We machine… – (a haiku sonnet)


We machine sadness;
hone the lives of our knives and 	
sharpen our dances

to slice into the
watery selves of these silks
that we wave about.

We choreograph 
the movements of alphabets,		
shading the letters

with all the wet and
hard and broken things that we 
find in our insides.

And then? We cry out, spilling
them onto the floor.




Separation, a Query Sonnet

Do you know where your son is? Your
daughter? Does worry for them pour
from your mouth like a cataract
into the pool of your chest, racked
open to the sky, your heart torn
from its home there, its old path worn
by the flood—gone, it seems, for good?

This is where I know they once stood.
Here—in this spot—they blew candles.
As we try to get a handle
on our world without them in it,
we pray and still we wait and sit 
with the empty notes of our song
echoing…echoing, then gone.





I know I promised, but here we are and we’re still saying, “Surely, he wouldn’t….”

(I normally shy away from posting anything that has even a whiff of the political, but after our 

inglorious leader's so-called "proclamation" yesterday, I felt like.....well, like I wanted to say this 

again.....cuz I already said it, yes, here we are.....)

(and it has been at least a little while....)

For those who burn and those who do the burning....

(originally published, April 17, 2018, in honor of David S. Buckel, and all who burn....)

(I promised to steer clear of politics after this for a long while...)

(So much for promises....guess that's another thing we can kiss goodbye in 2020....)







          


          It's like somebody said,
          “what’s the worst that could happen?”

          and somebody else said,
          “this guy. this guy could happen.”

          and somebody else said,
          “naw. that guy will never happen.”

          and somebody else said,
          “in your dreams.”

          and somebody else said,
          “in your worst nightmare.”

          and somebody else said,
          “good thing it won’t really happen.”

          and somebody else said,
          “oh, shit.”
 
          and somebody else said,
          “it happened.”

          and somebody else said,
          “well, how much worse could it get?”

          and somebody else said,
          “don’t jinx it.”

          and somebody else said,
          “what’s that in his hand?”

          and somebody else said,
          “it looks like a gas-can.”

          and somebody else said,
          “surely, even he wouldn’t.”

          and somebody else said,
          “what’s that in his other hand?”

          and somebody else said,
          “shit. it looks like a box of matches.”

          and somebody else said,
          “surely he wouldn’t.”

          and somebody else said,
          “run!”

          and somebody else said,
          "I don't have anywhere to run."




          (For David S. Buckel and for Syria, for whatever it's worth)




This is the door

 

this is not spoken word.
these are words, 
spoken.

~

this is not slam,
this is the door.

this is the window.
this is the glaze.

this is the breeze
brought across your skin.

this is the wind on the water and
the breath on the surface.

this is the ripple.

~

this is the breath of the earth
brought to the sky.

this is the surface 
where the landscape is seen.

this is the landscape 
where we all wander.

this is the place 
where we all are lost 			
and 
this is the only place 
where we will ever find each other.

~

this is living a vibrant adage.
this is living on a verdant ledge.
this is living on that vibrating edge.

~

this is not my body.
this is my voice.

this is vibration brought into being.
this is my mind pushing a column of air,
somewhere.

this is sound shaped into meaning.
this is me breathing, in you.

this is muscle and cavity, moving.
this is diaphragm, lung, larynx, tongue, lips and jaw.
 
these are my words in your mouth.		
this is my world 
in the mouth of your mind.

~

this is not performance, 
this is incantation.

~


this is where body touches mind.
this is where meaning is born
and this is where meaning dies.

this is not finding meaning in a story.
this is making a story mean something.

this is not seeking meaning. 
this is living meaning
and this is making all these things mean something.

this is not seeking, 
this is making.

this is mind making myth.
this is myth-making mind.
this is making myth mind.
this is myth making mind 
and
this is making me (into) a myth.

~

this is not ritual,
this is invocation. 

~

this is not some 
thing,
this is something lived.

this is some but not all.

this is the sum.
this is the current.
this is the slow movement of mind
and 
this movement is not mine.

this is the company of misery.
this is the beat of the beaten.
this is the brand of the new.

this is the spent cartridge,
the smell of sulphur
and a cloud of rust
in a sepia sky.

this is blood sucked 
straight from the sand.
this is the tatters 
of the temple’s torn curtain.

~

this is pure speculation.
this is mind ore.
this is the whore of the mind
doing its helical mambo.

this is me 
fucking me.

this is what it means.

this is what “it” means.

and

this is all there is.

this is all there is.

this is all there is.




~~~~~

(I began this piece sometime in 2015 and have tinkered
with it on and off ever since. As happens often with me, 
I get tired of looking at things or I don't know what else
to do with them and so I abandon them here....

“Poems are never finished – just abandoned”
—Paul Valery)