of secret renegades
walking every other
frame in softsand
brushing white pines
instead of people
Where did the loon find its hollow call?
An echo from the hills, from the caves within.
The heron answers with silent wings,
skimming sands of time-space,
hunting silver salmon rising with the tide to greet the day,
their glinting scales carrying memories of moonbeams.
All awakens in its own time,
All fades in its own death.
The universe is the ultimate recycler,
So when will my words come back, and in what language?
If I could choose, it would be the hallowed call of the loon,
the echo of the hills,
the cerulean reflection of an endless sky.
the hollows of pinecone
arranged in whorls of geometric specificity
lure me to their labyrinthian desire
I am trapped and confused
wandering criss crossed avenues
of no dimension, no answers, no destiny.
Graduated growths culture tomorrow’s life
Can I parse their language of renewal?
Will you share your seeds of wonderment?
Round, round, rolling, tossing cone:
All those secret hiding places catch the wind,
The air-wind that dries your fingertips
To release tomorrow’s news.
I need these roads of no dimension
These bridges from symbol to meaning
Oh, cone, pull me with your fate to fathom
Universal cycles ‘neath the stars.
Oh ye wooden carcass
awaiting strings and tension,
Enjoy your decades of touchless rest
Clothed in dragon and lion ornament
But unvarnished against the dust.
I always meant to make you whole
And learn to play across your chest.
Instead you’ve sheltered behind
the piano’s sounding board,
Absorbing time and tempo
Waiting, waiting to debut
With an old soul,
And we would exchange glances,
to mark the close of our secret.
No complaints. No whines.
Nothing out of tune.
But as full of possibility as full can muster.
As ready for pegs and wires as a soldier sits ready
In the bunker.
Ready to burst with a volley of pent-up song.
I meant to make you whole.
Keep the whispers you have heard warm
Within your breast for me.
gone, gone the sun
at the dark moon’s bidding
throwing but a pure white diamond
through the lunar mountain pass.
the ancients told their myths
through the constellations in the sky,
then medievals framed the light
in storied stained glass windows.
whose myth are we, bedecked with special lenses,
each a private viewer of the morning heavens?
we gather in the cascade meadow
chairs and hats and blankets and devices,
unaware of our repetition of the pagans
gathering to dance away their fears.
come all, divided, come as one
and watch as gone, gone the sun.
the ides of March,
the Sunday of palms
fifteen of nine in seventeen
part cyborg for the day
the first sun of biotherapy
in the fight for my human freedom
a day filled with hyperaesthesia
tuned to the new and strange
of tubes and beeps and hang bags
the day started in Cagean white light
a massive, mute, amorphous fog
flattening the morning sun to no dimension
as I approach a place with no shadows
whatever time that space holds for me
whatever durées might be lived