Thursday, September 20, 2012

As If Lonely

We observed that rain had pushed the leafy humus southward and a bit up. Trails are not made so much as revealed. One can learn from a dog how to move. The mown hayfield enlarges the world.

We are empty, without boundaries. Learning has a place? She said goodbye with both hands near her chin. That particular road remains unplowed.

Bloody but unbowed? The past does appear to follow us. In another way, I spent hours watching sunlight shift across the (less shifty) face of the mountain. In which a dream of molecular beneficence appears.

Also maple syrup albeit in winter. "You" cannot steal "my" lines. Sentences? When form urges you in the direction of definitions find another way.

One says trail, another infers path. The crow looked left and right without knowing that I would later write the crow looked left and right as if lonely for some other who had yet to reveal themselves. Like that? Like this then.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Unfolding That Surrounds Us


Perhaps the point is not about calculation at all. The unfolding that surrounds us, implicitly revealing the unfolding that surrounds us. Yes, it's a clever trope he wrote. Then he wrote about having just enough trope to hang himself. My apologies!

Later still a Monarch butterfly passed, its uncertain bounces at odds with its legendary focus. Love is heartbreak, love is chocolate, love is a proven to be little more than a biochemical reaction to certain types of feedback. Ah for a 6 a.m. that never ceases! Fisher cats sleep in hollow trees, their ears pricked to the running of dogs. Nothing oppresses like a schedule.

Folk songs recalled in dreams, much the way hunters emerge from shadows, tired and empty-handed. Your compass is my quatrain. We too the pencils and hid them in the disco and to this day nobody has found them. Midnight water and a blessing. I woke up early thinking of you and composing letters and it made the morning pass.

Up the hill, past the stream until at last we arrive at the crabapple tree where twenty some odd years ago I first kissed a boy. You leave me notes, each inviting me to join  you in South Carolina. I resent because. We all have dreams so stop acting like the world's a stage built especially for men who came of age in the 1970's. In effect I represent because.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Ghost Dogs When We Sit In A Circle

Blurred stars. In the bracken rustling. Later I will have to "hold space." One learns, one does.

The old woman suggested - tacitly - a new project. The last green before autumn. Fragments imply wholeness is not an insight. Insight is itself.

Sleepy dogs, ghost dogs. When we sit in a circle without talking is helpful. Non-tribal fellowship abounds. A few sentences will do.

Hold true? Dice are fun! A pile of books is too but differently. Or maybe not.

Or not so much. "Are you with me so far?" Abandon lyrics outside the shed please. In this dream, Thelonious Monk.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Be Chronological


What we are not is the past. Passed? One is.

Venus rises in the east. October morning slipstream. You forget your first.

Cup of coffee. Things without names. Or things before naming.

The old impulse at last understood. You wave. The barn door hangs perpendicular.

To be cognizant is to be chronological. What does the snake call you? Five a.m. rabbits in shadowy clover.

This is for you which I wrote. Frozen green beans, cold tea. Hamlet dithers.

A long sentence is still. Before the kiss then the cause.