Dry Hill (Time Enough)

Stopped by the hill.
How slowly and majestically
The battle with time
In its earnest vigor, only leaves
Inexpressible dry stillness.
It is wonderful, wonderful,
The unceasing demand of roots,
The sheen of sunlight reclaims
The dewy utterances.
How slowly and majestically
This sluggish muse invites
The vain boasts of humans,
Their disparaging nerve.
How slowly and majestically
Lank yellow-white reeds sag
Steely lizards and hawks reign
As heavens withdraw their destiny.

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When You Eat Your Own Heart

When you eat your own heart
You are obliged to.
You must hold on to your life
With your teeth, sinews gust
Drowned mouth of warm sinking sap
Peeling the skin off nature’s bones.
With each vivifying breath
You survive, the rending.
You must dig up scarlet oaks
Until light charms the dead specimen.

When you eat your own heart
You are poetic, an ichor spirit.
Sight clouded, eyes lolling back, blackened.
A source to plunder, twisting
Chambers in a messy web, plucking
One final eternity in disjunction
You notice the record of your love
Amidst the light and shadow.
You notice the dreamy motions,
Until, in disciplined scrutiny, the heart is eaten.

Observer Syndrome (Patience)

Nothing like the beauty
Of the listening head snapping up
Of the shoulders falling
Of the triumph of a secret thought
When the dream comes true.

As a net cast, dreaming upwards
Eight months prior, in Los Gatos
Two statues, nocked in invitational stance
Now only afford
Clean inhalations, clean exhilarations.

I pretended to read, in Los Altos
I don’t know why I examine
The man walking up
And down the rutted aisles of
Auditorium anywhere, packed
Planetariums, the galaxy breathes as
two kids speak in foreign tongues.

Getting back to it, in Sunnyvale
I read and reread the first lines
As a song on repeat, peeking out
There are no crows gathering above.
It sure feels like there are.

Along the estuarine, gulls wing
The old coastal scrub and oak savanna,
paved marine woodlands, now stifled.
This is no place for a cowboy,
In Mountain View, spirit clefted.

I saw a bag fly
I saw its wrinkles hover
From inside
the Jiffy Lube,

the bag

Riding high, tugging upwards.
Supplicating, grasping at
Hot dry cotton breeze.
Months later,

the bag

Flat, dusted with utterances
Of wildfire smoke particulate matter
Of projected stars
Of free, burnt coffee.

One-Trip Grocery Haul

I gathered it all up
into my arms, laden
as a one-trip grocery haul.
I gathered the sense.
The old woman across
the street, watching me as
her silk pip cat would.
It was raining and I had ran.
Slammed up on the door,
forehead tripod, key fumbler.
“How does this look, Fran?”
“Are you not satisfied?”
When you are old, you can delight
in one younger, sopping
gripping slippery knob,
tripping through hinged barrier.
Dripping duct upon the wood,
I was not in the mood
for withered, hidden eyes.

In Burned Shambles

Before the charred remains
The dazzle of the embers
Approaching the ruins
No birds to mourn
Closer & closer
The moon’s ivory stage
The horizon used to loll
Above the roof line
The blaze, the wild dread
Too much, a self-destruction
Arpeggios of smoke take flight
Like snowfall
The mirrored shards gathered soot.

1001

Oh I loved the width of that autumn
Laughing like crepe paper sheets
You would think
It was never like that.

Nervous, lonely, with pleasant dreams
Prelapsarian, impending war, economic collapse
Punched into hacksaw silence,
Repaid in this worn visage.

An old testament
Of nothing but grief
Of heaving oceans,
Of one thousand and one nights.

The Historians

History-as-something-made
Real subsumption, consumer stature
Useful montage exploration culture
Bringing out the vital labor
Of the grand productive project
Our ways of thinking about the present
Memetic, our narrative expires
A crisis of the imagination arises
An act of killing the ideal perceiver
Optimal optical machine desire.

Sidle

Like a brass bell chimes
I come running
On a day when
I’m out walking
On a day when
You’re out walking
Followed by a car
Auspicious diamond star
Look at your history
Look at the car

Most people tell me,
This is the world
Most people talking,
and in the black,
no words.