First Days

1/1/12

Whose prophecy is worthy to invest our hearts, hands, minds?
If our world makes a circle — no end or beginning —
may we slip between a then and now?


The weight of the world
The sadness of oceans
The endless pain of life a’borning


This is the Year of Prophecy.
Abandon hope all who enter,
oracular oratory sings
through collective inner ear.
Remember reason. Remember Preacher.
Fall into whispered memory,
the best of scenes in dreams, in ether.
No time left for hope.
It’s do or die unsung.
One scene at a time.


1/2/12

Busy weaving
click, click, click, click
moving, breathing, in the rhythm,
straight ahead
Never glancing past the dance
that entrains, chugging
brain engaged to the current of song,
encouraging movement
on cue, on time, in serial rhyme,
this surreal fantasy
weaving, weaving


Always on the threshold
never really anywhere
On the road from here to there
expecting
not accepting
In motion, like a trance, without a goal
Expecting what? A fortune to be
told? A jaunty rainbow?
The miracle of love?


It’s a self-fulfilling system, with plenty
of bad actors to go around.


Theories for social distribution of power (politics)
or resources (economics)


1/4/12

I was never real,
so I don’t have real stories.
Walking dark streets, observing not ominous shadow
but flying sorcerers with fortunes to bestow.
— not so much
hallucinations as willful delusions, collusion with
my bff, unsane and definitely unsafe.
She laughs in hailstorms,
blissed-out by biting pain as cold razor teeth
taste her cheeks, ears, nose, uncovered flesh.
Smoke so black deliciously divides cackling
into echoes far and indistinct.
But there’s that puppy-dog barking need for love, for
status, for a wise old fool to follow into certain death
and beyond.
Who believes these things?
Who would want to?
There is no marvelous flavor here.
What little gristle of nutrition is sour and hard.
Still, if one must be a tragedy in
one’s own private opera,
twould be best to entertain
with gusto, with splendor,
this dour audience.


1/5/12

irritable impatience of age


multi-limbed Japanese songbirds
born to nuclear land-mines, sea quakes


1/6/12

Knocking, hiding from the opening presence.
Lumpily wrapped, a parcel unsolicited.
To be taken in, cherished, given consideration
and love, an unexpected gift?
To be neglected, tossed in the trash, cursed
as unwanted refuse?
A gift is not meant to be self-sustaining;
its meaning is in its use.

Too flimsy at center to keep things together,
the things called human beings, or even Jo, or Al.
I can’t hold them close and make their world calm,
create a place sane and safe for smiling wide enough
to light and lighten big blue skies.
The center does not hold what won’t be held.
Things fall apart.

Conversation settles into meaning

The privileged have the power of wealth
The people have the numbers, and
less and less to lose