Cartography III

we play here 
in the fuzziest of maths 

our paths diverge from 
us even as we are 
on the verge of
pushing parallels 
until they converge 
at the horizon

no conflict of interest
our interests engulf us
and all the world around us

is there really a point
where one day becomes another?
a line demarcating one from the next?   
a border in time?
a break in the line?

there are no breaks 
only endings and beginnings
endlessly beginning

there is no border between
one moment and the next
a line in the sand perhaps
but this line is 
a billion grains of silica 
marking the borders of a negative space
where the idea of a line lives

one grouping of grains marks where
one grouping of grains ends and
another begins? 

one ending begins and
one beginning ends?

until the sands shift again


we play here in an endless sandbox
our rules engage us in the 
game of rules

the horizontal is always 
while our horizon forever rounds
a strangeness of circles 
embraced by sand 

these grains embrace us and
we forget 
our lines
our selves

this sand loves us and 
loves for us to forget

this silica wants to make 
blue glass marbles 
to circle about us

Cartography II

Of course we are all lost.
We have been lost many 
times before.

Off course, we all search.
We have been searching
for a long time. 

We search 
for some sense
but history proves 
that this proves

What we seek and search for,
we will never have,
we can never touch or grasp or collect.

Still we suck at it like 
an empty teat and
vanish right along with it.

.the point . the quest.
meets the dragons of the horizon. 

Some drag that same 
horizon around 
like a brittle map.

Some scream in the square 
at passers-by,
 “Look!  Here, where the 
ocean meets the sky! 
Here it is!  I have found it!”

Some look away. 
Some shuffle their feet on by
some loony preaching kingdoms 
of lost treasures and flatness.

We know how these things go.
We’ve heard these stories before.

Zeno’s been there. 
His fleet-footed friend 
is never fast enough. 

We hurry home, loose hopes
like flocks out to pasture,
and throw found prayers 
at the forever locked and
stricken horizon.

our noses fall off for us 
we the de- 
and in-
spite of all faces

we are not particles
this particularity 
this peculiarity is 


we spin in the same 
spaceless circles

we cannot find our waste 
precious time searches 
for what cannot be found
without or within
(but) what does the searching
(we) must be who we are

Aren't we that which 
makes us wonder?

Aren't we that wonder 
which makes us?

Are we what 
wonder makes?