blue;
the air is crisp,
and a bird swoops in low
over the field to land
in search of insects.
The sign is kind of a bummer:
It tells me that 13,000
people died here --
most by shitting themselves
into unconsciousness.
(it doesn't use those exact words.)
This is Andersonville --
site of a Civil War prison camp.
Here, I believe in ghosts.
I don't believe in ghosts
when drinking my morning coffee
at my dining room table.
I don't believe in them when I
turn off my bedside lamp.
I don't believe in them anywhere --
anywhere else -- really.
But here they vibrate up
through my boot heals,
and I fear I may
shit myself.
I thought I caught a fig tree,
escaping over a stone wall,
but when I turned my attention
upon it, it stayed so very still.
Every once in a while,
you see a sight
that makes you say,
"This cannot be
the world I know!"
tree trunk studded by thorns
that look like
mean monster toenails
with gnarly green cuticles,
even tree-huggers stay at
arm’s length.
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.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 