Time. Place. Nothingness.
in our minds, we right
our wrongs–
in our hearts,
we’re always right.
left of center,
but still in the field,
chasing the moment
to voice our righteousness–
all hearts closed,
all tongues sharpened,
whetted by indignation,
quenched and tempered with pride–
voices lie fallow,
hearts grazing on ash–
I am awake and one thing
is clear: I am
having coffee, watching Godard,
writing this, long-haired
kitten purring in my lap,
waiting for the early morning
ritual of brushing-the-teeth,
washing-the-face, making the self
presentable to the other
selfs judging themselfs on the
merits of all other selfs.
And such is the value
of the selfless, I suppose:
no judgement, no comparison.
no ego to uphold
and no standard to which
conformity is mandatory.
Such is the life
of the saint.
Such is the aspiration
we respire day in, day out.
with one hand on my ego and
the other on my fear, the sense
of lost pride i once had is now fading–
thank God
no more nights spent in sleepless haze
worrying more and more.
no more studying to find my place.
my place is wherever i am
we may be small, but so is everything else–
far off, on the other side of the galaxy, life probably exists, but we are still isolated–
a grain of sand is no different than a mountain: everything is huge to something,
everything is small to something–
everything is–
everything never was–
everything will always be.
that sinking feeling–
the open world of gut instinct,
gnawing at the inside,
making the air cold
and the rain turn to glass
a burlap sack filled
with empty pockets,
morsels leaking from the sides,
money spent to tithe
the past
a small king in a big world
and big worlds dotting
the universe–
back to now–
back to then–
the sinking of skin on skin,
breath in breath–
blinking in and out,
off and on–
the last roadsign at
the edge of a starry slipstream
before the pavement
turns left, sharply
out of sight
I. IN WHICH WE LEARN OF CHAOS
II. IN WHICH WE ORDER CHAOS
III. IN WHICH ORDER DISSOLVES
IV. IN WHICH WE RECOVER
V. IN WHICH WE RECONCILE/SYNTHESIZE
we, the grasp of the hand–
we, the shelter from the night–
we, the hardened thought,
crystalline and pure–
midnight takes its worth from
and casts its shroud on
one and the same–
we, the thoughts and actions–
we, the tolling thunder-bells–
we, the unspoken prayer,
silently waiting, waiting
birdsong as the sky
is still gray, overcast with
the dark before dawn
—
no parking where the
evergreens grow, no parking
where the silence sleeps
—
stillness in a city
of a century’s commerce,
before the gears turn
as we turn into new light
burning away the winter’s chill
fiery eyes blaze with new sight
the hungry winter has had its fill
drifting away in
nights as dark
and clear as
black sand sifted
from beaches at
the end of the world–
standing still
wandering in tunnels
that wind through mountains
covered with a blanket
of ozone
drifting–
still
