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ON THE MESA
I sit outside, on the mesa, having watched the mauve, fuchsia and coral sky finally concede to night. The two orange orbs sit twenty yards away, staring back and in this moment coyote and I have known each other for moments, for generations, and we are content. Coyote tells me he was once an elder living…
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CENSORS
They stole his words, carefully sidling up to him when he was distracted, and plucking one left hanging from a pocket or in his room at night slid one from the dresser. He never saw them and never suspected. They toyed with him, for a while taking only verbs, leaving him transfixed and cursing his…
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THE SEA
Sitting on the shore, I asked the sea to tell me of life. The sea said the sky was a hungry suitor always trying to devour her. The sea said doves no longer lived atop the mountains. The sea said men embraced wars because they feared love. The sea…
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STREETCORNER PROPHESY
He stands on the corner, rocking back and forth. He has been here every day for as long as most can remember. He hasn’t bathed in some time, his clothes, once white are indeterminate shades of beige. Everything is worn thin. His beard has grown long, shaggy. His hair seems electric on his head. He…
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MIDSTREAM
A young man sits on a large flat rock jutting out into a river. He slowly tells the river the story of his life, places he has been, people seen and known. Each drop of water flowing by hears a small bit of his story, none hear whole thoughts, for perhaps he has told none.…
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MUSINGS
The poet muses: I wonder if a cat purrs when no one is in the same room. I suppose we could put in a microphone and find out. Schrödinger comments: if there is no microphone the cat is purring and the cat is not purring, and what is the half- life of a poem.
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OUT OF THE GARDEN
He says, “You know it is long past time to stop blaming the poor snake, it wasn’t his fault and when you stop and think about it, he told no lies. And what makes you think that he had any idea of the consequences of the offer. will you admit snakes are as sentient as we…
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NARA PARK
He sits, head so far above, a muted gold, on the giant altar the incense rising up his chest and clouding the eyes of the slow parade of supplicants who bow, recite remembered bits of sutra, or just pause in the semi-silence of the park. They are all seekers, but it is only the few lingering…
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TAKING
You can take my sight, but my mind will still see what it must, and my fingers will become eyes. You can take my hearing, I will imagine what I must, and my eyes will become ears. You can take my tongue, but my body will shout what I must, and my hands will speak…
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RAGA BADVA
Look behind the number, past the curtain that shields from your eyes its magic – it is there the singularity of life sheds its clothes, and what you grasp so tightly is no more than the idea of dawn, the concept of death. You must dig the grave to that certain depth so that should…
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an old writer and his words 