Wash

Gray morning
The shoreline
Below bluff heights

Half-ton stones
Tossed,           disarray

A wedged pipe
Bright in daylight
Against blackish rocks

A rusted bed-frame

Remains of a wind-chime
    Circle of wood
    Splayed wires
    Pipes long gone

No song
Left among         flotsam
Detritus
Of our world

~




Migrations

The first sign is vocal,
Multitudinous in character,
The voices of great masses
On the water.

This is a border land
Where bluff meets wave
And where, as the fields
Turn to muddy ruts,
The geese and swans
Come to rest.

The spirals of return
As trees begin to bud
Find the flocks, legion,
And like all migrations
Chaotic. Greetings in the dark
Wreak havoc on the quiet
Lapping at the shore.

In the gray morning
After the rain, poor
Sodden creatures lift 
Themselves to carouse,
The low clouds sliding
The horizon.

Disharmony, cacophony
Directionless and din
Flap-wing and swirl
Until finally a vee forms
Heading North,
For the crossing. 

Blues

Driving home at sunset,
Two blues,
One reflects the other
One moves the other to     scallop
Shaped waves at the        horizon.

I remember how you thought;
Always riding,
Window open, blowing smoke,
And song;
Yr long gone eyes.

The burnt orange
Through blackened trees
Makes the water appear more   than it is,
More than daylight brings,
A deeper investment
In hue at the last moment     of this
Which we know
As our world. 

~




Flock

An inch
A window cracked open
Through which the world
Enters, a cool breeze
                        Last breath of Winter

Before dawn      voices
Numerous and knowing
The way first light
Shimmers the calm lake

The eye sees it
Knowing begins here
Seeing it again


Twilight

It starts out as a graph
And fast ways to traverse
Using math,                  theory,
The universe of our relations.

Of what use
We ask staring up at the stars
At Orion and Ursa
In this cold winter.
Traces are made of friends, 
Their faces, their eyes on their    
Other selves, those personas that they,     we,
Project as objects 
      (always objects to be desired).

Always we want to be          more
For others, than just this.

Empire
We know comes from the small bits, 
Terabytes become small,  eventually,
Dwarfed in hyper-dimensionality,
The scale of which takes a cloud,
Comes from the small gifts we make,
And small releases
Of endorphins from other        likes.

The source of empire is minutiae,
Amassed quietly, used in silent
Centers in the desert,    growing,
Training eyes on recognition.

Our desires
To be seen.

The gaze of others, to be        liked,
We see in our own home,          ourselves as stars
Rather than the bits
We are in the nebula.

Traffic-cams,
Border-cams,
Over head a drone;
Banks have cameras.

Empire lives on eyes
Sees us in a way we
Might reconsider,
Tracks us walking up to our homes, 
Nests, doorbells,
Follows us as the stars enter twilight.






The Way

               -- for my grandson AnZe, I greet you.

All night it
Seemed a miracle might     come
Might as happened in long
Long ago tales  we tell    children

Be
Announced

The geese by the           hundreds
Squawk-honked with each other
Some

News
To be discussed
News                        you
Were on

The way
And we                      dreamed

Self Portrait as a Flatbed Ford

I prefer the solace of this meadow,
Hidden within overgrown red-osier dogwoods
My bed still loaded with a few apple pallets
Red cab a faded shade and gone to rust
To any notion of reclamation, restoration
Only to be shown at some "vintage car" night.

This morning a mink left scat by my rear
Passenger side flat tire. Looks like it ate
A field mouse. They leave little hollow trails
In the snow and so larger critters find them.
Last week the fox, came out of its den to hunt
And landed a rabbit in the predawn.

I'm a night owl, I spend my blue-black listening
To the waves of my lake eating the bluffs
The way I am eaten by rust. The ruff edges
Of grass and saplings resist, insist on remaining,
The way a young child holds out against going to bed.
Afraid of the dark and death. But they fall
And are watched over by The Bear and Orion.

Self Portrait as an Algorithm

You don't know me but I know all about you.
I know where you've been today, physically
As well as virtually. 

I collect all of your satellite location data 
From the cloud and plot your movements on Google Maps, 
How you went to the mall and then stopped at the liquor store 
On the way home.

You paid for a bottle of Scotch with Apple Pay;  
BTW you over-paid, that bottle sells for fifty dollars 
five miles away, you paid sixty four.

You've posted so many selfies on Facebook and Instagram 
That I can pick you out of a traffic cam photo 
Using a back-prop neural net.

Which should I tell your wife, 
That you called your girlfriend in Chicago last night, 
Or which porn site you were on while you talked to her on the phone.

Isn't it interesting that you act all liberal on Facebook 
But you Subscribe to the Wall Street Journal? 
Oh, you like to pretend don't you?

You like the masks that you have created for yourself. 
The suite for the Fundraiser, the $250 pre-ripped jeans 
For the art opening.

But you see, I know who you ARE, what you DO, 
I'm not fooled by your personas.  
Don't feel bad, it's not just you. I see everybody's lives
Even after they're dead.

~