Postcard 163

The moon is bored by my broad backed hubris
I - a small idol, worn by many slender hands -
a fallen fragment of a forgotten tree

My lazy daily backscratches lean
fenceposts in prostrate graduated angles
striking her sidereal path

My gated apsis is a persistent plod
mud-stomped retreading along
the fence-line's weathered undulation

It is a splintered rosary the moon
has absentminded dropped as if
she is fingered, as if she is anything

more than a myth lumbering
toothless in desolate twighlight
I bore the moon? No, she bores me!

Though I am an ivory horned beast
I am caged in alfalfa bliss and heather
I pace I stomp I charge I bluster

Wire hemmed I am fierce and mighty
Free, I am the idol comforted
by the moon's worn fingers -

fenceposts on her slender hands
We are free power but when bound
Moon penned bull in syzygie

Postcard 162

Each bold moment - forgotten
marvels of self seen & touched
Each shy motion:

a free twitch of hip, a gasp

of just stale breath still sweet

the grip of denim thighs

light fingers measure strength of arms

challenge runandjump

across bridges fog obscured

Your knees strawberryjam stained
We a leafpile of gggles - smoldering
Kissed like light rain


Met at bussstops cloaked like spies
ignored signs -- smoking, loitering
All eye corners full of wet wonder

Made love through clothes
each taste touch a bright splash exquisite
in blank sweater filtered light

Watched old movies
blackandwhite in splendid poverty
of cold rooms Noir sharp air
 
You laughed & itched on filthy rugs
in strangers partystrewn houses
under my shushing grins

Room a scattered room, bodies
muffled on the floor Ashtrays
full of kissstains Bottles sunshining

halffull of gold oblivion Clear white
takeout boxes open inedible -
broken winged memories

Now smell of stale & cheap
of cigarettes & whiteboxtakeout
recall our twin cookie fortune:

Life is but a dream.
Merrily we followed eachother through
misted streets, blackcoated ghosts

Postcard 161

 

There is a boundless wave here fleeing the bland catastrophe of origin
There is a mad hustle ahead of a spectacular frothing of death
and even the smallest success -- there are none great -- melts quickly back to death
This is life out here at the far points of matter that seems to cry
'Make me more and more' with an urge boundless in pain boundless in despair
Though cast off like isotopes the wave persists and matter builds
and builds and each mutation is a doomed crap shoot
But nature rolls a billion times and rolls a billion more,
a boundless roll of losing dice. Life at the far point pushes its luck
and matter builds and organizes, almost meaninglessly successful
out ahead of the wave, each success games the odds
Of a trillion particles but one is part of this, but man does it run with it
'Make me more and more!' There is a boundless wave here fleeing bland catastrophe
And we are at its crest
And nature, doing nothing small, we are likely the statistic mean
And we project out of us stacked matter more and more
And we perceive. Is it accident or apogee?
And then anxiety at the far point of selection
And then death and desparation
The cost of percieve is separation
The gift of separation is perception

Postcard 160

Nature does not by small amounts

There are likely, it seems, near infinite universes flying from each other at near infinite speeds
We, at least, exist in this one

Of this one there is dark and there is light
Light -- or know -- is less

Of the fundamental elements, near all helium and hydrogen, most has never had the chance of being star
But those furnaces have been condensing matter more complex and spitting out

As far as is known, there are six building blocks of life. What small portion of matter are these?
And what smaller portion finds itself on the thin film surface of a body neither baked nor frozen, spinning, near a warm star?

Nature does nothing by small amounts

There are billions of such planets; here we are upon one
So far, neither supernova, nor black hole, nor galactic cloud of poison, nor electromagnetic superstorm has culled this one

Here we are, a statistic irrelevance
But we are imminent and we proceed

A great clean stone holds its face to us and churns our oceans, wearing stones in their constant hands, runs laboratories as countless and surf-washed as their sand
How many unseen suns looked down upon a little churn of acid, carbon, protein machine - success at replicate?

Again Again Again and then
A splash, a cloud, a salt lick, a thermodynamic shrug
But Again Again Again, protein machine

Nature does nothing by small amounts

Postcard 159

You are the ocean in my arms
I'm desperate to be warm and dry
You're the ocean in my arms
Your water's cold, your waves are high

You're the ocean in my arms
and not a drop to drink
You're the ocean in my arms
I sink. I sink. I sink

The Sea, the Sea!
Ceto's fright is Ceto's hold
The sailors' stories are desperate told

You're the ocean in my arms
What part of you is it I'm holding?
You're the ocean in my arms
and I am finally drowning

You're the ocean in my arms
You're soft, You're full. You're wet
You're the ocean in my arms
I'm crushed beneath your depths

The Sea, the Sea!
It's old Poseidon's awful hand
The sailors' stories are only told on land

You're the ocean in my arms
Your water fills my lungs
You're the ocean in my arms
I'm done for. I am done

You're the ocean in my arms
I feel the pull of that old moon
You're the ocean in my arms
I know the songs they sing of you

Postcard 158

You are the ocean in my arms
I hear the songs men write of you
You're the ocean in my arms
I feel the pull of that old moon

You're the ocean in my arms
Oh how I long for land
(You're the ocean in my arms)
...someone warm and dry as sand

The Sea, the Sea!

St Elmo's fire a crackling blue

The sailors' stories are lies but true

You're the ocean in my arms
I'm swept up in your strong currents
You're the ocean in my arms
I have hope for neither mean nor ends

You're the ocean in my arms
Beneath the surface, placid & blue
You're the ocean in my arms
Do you hold me or I hold you?

The Sea, the Sea!
Between Circe and sirens tie true and tight
The sailors' stories are guiding lights

You're the ocean in my arms
Who knows what will become of me?
You're the ocean in my arms
And I am lost at sea

You're the ocean in my arms
You waters cold, your waves are high
You're the ocean in my arms
I'm desperate to be held  -- safe and dry

Postcard 157

Pictured opposite: A form suspended, diamond shape, carbon black, before -- what are those, cliffs? -- before green cliffs under a night sky. It is the desert, we infer, and the single blue star -- she is Venus. Beneath the floating form: six wealthy men, their faces obscured by blank speech. About them are ornate jugs full of rare fluid. The man in purple fancies himself a leader, a man of action and here is his chance. The man over his shoulder believes the real chance will be his. Neither care for what. The man in stripes has dropped to his knees to worship the shape, hoping it is the right shape to fill him. Don't these three make a familiar trio? The next three are another known trio. One sees an opportunity to slip away with a pot. He will likely succeed. The other two think him small minded. They compete in avarice. One is trying to roll up all the pots in the purple rug. But look, with the opposite corner of the rug, that man has forgotten all about the pots. He hopes to capture the form. They will surely upset each others plans. Six fools deluded by power and fortune, where is only their same-stuffs, carbon and water. Venus looks on

Postcard 156

Heathen hordes are swarming at the gate! Bar it, buttress the wall. Good faith is through for the huddled sick and poor. See what happens when you leave open your front door!

Ok, I will. I will leave the door unlocked to my home. Its old, it barely closes anyway, cockeyed with warm smudged paint and leaning old wood bones. We have no foyer, no wide and empty halls. Just a busy kitchen, little living room, three fogged glass bedrooms and some pictures on the walls. We have very little here to steal, and what we have we freely give: books and food and whiskey, conviviality, and snuggles from us our cat our dogs our kids. Of things that warm a cold and weary soul and body, we have a bounty. Take them please, they are free.

But there are wicked people in the world. with strong hands for violence, tongues and eyes bred for treachery and lies

Perhaps, but still, I will leave my front door open. See, my house is filled with life: warm bodies living, wayfaring most days and nights. A wealth that's value defends itself, that cannot be idle in safe in bag on shelf. And finally, around us is a neighborhood sharing more than gated threat. It is a known community. Our street flows with good will and looking out.

Yes I will leave my front door open and see what will happen. Though I know already -- we will be safe as life and take its risks as given

Postcard 155

And what will I feel?

You will feel that sharp dropping longing replaced by empty anxiety

Like a man with his last match, you will feel the wet fear of cold

and then the easy warmth of immersion

You will feel the firmament slip away like parents of a sleeping child

move down to sipping whiskey and warm rooms -- the resting of a smaller world

You will feel your own moments gently stripped away like scales

and you will see them dance irridescent as wind shaped rain across the face of big waters

You will feel thirstily drunk from by every single thing

and you will feel your shores recede

You will feel in the fingers that you call your own

the fine thread pull-through of pain unstitched from pleasure

You will feel the friction heat of steady spindled spool
-- smooth wood on spinning wood -- gathering and binding wool
each bunch of fibers a certain sheep's own dirt and oily lanolin
The thread a flock distilled

You will feel fear. You will feel fear
and you will feel the centrifuge about which it spins
you will feel the hole which pulls you through

Postcard 154

What will you see?

 You will see a woman and a child walking across the grass under haze-filtered sun.

She holds a bag. They hold hands and cause eddies in a muddy river of pain.

You will seen hosts of common birds swirling and diving about them

Their paths are, each, marks of your own desires.

You will see the horizon spread at your outstretched hands

You will look on mountains with pride

You will grip clay and shatter obsidian

Shale will slide under your calm feet

You will see sand ground and moved and feel grateful relief

You will touch the slight lines of your own face

You will see your loved ones weather with age and fill with a comfortable despair

Time slides around unseen and leaves like crisp air

You will watch dispassionate, pain and pleasure flow unceasing

batter your body like a wave beaten pier

You will see the world you made, the self you made become unsustained

Conflagrate as an offering to a fire

You will feel the weight of praise and swell with righteous pride

You will see a march of ants in your sink, caught by spiders, hefting dead flies

and seasons blinking by will wash your eyes

You see yourself their progeny

You will finally feel humble and free

Your familiar cat will mount your chest and purr

You will realize and forget, forget and realize

You will realize and forget