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.




NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #5 — Rest



Rest



The heart spends more time 
not beating than beating.

The organ that keeps us alive
spends more time resting

than working. Go ahead. 
Hold your breath. Listen 

to it rest. Listen in that space 
between the beats. Hold it 

in your hands. Feel it come 
to rest and seize it softly. 

Feel it move and let it go 
quickly. Don’t hold your 

breath. Listen to the rest. 
This is how the moment goes.

There is just this rhythm 
of life and death. The first 

one-two of every pair 
of heartbeats. Between 

every squeeze of life lies 
a small and quiet death.

This is only the smallest 
of truths. This is only on 

and off. Between beat and 
beat there is only this silence.

Between flex and flex, 
there is only the rest.








Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....



such that the moment



The truth is 
such that the moment 
we turn our 
backs on it 
it ceases to be the truth
that we thought it was.

The truth is 
such that the moment
we take our 
next breath it 
changes and it changes the 
breath that we just took.









Shadorma November, Day 6 (seven days late....)
(...or does that make it six?...)


Vacuity

(a continuation of sorts of this poem, in a strange sort of a way...)




what are these things that we go to and get away from,
these masses of matter that we shun, shy away from
and then are drawn inevitably back towards—
or if not inevitably then more often than not
more strongly towards than away from so that
we are always having this going—
this coming and going, this to-ing and fro-ing—
these lines and circles in the woods where
even chaos is a kind of order, a kinder order
than we are used to, than we deserve,
a kind of overlay on these things that
defy this definition, all these definitions 
since nature abhors lines and circles as much 
as vacuums and yet of what is this universe 
mostly made except the stuff of which it
isn’t?  





The articulation of absurdity





"...a thing, any thing, impinges on us by a more important fact, its self-existence, 
without reference to any other thing, in short, the very character of it which calls our 
attention to it, which wants us to know more about it, its particularity."
							                                --Charles Olson



If we could hold any 

thing 

in hand or mind, 
any singular, self-existent 

thing

without reference to any other 

thing, 

then that 

thing 

would and could 
only be the only
 
thing.  

We would find our selves holding 

this 

whole universe, 

this 

allofexistenceatonce, 

for what else 
could we hold 
without reference 
to any other 

thing?

We would find ourselves 
held in the hands
of angels

and annihilated.




Whitty Schism 2/15/14, That thing…

(my mind's continuing verbal wars with itself)


It's like that thing that wasn't 
what I thought it was 
though I was certain that it was

but now I cannot see it 
as I saw it wrongly. 
No matter how hard I try
I cannot now see it 
as other than it is.

It's like that thing 
I thought I saw 
but didn't, 

that thing that wasn't 
what I thought I saw 
but only what it was.