02.28.2004

Nightmare: Mother stops singing; rain wets the bed; Father won't answer
Dream: (__ ___ __) I'm awake now, it's over, nice glow, heart thumping

Homo Faber: we're makers, of dreams schemes spells loves lives death
The possibility of creation must have emerged with belief in gods

Death of God . . . today that absence is a kind of presence
Who ever wants to visit a graveyard? Who ever avoids it?

Parenthood: how would I have raised me? How dare I judge them!
Beyond good and evil? Homo Faber, you little shit

02.27.2004

The words are jumping around a lot tonight, astonished
I don't feel like you're being fair to me, she wept . . . and waited

Forgiving and thinking and knowing love also comes with the world . . .
"The mortal mind thinking/ deathless things,/ singing" Franz Wright

The closer you look, the more boundary blurs
Who in the world wants to love you? Of those, who succeeds?

02.26.2004

Resurrection of flesh in trees: petals soft as ears on small mammals
The longer version is: look how much has changed in a month

02.25.2004

Ring, ring, ring, hello . . . ashes, ashes we all fall down
Detached from form, even occasionally from content, never from time

Strobe-flash across dark sky (1 ... 2 ... 3 ... ) thunder then rattle of rain
Fragrance, so unimportant to the wind, is tossed away anywhere

02.24.2004

The future: my father's prescribed 9 pills a day; I, one-half
The comfort, peace, revelation, joy, and waste of repetition

Each day contains a moment when the center of gravity shifts
The flowering acacias, still bright, have passed their prime

I look for the moment when the trees begin to dance
Four wet redwoods uphill, visible thru a window, beneath fast clouds

No racehorses without jockeys
Winter dreads the moment spring turns confrontational

02.23.2004

A body sleeps, while the ever restless imagination dreams
Concerning afterlife: it takes a kind of faith to believe, or disbelieve, it

02.22.2004

Jung's shadow falls on her, but she feels the light of Christ within
Let it shine til Jesus comes, I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, shine, shine

The numinous appears within the luminous
He listened to, and retold, the story entrusted to him

02.21.2004

I step out to inhale fresh air that awakens an old meaning of hit
"Hopelessly trying to be on time for consciousness," W.S. Di Piero

"The streaming familiar," August Kleinzahler (or was it steaming)
February afternoon is buttery, you can taste the light, smell flesh of flowers

02.20.2004

The finished product is a ghost
Product exchange in the agora buries the present

02.19.2004

Who are we to think we'll work it out with fate?
A pattern of words like birds waiting on wires

The present is only part of what's present for the mind
We stop for what we think, caught in the wonder of all that's togethered

Memory is invented, the past cannot exist in the past
Every word is a commons with a time-capsule buried in it

Dark and clear, time drains from the brain-stem dark and clear
I think how it should be, despite everything, I think how it should be

02.18.2004

Moment stumbles over moment, fact over fact, where have we been?
Stilled consciousness filled by brightness we know not of

02.17.2004

Spring rains dangle like busted timing chains from the gray sky
Rain falls and falls and falls until it leaks up out of the earth

02.16.2004

Old is a long time
All the emotional discovery in a lifetime

02.15.2004

Amedeo Modigliani: immediacy and publicly accessible erotic seduction
Old Masters: to please a public with rendered commercial understanding

02.14.2004

Purple prose, pallid puns, pale pills, pink penumbra
"Stupid cupid, stop picking on me," Connie Francis, 1958

Private thought, private style; private place, private sky
Privates—organs play a song of the origin of the world: Gustave Courbet

02.13.2004

Times you think, this isn't working . . . then re-think that . . .
Leap-ahead moment when knowledge laid down through years emerges

02.12.2004

These words no longer inked, they're just electrical ramble
Fifty thousand years of words before a theory of the brain

From object or event to word is easier than from words to stories
Facts are not plain things; the story precedes the fact

Some stories exist without words, some are only words
Trespass in plasma night, on the metal shore, through a lizard blizzard

Drakes on the make, phantom bantams, toucans of Azkaban . . .
They both agreed, the best choice was cock

They couldn't decide between plumeria and frangipani
Migration in the heart—flocks that make of far-scatteredness one, in season

Word horde sung out of the mouth to sound the heart we think we are
What is inner self if not an inner sky of birds, of stars

The heat in heart, the art in heart, pulsate with the planet
He wrung his hands, then accepted their handsome silence

02.11.2004

You can speak any words out loud
You can hide anything in silence

You can watch from everywhere you are
You can look into every center

No one said it, many thought it—how can I believe this?
Angels of death keep a vigil in all rooms, at all times

Don't fuck with luck, the gods are part human (Athens)
You must sacrifice your son—stay tuned (Jerusalem)

Conviction fills the sky, though broken into pieces
Draw a picture of God, not thing or event or anima mundi

Drank a latté in a café while you got gamma knifed
Compare this moment to God; this one too

02.10.2004

February's green uproar differentiates its sunlight from December's
Each day prepares the eyes for once again more wonder

The leavings of the mind litter the natural world
If you never wasted a word, would it change the midden of your life?

A climate shapes a heart
Beware the storms found in museums

Primitive tools made them feel safe and happy
Inside garden walls the book of wilderness

I don't want more information, I want more enigmas
Speech rescues us from, and reconciles us to, subjectivity

02.09.2004

He wrote when need arose—not always a clear need
In the drought, she drank at the faucet of purpose

02.08.2004

Blinded and swept away by the very force they believe they're handling
She is buried in the world we run loose-lipped and green across

02.07.2004

Lots of clocks running in my hours—lots of alarm clocks
Talking in his sleep, he says his sadness from the floor of consciousness

02.06.2004

How do I work this blowback ghosting out of the cold garden night?
Everywhere surface in motion, signs to be filled in by worship, by murder

02.05.2004

Moon, the original si(g)n, reveals invisibility
Darkness turns complex and sweet under the moon

Between dream and moon, a zone that cannot be abandoned
Background music in the library of night to aid and abet

This small, cold moon—more complex than the sun
The sun is worshiped; the moon loved

02.04.2004

Blue-pale moonlight and 15-watt incandescent pool in the kitchen sink
Shadows cast by lovers in the meadows of utopia

02.03.2004

Birds are dead; dawn is wet; my mind is gray
Aging Bonnard couldn't get enough drenched mimosa yellow

You tell me why, tell me how—you don't listen and you don't have it
Night rain rolling, rattling—rhythm like labored breathing near death

Tell them to give me something for it, please, make them
Before it even happened, I felt I'd been cut in two

02.02.2004

Spring rains down now, riffing off the roofs
These steps required for content access later

02.01.2004

Sitting on the couch, just looking, just being winter
Watery light, twiggy gray soul, house quiet