I had it good, I
had it easy, I
would be the first
to admit it, to save
you the trouble
of reminding me,
more by way
of illustrating how
badly you had it.
I’ll concede you
had it rough,
money always
tight, but you
never were, never
would be a Jewboy
although you
and your friends
reminded me I
was, constantly.
In the beginning there was
a void, stasis, dimensionless.
I am a point, without size
taking form only in motion,
so too the seat on which
I sit on United flight 951
not going from point A
to point B for neither
can exist in motion
transcending time.
Each decision sets
one me on a path, into
a dimension, dimensions
while I tread a different path
and I a third, yet I have seen
the step ahead before
having been on its path
as all random walks
must cross endlessly.
The universe grows crowded
with exponential me’s
creating paths, and so
must expand, until we cross
and in some minuscule
amount contract the cosmos.
Often I seek pain to slow
the pace, or pleasure
to quicken it, always immutable.
I have learned all of this
in my endless search
for my paradoxical twin
who prefers the accelerated
pace, moving as quickly
as possible, who looks
younger at each intersection.
Good night Albert.
First Appeared in Afterthoughts (Canada), Vol. 2, No. 4, Autumn 1995.
It is easier to think about death
on a wintery evening, when so much
of life slips into stasis, and there is
nothing to do but concede your mortality,
and with good fortune, then slip
into sleep before being lost
in a sea of depression.
I must be thankful for my dreams
for they keep the night from becoming
the little death of the ancient philosophers,
and on awakening in the morning,
the mantle of snow that has painted
the world in a glittering white, does
not demand the shovel as yet, but
celebrates the world’s rebirth,
and with a nod to the sun, my own.
It is a precarious balance, really,
more and exercise in tottering and hearing
than in standing still.
Some prefer stasis, others,
I included, find it leads inevitably
to a loss of energy, to an entropy
from which it is difficult to escape.
I don’t walk along the edge
of the precipice, but I do peer over
amazed at what lies below
that I hope to never see up close.
Is a precarious balance,
but one that can be maintained
if you just close your eyes
and sense what actually lies
around and beneath you.
It is a precarious balance, really,
more an exercise in tottering and hearing
than in standing still.
Some prefer stasis, others,
I included, find that leads inevitably
to a loss of energy, to an entropy
from which it is difficult to escape.
I don’t walk along the edge
of the precipice, but I do. peer over,
amazed at what lies below
that I hope never to see up close.
Is a precarious balance, but
one that can be maintained
if you just close your eyes,
and sense what actually lies
around and beneath you.
We are in the season of stasis
where nothing wants to move and nothing
should shed the mantle of snow
that has announced winter’s arrival
in terms we full understand, as do
the finches clinging to the feeder
casting nervous glances skyward.
The neighbor’s cat has decided
that the remote chance of catching
a bird or squirrel is easily outweighed
by the warmth of the house, and even
the dogs down the block have found
their own lawns much more to their liking.
We know our feet will thaw
after our morning walks, but suspect
this may happen only with the Spring
that seems impossibly far away, and so
we imagine ourselves bulbs, clinging
to what warmth the earth offers
knowing the bloom has infinite patience.
The summer sky
barely pauses to consider
what might be going on
beneath it.
Everything seems to move,
there can be no stillness.
Once in the rarest
of whiles, the sky
and the river align,
and each is frozen
in a stasis that defies
understanding or categorization.
The stars realize this
and shine a moment longer.
an old writer and his words 