Sunday, April 30, 2006


Number of Poems written: 48
Average number per day: 1.6
Days I didn't write a poem: None! Hah!
Longest poem: 50 lines (You're Not Listening)
Shortest poem: 3 lines (Haiku)
Total wordcount: 4,750

Total # of of poems in 4 months: 183
Total Four Month Word Count: 16,979
Total # of poems a day: 1.525

Cyborg Porn - Part VI: We Return To Regularly Scheduled Sex

We go down to her room, plassteel under
Our boots. I offer favours, not credits,
She had no reader anyway, she said,
but there’s favours and then there is wonder
And the bed it screamed as it busted
And she suggested we go out instead.

Between us we sold some old battered past
for a museum piece to clean up cars,
Half imaged being under the ocean.
Some parts are forever: some never last;
We cleaned up each other’s old war scars,
We whispered the pretence of devotion.

We scraped away rust and coded in lust
And imagined a world where we were free
Even as it fell apart around us
As we came together and thrust and thrust
Grateful for the lack of cyborg VD
Losing ourselves in metal’s scream of stress.

After, she smiled, her eyes a predator gleam,
Told me it was on the ‘net, a sign of her esteem,
And we wrecked the ruins to make another dream.

Secret Beliefs

The invention of pollution
Was the materialistic in the service
of the superstitious -
how else to kill impurities in the air
That some call ghosts?

Scratch a materialist
And you will find unfounded beliefs,
Reasons of the irrational,
A kind of madness called sanity, and
Fear of the dead.

Saturday, April 29, 2006


The boy moves through a silence without sound,
Flitting to windows, nose to pane, trying
To stare and stop drapes from moving.
He freezes to the sounds of laughter,
Music touching, holding, rooting. For
A moment a guest looks up in a drunken laugh
- Gazes collide - but do not lock.
the boy vanishes back, voice a pale silent sound
And the woman assumes a ghost;
Her hosts never mentioned a son.

The boy curls up in
The comfort of shadow
Noises - always voices -
Whispers: "They know.
They'll find out." Creaking
Laughter. "You were seen."

"But not heard," the boy says,
Defiant raw whisper a shout
Jolting him: his heart cracks
The cage of his ribs, panting,
And there was weaving footsteps
In the hallway, searching, slowing,
But there was nothing there
For them to find: only a whisper
That, heard, could now never be seen.


Slash and burn defence plans
Wars fought by retreat
And salted lands, fires
Welcoming signs for the enemy:
The willingness to harm ourselves
The only response we can make.
The only kind of war we can fight -
To win by losing.


the slurp slipping dance
rain tumbling stumbling
roof crackling creaking buckling
stars occluded blurred obscured
clouds hovering ominoussing
playing in the puddle!
it never ends
. . .

Friday, April 28, 2006


The journey to Tollan
The journey outward in,
Amaranth leaves falling
Darkness a shield from

When we converse with the gods
We converse with our own hearts.

To carry the gods within us
Seeing the sacred city
In our world
And red-gold in the sun
And laughter in the dew.

In the birth of a child
All our questions
And all answers, too.

Thursday, April 27, 2006


Some things are no longer celebrated.
The passing of years just the culmination
of memory and the wondering of where
things went wrong and why we never become
whoever we thought we would; and yet -
we cannot bring this person to light,
this dream-shape of aspirations and longing
that seems to want to be better than
we've been - richer, surely, and with a home
to call one's own: all the little things that
parents achieved and, as time moves inexorably
toward 30, you see as vain hopes far away.

Cyborg Porn - Part V: Remembering The Masseuse


Steel wool driven into joints,
The play of carbonated beverages on skinweave,
Soothing noise of a sandblaster
Scraping rust and dirt from the body:
There is little erotic about cyborg massages,
Only facemasks and part names,
Utilitarian work and low pay.


Exchanging components, meshing interfaces:
The sex purely physical,
Almost neuter.
A thing devoid of gender roles and sexes
As we swap parts, searching:
Trying to find the perfect union in
Electrons and voided warranties.


Love is a hole in memory banks,
Place where logic does not process.
Quantum fields and dreams
Scattered, falling leaves a hiss
Like the universe - winding down.
Sevros cannot replace memory
Of touch, hate not replace loss:
Blood of a masseuse can't wash away
Susceptibility to time and virii --
There is nothing deep as memory:
Sometimes flesh squelchy screams
Drown out the pleasures of love.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006


To believe the universe is a friendly place
Is to not believe in aliens. It is too easy to give
Human motives to the unknown, to wonder
About their Columbus, about their armies,
About their missionaries and conversion plans.

The question of the aliens is a matter of faith,
a religious questions and not one of science.
There is understanding, and then there is
Understanding below that -- how well do you know
The wishes of your own heart?

A Lament

There are keys to all doors,
means to open all ways:
There is a kind of seeing
That is suspension of believing.

The way she looked at me
Innocence lost in a story,
Left me tongue dried, trying
To find words to explain.

But she had asked,
And I have given:
No truth can be recalled.

So Santa Claus was dead
And I left with naught to mend
The wound inside her heart.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006


A song never heard
is a truth never known.

A truth never uttered
Is a lie smiling at the world.

To make the complicated simple
Is the hardest thing of all to learn.

On Magicians Dying Young

Each use of magic drains energy:
Sometimes these things are simple.
Even a simple cold and kill you
If you're too tired to fight it off.

Monday, April 24, 2006


I wonder if sickness is, also, a Way.
Not pathless, for it is lined with medicine.
Chests congested with pain and no sleep
Remember better days - say, yesterday -
And if there is a wishing to be had
(Besides: "Be well", a dangerous one)
It is to not take health for granted.
If we spend our time sick wanting to be well,
How do we spend it when we are well?

So very sorry

this is not the poem i meant to write.
these are not the words i meant to say.
i am sorry. i am sorry. i am sorry.
flu-funneled muse offers only
exhaustion, and coughing, subjects
that do not a poem make.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

You're Not Listening

[A reply to a poem by PepperDust on SFFmuse. Her poem involved an adult telling a child how bad the world was, and the child's reply that it wasn't that bad. I had this urge to continue their dialogue, and did so.]

All those things you speak of
Are jut lies told in vain,
The play of muscle and bone
Just another word for pain.

Listen to me, little whelp,
All we have is sorrow
And sometimes our only hope
Is for no tomorrow.

Listen now, you little snot,
The world's a fairy tale
Full of murder and of lies
That drive men to ale.

Listen, before I box your ears,
Of the truth people gloss:
Life can't be joy and won't be love -
We only grow through loss.

Listen to me, little lad,
All I've said is true
Now stop your damn smiling -
I'll beat you black and blue.

I thank you for your lesson,
though it was in vain
You've old and tired and all you know
Is sadness, loss, and pain.

Your world ended so long ago
You wish this one would too
But al I know of sympathy
Tell me that's not true.

Hurting me won't change the world
Or the way I feel
I just wish the world you knew
Wasn't at all real.

My only wish, O teacher, is
To take another's pain
But if all I can do is hold a hand
It won't have been in vain.

Even if I'm reduced to tears
And right down to prayer
At least someone else will know
That I truly do care.

Compassion is my cross to bear
Holding another's pain
Not judging nor explaining
Just something mundane:

Letting them know that I cannot share
But can at least still grieve,
Listening to their words of fears
And helping them believe
In a world where people sit and stay
And never, ever leave.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Cyborg Porn - Part IV: When love fails, there is always lust

Cyborgs have few proverbs:
There is only the warrior - who dies
And the solider - who slays.
We expect to be no more
Than we are meant to be.

Will alone means nothing:
There is no arm that moves
When power supplies are drained.

There is no death,
only obsolescence.

Every ending just
A new refitting.

And we have no
Proverbs about

Friday, April 21, 2006

Cyborg Porn - Part III.I: When You Can't Smoke after Sex

Here I sit, alone and weary,
Life encased in death contrary,
Pondering in a weakly way
Steps that led me to this day.

More than 12, if truth be told,
And many dreams bought & sold:
To not grow old! No final breath
Struggling 'gainst encroaching death.

A wealth of years would be mine,
Untouched by vagaries of time.
And yet I grow old, I grow old
Seeing dross where once was gold.

For it seems my too-human mind
No paradise in flesh can find
And a forever of tomorrows
Just a breeding ground of sorrows.

Internet Dating

What does it matter where I'm from?
Hiding under hostmasks we
Could be anyone.

But you always ask, trying to establish
Some kind of continuity
To mesh with your wish.

How can I think you're real? You are only a
Photoshop face lying to me
But you look so lonely.

It all ends in tears, that's the way it goes
And whether you loved me -
I know I'll never know.

Thursday, April 20, 2006


Too sick to write more
Summer chills and exhaustion
The leaves fall from trees

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Why I Hate My Parents

Why I Hate My Parents
by Igor Frankenstein, Aged 12 3/4

Mornings were mother scolding:
"Igor! Stop slouching! Sit up properly!
You're back will end up that way if you don't!"
Me, trying to say I couldn't sit up,
Her ignoring me, wishing I'd never been.
Mornings were Dad, reading the paper,
Wondering if they'd published his letters.
Me, hoping they hadn't, not ready for
Teasing at school about his ideas of storms
And science centuries out of date.
"Give me lightning, fresh corpses stitched together from
Dead bodies and a brain or give me death!" He'd cry.
And mom would tell him to sit down and eat his toast.
After, he'd ask me how track was going, if I was
Working out, when I'd be strong enough to
Dig up bodies for him; I haven't been able to say
I already have, but they were so still and kind, that I
Stay out with them all night, alone in the graveyard, just
A lonely hunchbacked boy knowing, to the taste
Of earth and musty pine, that I will never get a date
And the closest I will come to love is touching them
And hugging them, dead, drawn up from the underworld,
The only people who listen to me and don't make jokes,
The only ones who don't laugh at me because my parents
Are weird and I think I am becoming just as weird too,
But the dead never answer when I ask, and maybe this
Is normal, to seek solace with the dead that the living deny:
There is no one I can ask, no one I can talk to, only this: --
A Shovel, moonlight, and a sad song lodged in my heart.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006


Dregs drained, sleepwalker drunken stagger,
Words struggled out between coughs ;once, again,
Desperation soup and cough medications,
Goose bump-driven body fragrant with exhaustion,
Needing to do things, but having no strength
With which to do them, only the battle against
Invisible demons, poem of sickness scratched
On paper the output of a single forlorn day.

Monday, April 17, 2006


We hung up a baby to ward off the monsters
Keeping at bay the various trespassgretions
But still they came, seeking gifts not ours to give,
Way to pass eternity, to never die and only live.
My sister killed them, but still they came anew
With each new generation we murder more fools.
With each death, we live longer, touching forever
With each curse of a breath we know we'll never
Find the rest of heaven of the peace of the grave:
When the Lord comes we'll be nothing worth saving.
They come by day and night, seeking secrets of our well
In our wisdom we refuse them, condemn ourselves to hell
This gift would destroy the world and for it we will burn
When the ending of the days comes and our Lord returns.

Sunday, April 16, 2006


There used to be a door here
Such a sweet and simple thing
Until the day it closed and
Forbade the flight of wings.

There used to be funnies here
Of editorials and letters
But now there's only comics
Just another kind of fetter.

I used to fly around the house
Pretending it the world
Until she closed the cage for good -
O! Why did she watch Birds?

Little Loves

Here! I am an echo, this
Lonely place not understood
Our dreams are fragile things
I am informed of your love
Only by your absence
Quivering I greet you
Misery the silence of hours
Paranoid brooding
       palpitating heart
Each day I bark to strangers
       warning them away
Each night I look you over
Wondering if you're in heat
       & found another love
Wondering if loyalty
Is only service
       wishing I could ask
Not knowing what I'd say

On The Dissolution Of Eternal Bonds

The only regret I hold of a live got far too old
Is that I never told her, never had the courage to say:
Sixty years of marriage, sixty years together
Digging that same old ditch and I never
Told the bitch just how much I hated her each day.

There was so much in life that I have sold away
I fell out of touch with who I was and planned to be
Sixty years of living hell and all I did was smile
Drowning in a deep black well but smilin' all the while.
There's nothing left to tell, nothing you cannot see.

I killed her and I can only claim to be insane
Started when I began to date her as a rule
Was no man who loved and lost like I
I say it true waiting so long for her to die
The song in my heart says I was such a fool.

Should've killed her years ago, left down an open road
I don't have tears and by God I never will
I may go hell for having killed her
But heaven would be hell with her
I am freer than a bird and will die laughing still.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Pseudonymous Editing

marking territory with spray paint dreams

falling eyelashes! closest
thing to tears

rushing forward
highs of coffee and cigarettes
balanced finely drawn
ecstasy and failure

the price of dreams --
seeing them come true
             and not changing
             at all.

bleeding for polished hands
whispering the most secret name

Friday, April 14, 2006

Good Friday

What's so good about it? Sitting here waiting,
Huddled in the rain as they take the body down
And everyone laughs and laughs as us.
A real god, they say, wouldn't die from a tree,
not when poked in the side by a human weapon.
Thomas says the weapon was words, but he
Was always favoured and we ignore him, willing
To blaspheme or kill for a cup of coffee for warmth.
(When did it get to be so cold, this world of ours?)
The video cameras watch, motion sensors in the tomb,
Judas off negotiating plea bargain and movie rights.
The others drift away, Peter holding a rock in his hand,
Smiling vapidly, eyes glazed with drugs to dull the pain.
There is talk, behind me, among the followers, of
Carrying the cross becoming an Olympic sport,
Making the Church relevant to the world of today.
I wonder when they'd include crucifixion for the winners,
Acidly, and marketing people's eyes light up, like Eve
Seeing the apple, and I find myself hoping, praying
That He will not return this time, not to a world so full of itself
That it is not worthy of the Lord, but of the terrible mercy
Of the Father and the fires making it Oh! So clean again.

Sad Secrets

I tried to open the door --
Swelled shut, it groaned
Like a living thing, holding
Secrets nestled in its heart.
You told me not to open the door
And so - Because it's there,
Human history the pushing
Back of mysteries --
Because it's there.
Opening creakless, dry whisper
Shadows encroaching. For
A moment, just one,
I wonder at your shaved face
And what colour your beard is.

Freudian Confusions

Why would she want me back
If she doesn't like me? Women,
Can't figure them out, abstracting
The contradictions of experience,
Believing you a thing to be Known,
Understood, laid bare to first principles:
The fulcrum an axiom - you are
A problem to be solved and not - no,
Never - a mystery to be savoured.
This world has little time for mysteries
And logic without makeup wearing
Fuzzy bunny slippers - naked, but
Still not understood. Turned around,
Then: What do men want?
Even we don't know, only that
It involves you, invokes you,
Evokes you, and we want magic
Without wonder, and answers
instead of whispered promises.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Early Morning Fragment, With Evening Addition

Left alone to dream, I wonder
Of a world that isn't mine
And try, too hard, to understand
Miracles of poor design.

On the plus side I haven't died yet
On the minus, haven't lived yet.

I'm waiting for illumination
Standing in this open space
Trying to forgo confusion,
Hoping for a touch of grace.

Free will is

Free will is the child with a gun.
Free will is the mother drowning yet another one.
Free will is the man stopping to help a stranger.
Free will is laughter, is pain, is smiles, is anger.
Free will is standing for what we believe.
Free will is being willing to deceive.
Free will is being responsible for all that you do.
Free will is knowing your life belongs to you.
Free will is responding to events as we must
Free will is hoping we end as more than dust.
Free will is standing alone in the rain
And knowing the pain will come back again
And choice is sharing our will with someone
And not living a life regretting things undone.

So It Went

Half the harm we do to ourselves
Lies in taking others too seriously,
In expecting life to throw us a bone
Of meaning without the effort
Needed to fetch one, or even to ask
For a bloody bone to be thrown.
And the stars are empty and stale
As we wonder without and within,
Forgetting the dreams we regret we had
And wishing, only, for something
We dare not devalue by knowing.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Cyborg Porn - Part III: The Cyborg

Cyborg! Cyborg! Blazing bright
Striding through the neon night
What death-trapped fleshy hand or eye
Has such chroméd symmetry?

In what furnace under skies
Were smelted thine firey eyes?
To what beauty dare aspire?
What blessing in holy fires?

And your shoulder, O! what art!
Forged your many chambered heart?
And then, when your buttons beeped
What fragile hand made your feet?

What the OS? What the brand?
What wonders yours to command?
What the will? What hard gasp
Did in terror watch your clasp?

O'erhead shuttles burned like spears
It crushed your hand, watched your tears,
And did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made Dolly, make thee?

Cyborg! Cyborg! Blazing bright
Striding through the neon night
What death-trapped fleshy hand or eye
Knows such chroméd symmetry?


I thought I understood you
I thought we could make things work
I thought I loved you when I found out
I'm not the only one like me.
Five gallons of lemurs. A cattle prod. And Thou.

Tell me it meant something.
Anything - please - tell me I'm not alone.
Tell me your screams were rapture.
Tell me your tears were love.
Show me that you're not like everyone else.
Prove to me you're not already dead inside.
If not for love - for pity.

Tetractys #3

the world would
just let me sleep
this morning in - surely not fall apart?

"But what if we all slept in?"
                         "Trick question!
Because we would
Be happy
and not

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Cyborg Porn: The Darushaic Record

Or something like that...

Cyborg Porn - Part II: Morning after

Melting plassteel was a sign
That the night had come and gone,
Leaving us with probabilities
Of things we'd never done.

Straddled on that fine line
Between love and lust and brawn,
You stared at me so vacantly
I wondered, .1 second, had it been fun?

Was that love resound thro' time
And many imitators shamelessly spawn?
Would you remember me
Like a thompson submachine gun?

Was I too hard a cyborg? I resign
Myself to never knowing, another pawn
Of love; all toaster shall see
(An immortality we'll be)
And wonder if we'll ever be outdone.

Loving You

We met again on a cold winter's night
When the moon was so full and the stars too bright
I asked you if you'd love me
You said you could be mine
My smile was a sight to see
And you so pretty and so fine.

I must have sang to everyone my delight
Telling them I loved you, telling them this was so right
So you ran back into his arms
Scared of the truth I had to tell
Working your whiles and charms
Like a little mynx from Hell.

Two nights later I had you in my sights
And I swore I wouldn't cry, not for another night
I loved you so very - oh! so much
But I still laughed when you died
The judge said I was evil and such
But the good Lord knows I cried.
The good Lord knows I tried
To love you. To love you.
To love you, you bitch.

Monday, April 10, 2006

For Darusha :) - more shall follow

Cyborg Porn - The Prelude

Metal is not meat-sack flesh stink
            You push my buttons.
            All the time.
The hum of machinery a quietus makes
            Your body like jello.
My love is the pure lust of binary counting
            One Zero One Zero.
            There is only code.
You fall apart under my tender clutch snapping
            Voiding warranty.
            Without parts.
I leave you soiled by your human wastes
            Seeking something pure
            I find the toaster.

Cyborg Porn - Part I

Bliss is this:
purity singularity
humming coming
binding & grinding,
toaster ghost
in machines, sin
rust bread dust
faltering showering
interlocking clicking
components meant:
this is Bliss.

Tetractys #2

wind and
The rain and
The lonely sea
Always and ever calling out to me.

The seagulls hug along the rocky shoe
Calling -- calling
The tide comes
And then

Sunday, April 09, 2006

They Threw The Cow

They threw the cow at me, tipping old Bessy over
Everyone could see that it was now or never
But the bank wanted money and was a-owing

The well dern gone dry despite the tears poppa cries
The money men with their lies say we have to say goodbye

And everyone could see Bessy was done fer lowing
And every body knew we didn't have a 4 leaf clover
Mamma held me so tightly when they said it was over

And someone's gonna buy it, that we can't deny
Build a home up to the sky with all that does imply.

Bessy was never the same after they tipped her over
And our friends never came to out home in the city
Where no one knew our shame or looked at us in pity

And mamma got a new dress and I got a brand new vest;
Never said we though we was blessed but I think pappa guessed

Cuz one day he was gone and old Bessie had vanished too
They'd gone down the road in an old tractor, and you know
We followed, never found 'em, so maybe it's not over yet

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Lyrics Made Up In The Shower This Morning

The sun is setting and the sky is moon-pale grey
And love is such a brittle thing
An' I don' know why God lets everything decay
But I know 'bout tarnished rings

There's all the lies you told me
Then the smell of gasoline
And I'll be damned for heaven
If you don't know what it means

Looking for an answer, with words and a prayer
For all the things you never said
And all the chances I left so far behind somewhere
Where love goes when it's dead

There's all the lies you told me
Then the smell of gasoline
And I'll be damned for heaven
If you don't know what it means

The fires of Hell are hot tonight an' they know your name
When the Devil spoke I said "I do"
No understandin' lights your eyes, jus' a look of fearful blame
And once I said I loved you.

There's all the lies you told me
Then the smell of gasoline
And I'll be damned for heaven
If you don't know what it means

The house burns dry with hate an' too many memories
Your screams the only thing that's true
For some reason I'm cryin' while dancin' with the furies
Cuz I once said I love you
I once said I loved you.
I once said
I loved you
I loved you.

Tetractys #1

No one
Believed her
When Maureen said
she'd found her abortion in their freezer

Just like they did not believe in Galileo
Or in the clowns
When they said
Laugh with

Umbrella Dreaming

You hold me in your hands     so warm
Rain slithering, sluicing around you     thunder
Drowning cries of glee     Whheeee!
A month of rain is
Puddles I cannot guard from
And fear-frayed voice wondering
Whispering     wondering    is it
Wrong to feel so glad?
I feel so glad!     Carried
Everywhere    your holy symbol
And protection     is it wrong
To hope the rains come down
Forever & ever & ever?     because!
I just want to be used     and
Not forgotten when rain stops.

Friday, April 07, 2006


Eternity is - thisness
Fire scuttering through extremities
Spitting screams after frozen silences
Where fear things and rages are
One; yellow-toothed gnawing
The colour of damnation
Hanging before -- a death
In lonely places, steel smelling
Of larger shapes, cats on two legs:
Fear you? - death fears you? -
If you are brave enough! Oh if!
Why else traps like paradise
Leaving you writhing broken-boned
Shattering - staring at cheese
You will never eat. Death is -
this hunger
not going away.


No revelation, only discovery
After the first moment, in-seeing,
There is only hearsay, mistress rumour
Dancing from mouth to mouth.

There is no one who sees
What anyone else sees.

There is no knowing freed of feeling
And no Truth we can find
Without building a story
In which to reach it.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Her scar was

Her scar was
pale like snow in spring
leavened by rain, reminding
me of our last conversation, and
what lightning would be like
unmarred by thunder
or our tears.

Chance At A Bus Stop

I met a stranger by the by the bus stop at the rode side. He stood out by his silence, as if he had nowhere to hide, and nodded once to me, one stranger to another.

"Hello," I offered, to fill a silence I had not know until I saw how quiet she was, and how so simply still. "Morning," he said; we moved closer together.

"Are you a woman or man?" I blurted, not meaning to ask. "Does it matter?" He said smiling, but I felt put to task and fumbled with words for an answer.

"I am not my plumbing," she said. "Would you define yourself so narrowly?" "Hey," I said," I'm not defining anyone." "You move with words like a dancer."

"Huh?" "I wonder," he said, "Why it is so. You say nothing, and so you move, and are never still. Why do something?" "Are you some kind of nut?" I said.

She laughed. "Oh yes. I've just removed some shells, you see." I didn't, and she shook his head. "Tell me how you can be walking around like this, half dead!

And pretend it is normal and refuse to open your senses wide?" "I don't understand that," I said and something in her smile died. We did not get on the bus together.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

A Truth Most Sublime

The government steals
our thoughts, and
replaces them with
commercials; this is why
you should pay taxes:
they add the xxx ads then.


The hidden world is where we eat souls
And no one notices, or at least
They never see our subtle feast
And the ways that we're made whole.

The magic of humanity is know thus:
They will not admit the truth
And dare not see any proof
And just invent new names for loss.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Last Conversation

Your words
into me
like coat
hangers, oh god
oh jesus, oh satan
oh too damn pure mary
oh fuck why did i let you

oh fuck
says it all

i wish i
had courage
to end it; a sin
but not worse
than what
told me to do

          it wasn't to be like that
          i should have felt relieved
          like everyone else
right now i
want to kill you
after me and
everyone else
for making the world
this way.

Monday, April 03, 2006


The only path from here to there,
From us to Truth, is a story.
The story we tell does not matter,
Cannot matter, because it is all
One story that began before us
Moves on after us, never needed
Us: and to find more than sadness
In this is the beginning of wonder.


We cannot see outside
what is not inside.
To become enlightened is not
a thing to become;
the journey is short, an end reached
once you stop travelling.
And to find a master is only this:
a seeking for bondage.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Into The Finite

Staring up to infinity is
Hanging on a world tree,
This knowing of red shifts to blue:
In the infinite what can be true?
Staring at this wonderfall, thinking,
Shrinking away under it all, and
The sky must be shamed
At being so very small.

Reason Is

This: a death of souls casting away
Talents, the awareness of the poet, as if
There was only this world, and naught else.

What is science devoid of art? Only roads
With no place to travel down them.

This, too; the insulation of a belief, an idea
That nothing else is worth studying,
Not language, nor art, nor passions.

What is science but dead-end roads, and eyes
Believing that seeing is seeing - and no more.

Saturday, April 01, 2006


Rump astride a log beside
a fallen tree given up
a hole for a walking path.

Your brother, playing, dancing
on the log - balanced by his father -
says, "Doggie!" and laughs as
paws leap up, trying to join
him on the tree.

You twist the console under sunlight
trying to see a better game.
The dog stops beside you,
panting breath in your face,
curious. You do not notice,
not the dog, nor the world;
and your high score only
a wasted day of moments.

The Trail

There are not words for
Aged moss on a tree trunk shaped
Like a hockey stick reaching
For the blue heavens,
Puddlling around through cracks;
The moss gives dignity to age, quiet beauty
Pulling down sublime height and age,
The mortal touch elevating it
Above those things that never die.