PERSPECTIVE

It will soon enough be time again,
I am an old clockface on a tower
at which no one but the truly bored
bother to look, tucked in a corner
of a village half empty, its life
moved away to places cooler,
less stormy. So I sit and watch
what life remains around me,
the few children wishing they
could be elsewhere, some parents
wishing they had used birth control.
No one looks, no one really cares
but I have little choice, it is my fate
to mark passages, entrances,
but my hands are growing tired
and at some not far off point
they will stop moving, and I
wonder if anyone will care.

EVENT HORIZON

Someone suggested that
it is certain if you fall
into a black hole you will be
crushed well beyond diamond.

Not exactly a fate I’d want,
but that person added
that time elongates as you
go through the event horizon.

If I understood him correctly,
death is instantaneous but
that instant will seem quite long
as you verge on your death.

I could live with that, I suppose
although with my luck I would
irritate my sciatica before entry
and suffer its pain with no Advil.

FOR A MOMENT

The cat takes her time,
carefully considers on which side
she will flop down so that I
can rub her stomach.

She says she allows me
to do this so I feel that I
have some role to play
in her life, validation she says.

She will kick me with
her hind legs when we
are done, “call you again
in an hour” she says in parting.

I cannot complain for I
do live in her house and it is
an honor to be admitted fully
into her world, if only for moments.

IN HIDING

It slipped away. He had no idea where it had gone, but he knew he had to find it. It could have been accidental, an errant passer opening the gateway and off it went. But he was so reliant on it that he knew he could not do much of anything without it. And he couldn’t get help finding it without endless waiting, a waste of time that put him even farther behind. But it was stealthy, and could easily hide in plain site. He hadn’t wanted to adopt it, but he had, and it had consumed him. It was that simple, life without broadband was unimaginable.

PLAYLIST

I realize now just
how old I have gotten,
no laughing any longer

at the old men always
tucking pills into a sorter
neatly marked by day and time,

for I now do my own
weekly, the number of pills
seeming to propogate by month.

I suppose it is time
to begin working in earnest
on the playlist for my funeral.

I’ll be damned if I
will have an organist
and somber melodies

although I may be
damned regardless, but
that is something beyond me.

It will be a long list,
but you can suffer for a bit,
and you know that I will conclude

with my favorite songs
in their full jam band version
by the Grateful Dead.

THE LANGUAGE OF ZEN

The greatest problem
with our language
in the practice of zazen
can seem insurmountable.

We are lovers of tenses,
a dozen to choose from,
one spawning offspring,
time ever important to us.

In zen, on the cushion
there is no past, no future,
perfect or otherwise, nor
our friend the conditional.

We strive to always be
in the moment, there is now
and nothing else, and we
ought to strive to never be tense.

YUN MAN’S EVERY DAY IS A GOOD DAY

Pause and consider why so many questions
require you, you feel, to consult your watch,
to call up a calendar, to appoint time.
Time has no appointments, time is not
an arrow, though we strive always to aim it,
to send it flying in our desired direction.
Time is a point in space, surrounded by
all ten directions, going toward none of them.
Ask why this moment is not enough, why you need
the next though it does not exist.
What are you trying to escape by searching
for tomorrow, lingering in yesterday?
Yesterday no longer exists, so why
do you assume tomorrow does, and what
of this moment, which exists only now,
and what of the red leaf sitting
in mid-air awaiting your awed attention?

A reflection on Case 6 of the Hekiganroku (Blue Cliff Record)

REAL TIME

He can spend hours on the wooden bench in the small square in the center of the village. There he is but a statue, staring up at the giant clock face that looms over the square from the turret of the Village Hall. He likes to watch the long hand, arrowlike, make its slow, but inevitable movement, circling the blank outward gaze of the numerals. He does not care much for time, has too much of it some say, too little left, he knows. But here, as he stares fixedly, it stops. There is no motion in that instant, there is only the instant of time. It is no longer real, it is a thought lost or forgotten, and there is only the single moment in which he sits on the wooden bench in the center of the village.

WHERE? EXACTLY!

In Yuma, Arizona today, I have no idea what might have happened. Once, without going to a library and rummaging through microfiche in the dust laden corner of the second basement, I would never be able to find out. And if I did, I would wonder why there was not some simpler way of finding out. Now I can search the internet and know what did happen and what some think happened. I can find truth and conspiracies involving Yuma. It will take some time, but it can be done with relative ease. The problem is that I couldn’t care less what happened in Yuma today or most any day.

PERSPECTIVE

It is always, the artist told me,
a question of angles and elevations,
but I am sure that was just his perspective.

Dali threw all of that out, made
a pretty good living at taking perspective
out of his work, replaced by fluidity.

For Dali that fluidity resulted
in a fair bit of liquidity, which was
an irony not the least bit lost on him.

But even Dali ran out of time
before he ran out of ideas, it flowed
away from him and he did not care.

I choose to work with words,
for they are easily aligned with
what I imagine, from my perspective.