Tuesday, August 28, 2012


You think through it, not into it,
a squadron of images which bring you
from somewhere down the road
to here;  a stand of experiences tarnished
by time.  Yet not without a soul.

In a republican way, I wonder how a nation
survives when athletes are paid more than
scientists, the only creativity in the way
a body twists and bleeds.  The pregnant
pause of change needs nourishment.

The past in the present, the future continued desire.

Friday, August 03, 2012

iTunes: The Definition of Music

Inspiration does not arrive by ship,
late at night, disembark, run amuck
in the city — leave a claw trail of notes
across the backs of dilatants, then
break apart at sunrise, like clouds
sullen with rain and the pain
of awaking to commutes, concrete,
the constant hammering of cubicles
in offices, abandoned to islands of indifference.

Inspiration lives in avoidance,
the indiscrete trail which appears
in morning fog bramble-burdened,  impossible
to negotiate, yet can be as intoxicating as
the moment when you first track
the lines of a foreign body — pliant
and accessible — the moment when
you first understand the rhythm
which drives so much.