Let there be…


In this landscape,
some find god or gods. 

I have not.

In this terrain, 
Some find answers.

I have found 

only answers that shatter 
into questions like particles
in a cloud chamber,

questions that split
and split again,

and spin off into spaces
between the things that are
and are not there.  


There is not enough glue
in the universe to hold 
these dark matters together.

This landscape becomes
this cloudscape and
there is no escape
from this escapade.

In Valleys Like This

It was in valleys like this that 
the land spoke.  The earth itself shared 
its language of place and time.  The 
when and where of life was known.  The 
earth spoke in a forgotten tongue 
like fingers speak to hands, like hands 
speak to arms, like arms speak to chest 
and chest sings the songs of fingers,  
knows the beat of feet and feels the 
soles' words of water, roots and rock.

This song was known to the singer 
even when unsung, sprung from the 
same womb, as close as cadence, as 
rhythm as rain, as known as the 
nails of one's hands, unnoticed for 
its constant presence.  Its lack is 
the death of us all, its dearth is
a black wall that hides us from our 
selves, our once embraced, now banished, 
bare and prodigal pantheons.



The forklift driver grabs his steaming lunch, into the thermos,hot soup on a cold day,

trudges out the door, the half-block to the bus stop, graffiti-smeared and stickered,

and stands, dragon-breath glowing dirty orange in the light of the rising sun,

staring down to and past that busier street, looking for what may come or not.

The bus grumbles, squeals and pishes to a stop and he alights, head down.

A mother knows the schedule, knows the man’s shape, sees him ascend the kneeling 

stairs and knows they are running late–she, still in slippers and house-coat,

scarf and hat against the waking cold as she drags bundled child down steps

and they walk, a different half block to a different bus stop--an empty corner--

and stand, bodies cut in half by light, by the now-white sun peaking over roof-tops

as the yellow bus hits the manhole cover, rattling windows in the coffee shop.


The first-pot maker drips his streaming hunch into the terminus, not new, in an old way

fudges on the floor, half-stare and half-not, empty-city-bleared and crackered,

and lands, fairly death, growing qwerty-strange in the blight of despising fun,

glaring frown through the past that his ears meet, looking for what may come or not.

His rust trundles, squeaks the dishes, stew-a-pot and he delights, dead-crowned.

His mother knew his schedule, knows a man’s shape, saw him transcend the keening

stares and knows his un-stunning spate–she still, in the earth.  A mouse-goat

scoffed and spat aghast, and waking, old as she, dragged sundered wild brown pipes

and they talk, a different life-stock to a stiff, errant fuss-fop–an empty crooner

and band.  Noddies come in half the night, buy the now, write-son speaking oven goof-ups

and a mellow fuss splits the man.  Hole-lover, prattling, winnows in the coffee shop.