(Untitled/ Integrated)

The thick grey air, 

Which is not a haze,
Hangs there between me
And all that I see.

Like a defect
In the eye itself,
It cannot be cleaned,
Can't be avoided.

The droning voice,
It is in my head.
Though it can't be found,
It is always 'round.

The necrosis
That is in my brain,
Chips away at me
With its dismal glee.

But not as fast,
As the lethalness
That seeps into me;
That I cannot flee.
All around me
The vapid chatter,
Speaking of nothing,
Thinks it's everything....

A Wooden Bridge

Chopped
The wood lies there
Useless

Now
In the late evening sun
Still so warm

This heat
Will seem unreal
And Distant

On those days
when it will be
useful

The wood
Is a bridge between
Times

Neatly chopped and stacked
The wood sits there useless

Still hot, the late evening weather
Makes its necessity unfathomable

This is a heat that will seem unreal
Just a few months from now

Then the wood will be a necessity
It is a bridge between two different times

Just On This Side

When I wake in the morning,
I have to remind myself
Who I am, what I'm doing;
Torn between them and myself.

Like the brown sky beneath my feet;
Like a thief in broad daylight, who came when expected;
Like everything else that is just not right, in a world of clichés...

I am doing a handstand in a sand storm;
I am stealing what they don't even know they have, and has no value to them;
In my eyes, it is everything else that isn't quite right...

But I keep my peace;
I keep my path and my pace;
I keep just on this side of insanity, in both my eyes and theirs.

I got to bed each evening

Remembering who I am.

On and on I am dreaming,

Recreating who I am.

"Democracy dies in darkness."*

A plant will die in darkness,
That is undoubtedly true.
Somethings have the same weakness.
Democracy is one too.

But death can come too from light,
Leaving the leaves scorched and dried
When it is too long or bright
And there is nowhere to hide.

Information is like light,
And the current massive surge
Is democracy's great plight,
A great radiant scourge.

Yes, knowledge is created
In the shelter of shadows,
And wisdom is related
When the midnight dimly glows.

We need more than just the light.
We need its opposite too.
When something is very bright,

So much damage it can do.

Democracy might die in total darkness,
But it would also die from too much light.





* The slogan of the Washington Post

Inspired Fragments (Spring 2018)

"God is near
Yet hard to seize.
Where there is danger,
The rescue grows as well."
-- Holderlin from Patmos

But where the rescue grows,
So there is also the danger.

The panacea that overlooks what it can't fix.
The optimism that sets up its own demise.

It is hard to understand the good,
To know the one god
Because the good is not pure,
And the divine is not one.

It is more than one who is waiting.
And the waiters are confused and conflicted.
Not really sure who they are waiting for, or why.
It is not just a script;
It is reality as well.

****

The sun shines on the nothing new
Which is not in the least bit strange.
It is only odd,
To those that expect change.

And those often assume the new is some salvation,
even if just from boredom.
It moves us forward
Which is always better.

The movement always leaves behind its origin,
And so it often misses its target.
Once it has gained its momentum,
It is no longer in the same reality that shaped it.

****

Like our technology
(which we worship and take as our ideal)
we don't understand
we simply do

things are accomplished or finished
but they are not completed
we have little ability to judge them
without understanding we are only guessing

throwing things against the wall
(a canvas or on to a newsfeed)
to see if they get a reaction
but the reaction is no more comprehensible or thought through
than the throwing

Creatures of habit, and little--if anything--more.

"Habit is the great deadener."
And what is more habitual than being dead?
It is a habit that consumes and defines everything you do once you have it.
And it is the hardest habit to break, impossible.
So stay well awake...

A Revelation From Sisyphus

Nothing true is found
in the pushing up the hill,
at least not in that alone.

Through pure strength of will
the new is never shown;
hard heads are not profound.

New ideas are shown
when falling to the ground,
and smiling through it still,

while your soul is ground
to dust in a cruel mill--
along with skin and bone--

pushing up the hill
the curse you fully own
and to which you are bound

under which you groan
feeling every last pound,
when pushing up the hill.

If the new is found,
it must be in the thrill,
the rush of being thrown.

With a groan, up the hill, pounding the ground

Slipping on the ground, with a groan, down the hill

Flat on the ground, at the bottom of the hill, without a groan

And to do it all again, and again, and again with a smile

With some mystical but earthly vision that makes it all worth while

To Dream of Dreams, That May Come True

I had a dream that was so strange.

In my dream, I had dreams;
I had aspirations and plans.
In my dream, I had hope,
but that wasn't the strangest part.
In my dream, I had high hopes;
I had hope beyond what I believe.
(Beyond what I can now believe.)
This dream had certainty,
or at least reasonable predictability.
Not of great things,
but of small, regular things.
It was in that regular and small
that dreams could dare to grow tall.

This dream world was boring;
it was a stage-set of no consequence.
Boring, at least if taken by itself.
Not the boredom that pacifies or paralyzes.
A reliability in what is known, what is done, what is expected.
A reasonable certainty in values and belief.
It was a humdrum-ness that you know,
and that you can fall back on:
A bareness that is static but sustainable.
It leaves you unfulfilled,
but leaves you alive and able...
Able to dare to dream of more.
Given permission and possibility to try for more.
A more that can fail, or maybe will fail.
But if the mirage evaporates,
you will still have the desert,
with its harsh but sustaining habitat
that through habituation, you know well enough
to keep yourself alive.

I had a dream that was so strange.
In my dream, dreams were possible,
but they were not certain.
In my dream, dreams were not grand.
They were deep and serious;
they were vital and originary;
they were aimed to create what inspires.
But they were humble in their needs,
in their greed and ego.

In The Nothing New

The nothing new
Drags on and on, again
And nothing true
is found in the mundane

In pursuit of
a desert waterfall
an arctic dove
A red phone midnight call

The same drags... no
it flies, as it lugs me
going... to go
for reasons I can't see

On and on, so
I can't stop and reflect,
On I must go
Thoughts and depth I neglect

And the sun shines
On all the nothing new
And my heart whines,
All it sees is dark blue

Thoughts and what's true
Don't see the light of day
Like my eyes do
When you are in the fray...
Turned to a mush of grey...

In the rat--
On the tread--

Breaking Down...

When the clicking clock of the processor,
That damned silicone chip,
Turns it all to an anxious mushy grey

The new grey of our modern,
Progressing and ever better lives

The glow that lets us know
That everything is fine
And even better
Especially if we doubt

The doubt makes us thirsty
For the ever something new
That makes even more of us click away
Anxiously in that chip

Caged in our chase
For the better
That will make us new
And make us complete

But to my soul...
And for the workings of my mind
It is all nothing new
And that is at best...
Likely, something worse.

True Listening, True Poetry

Poetry is dead
when no one understands
     the wording.

When they understand
the ideas before
   their reading,

The language conforms
to what they thought before
     the meeting.

Their minds colonize
the language and lands
     of meaning.

They twist and shape it
in their unknowing hands
     defeating;

The skill and wisdom
that's trying to do more
    than speaking.

The writer uses
words to do much more
    than sharing.
   
The lines are crafted
To open a new door
     For thinking.

Their world challenged
If they will leave their shore
    Of meaning.

If they take the leap
And attend to the chore
    Of reading.

Of reading the world...
the words and so much more:
     The being.

Then does poetry
Show us brand new lands...
When we are at our core
    Listening.