Dark Drifts in From The North Char On wind Far out Over mammoth Great mother Whose sirens Cry For stone
"Everything leans," A friend said, The Maple arcs Over the bluff-edge Which means one day Gravity Roots up, carcass. Found an opossum, gray & white fur, bones Still raw Bite marks, ripped stuff Cracked jaw, gut-cavity Tail pointing South At nothing.
Sky dark Gray November Lid Evening Cloud-bank Each crisp Snow-flake Eye-lash Flutters Amid Gull-cries Somewhere Off shore
Radiant gray step-out Flurries coming Low over the lake This day will linger If left to its own devices
November claims individual gold Leaves falling from the skinny birch Lifts gray hairs on my skull Lifts whitecaps from the lake Each follows and is followed by another I sit, chant a mantra Heard from an old Buddha Who said twelve million repetitions Bring it closer to the heart
On the last morning of October Between the scalloped water And the slab of gray The low angled sun slices through' And flashes the the lone gull I might say silver or white But you know the color Everything surprises, the way They shift when you look at them On the morning of Samhain They shimmer and lift-up Your heart, like that red leaf Wet in your tremmoring hand Raising the fallen
-- For Diane Di Prima
Rain falls Through turned leaves Something green Gone gold In the mist At the end of October Isn't it strange As the day darkens How the unexpected Sound of droplets Increases The sense of loss For the brown leaves For cupped words ~
The dead are a library In which you are told "Unfold pages" "Unbend the ravaged corners," Placeholders of unwrapped Bodies, untombed. We erase carbon marks As if their lives Were once tracings, Maps written on the back Of mummies until exposed, Becomming the singular dream Of the Clairvoyant Brotherhood. ~
October stillness, pitch at three in the morning but you’re restless. Kettle on, you bundle yourself in flannel and boots before making tea in the red clay mug, before stepping out under the vast black-moss dome of the world. Star-fields sing at this time of year in a way which takes an accustomed mind not to reject the voices out of hand as tinnitus or the hallucinogenic effect of tea. Deneb, stolen from the tail of the swan Cygnus cries like a fox , quivering your vertibra and the small bones of your hands; the cry invokes harmonics within tea within clay. A slight breeze rustles the leaves of the closest maple as the first meteorite flashes the atmosphere.
Echoes from the rod and gun club make me look up from the white pages that blow in the wind as I loose them. Fingers are the key to holding the weight. Each finger squeezes steel on the other side of the woods on the other side of the apple farm which is where each butt wears cammo, each foot in work boots. The reverberations of the phonocamptics don’t seem to disturb the vultures on the roof of the deserted house or the gulls whose white underwings capture the virgin nature of the pages before the text and the fingerprints.