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 ~
Rising In daylight, thin pink Streaks of clouds An overwhelming blue Stepping out into the yard And hearing the small Songs of Chic-A-Dee And Cardinal In the few trees that line The meadow ~
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.
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. ~
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
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.
-- 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
My dream was a dollar Worn out at the edges And in the hand of a child Was written "close your eyes" When you hear the angels Sing amid the boulders And the waves of the water You've got to close your eyes ~
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.
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. ~