Wha Hapnd

Was I thnk tme

snuck upon me
n then I was not
where’t all was
when my flames
licked the road
n clicked me out
o Ontario n down
th road n down
th wind n down
the minuets o
fingers foraging
so lite so lite
so soft th tissues
o  your yuth
n I so other thn
this man slantd
along th seems o
a sunbeam bent
ntil he smells only
erth n deth n brth.

Time Hop, 2013/03/11

It is summer 2013 and I am
sitting in the back yard.  The sun
is setting and the wind which was
born somewhere between
the compost and the roses rises like
those airplanes I hear departing
or arriving at the nearby airport.
Time flows from four to six, though
I wonder if time is a river and time
is our memory — how do we find
ourselves in this flow of event particulates?
How do we separate the whole exerting
stresses on the package and how do we know
if what is sheared along belongs
or is just a rain of red herrings and fog
and if the river which we think we navigate
like modern day Huck Finns is navigating us.

Images

When I think
of you, I’ don’t think
you, or hear words
which shield you
against and when
I see you, I don’t
think you are
that image on grey
wall, or that September
is anything but rain and
the world of worms on
streets, sidewalks,
driveways and the chill
in my lungs and the
cough from cigarettes
and words, worries,
wonder at the persistence
of buildings bruised by
rain and you in
the dry space of a bar,
younger, though not
very different than you
are today when you
ask me, “Is it over?”
forty thousand feet above
the Pacific and hours
away from destination,
as though there is
an answer before
the fact.  As though
a half-finished sentence
merits a period.

1908

In 2010 having sailed
past Etna — peek-a-
boo mountain to
port we dock at
Messina and marvel
like blind men might
marvel experiencing
the texture of barbequed
steak yet never knowing
the raw meat which
preceded this point
in its history.  In
Taormina the view of
Etna is shrouded and
the Mediterranean azure
benign — nothing
happening here —
not right now.

Dear God

where is the science?  It
should be a denial of
your existence and  yet
and yet during our hailstone
bullet rain when lead
led us we only remembered
that we erected so much in
your name and in those
constructs hid a desire or
two.  Do you remember
the way sunset seeped from
us as though we were dead?
I built to have it destruct
in your elemental name.

That's Life

Much mud to navigate.
Splattered onto words.

Emote (emotion mined
from events) and
adhered to....

What did I know?
Sunshine and rain
and a slideshow of
people’s alter-music.

Separated from who
I am yet adhering to
the montage.

Like moonlight dripping
from the eaves of dawn.
Dawning.  A secret revealed.

Mathematics is a sentence
progressing.  Predictable.
Tears are not so restrained
by a predicated outcome.

There is no preface
just lines drawn commingling
events not associated with
a navigable destination.

What kind of building block is mud?