and so, i will have said everything that i intended.
looking back (way back) it could have very well
all been left undone.  unsaid.  this, too.

we are not so different, you and i, though
we surely are not the same (whatever
that means to you).

i sit here and look out.  i sit here and the past
speaks out.  there's no liberation in this,
just one more moseying whirlpool.

if i meet you on the road and wink, know that i have
not met myself.  and if i fail to wink, check
my pulse if you please. 

this poem will be like myself,
unknown, unknowing and empty but
for its contents.

this poem will be like you, driving with
sunglasses, waving thanks at the dude
who let you into his lane.  mystery of mysteries.

the old riddle about the tree
falling in the woods
cracks me up.
it reminds me of richard's
last action from deep
in a coma,
raising arms and gesturing, "look,
nothing up my sleeve!"

with that in mind,
i turn to vision.
as the sun reflects inwardly,
so the moon reflects outwardly.
if everything is light,
just who am i talking to?
(an interesting question
on a blog!)
it's a pretty thought,
that it's all moonshine.
and it is that.

but not just that.

falling-tree, the young ojibwe, kayaks
down the mississippi towards the great water.
wider and wider grows the river until
thick fog obscures the banks.

he could turn for shore on either side, following
the calls of lands creatures,
but laughing waves draw him further.

when he reaches the ocean, he asks a question
and rolls his kayak over,

sinking

the loom thins and yawns
weaves and holds
strands of dyed gossamer.

the pattern is layed out visibly
to the denizens of tapestry land
yet looking about they find no 
shuttlecock nor comb.

the loom of looms shuffles,
slides invisibly amongst the strands,
but the pattern itself looks beyond (behind
or under or within) and knows the loom
without knowing the loom.

there, in the thick weave, the wind
blows across trees and valleys and
mimicing men themselves of wind
blow on hot coals and make music,
spinning long-breathed stories.

there, a woman sits in her cool
chamber, weaving the name of god.

there is harmony of colour and texture
but not of meaning,
recursion of theme without definition,
each thread consisting of finer and finer
threads, each a container hollow to
be filled with itself.

the loom thins and yawns
weaves and holds,
lays and shuffles and
composes,
also composed of wind.

toys dance on the stage,
jumping and jerking,
twisting to the yank and troll of
children.
to stop here is to fall short (a million
li) and land on my ass,
but i say it anyway for
effect.

momma calls and the kids run in,
their dolls dressed for tea
left on pause mid-sip, foppish
hat dangling precariously,
mr. fuzzy gazing limply into the sky.

and yet the table that is not really a table
still sings some table-song and the tea pot
that is not really a tea pot squints at
the make-pretend sugar bowl (containing
real sugar stolen from the cupboard) with
a look that says, "don't
you go sweetening my sobriety, goddamned
you."  of course,
this is all still just imaginary.

play resumes, only this time miss. buggles
is a super-frog, come to the rescue of helpless sugar
cubes.
licking them, they are not so much set free
as they are set
adrift.

cody stood at the edge of pilgrim creek,
watching the cold water flow.

taking up his good hat and
pocketknife, he walked steadily along
its banks, ever higher into the mountains.
one by one he chased the tributaries into
moist ground or snow pack, until it could
not be said that the creek came from
anywhere,
really.

cody built a fine house near that creek and
fished for brown trout in the early mornings. 

one such morning, years later, he walked downstream
along the old canals and waterways to the sea.  there,
it seemed as though some being resided in the great
earthen basin, seething and sloshing.
it seemed as though this self was the end of all waters
until the sun rose and cast flinting shimmers
through the clouds birthing in the sky.

now, cody wakes with a peculiar smile and when
asked why pilgrim creek runs heavy and turgid or
slow and meager… he grins from his porch, pointing
two ways at once.

the seaside geyser erupts and inhales, alternating with slap of sea, tugged by towing moon, drawn by earth and slung by star. the rock is a flute, blown by the ocean, blown by the moon, singing a song of salt spray- not only about it but of it. looking through the stone's hole, nature is revealed: here the ocean, here a narrowing (a focussing), and here an explosion of force into sky. the stone is not unlike the sea in this. fluid flows through fluid. what seems solid is ever worn and weathered- a mere matter of perception. and yet, there is a strangeness of natural differentiation- here the solidified fluid stone, here the liquified icy water and here the droplets tossed into gaseous sky. there is this strangeness without which there would be no contact. here is the puzzle, not in the source of erupting water or the unity of all substance, but in the singer's very singing selfless body. so, tell me again of words and minds, of separation and connection, of cool solidity and melted movement. tell me again of the moon and sun and how they, in breathing and being blown, sing.

its pretty unlikely that my words mean
to you what they mean to me.  let's
face it.  once they set sail from my harbour,
it's storms, pirates and the doldrums.

so why connect me to them?
go find my ships yourself-
and tell them i say, "yo."

but to those out there who in understanding
come to me saying "yo" with a giggle or smile, i say,
i sent those words out-
as bait.  make yourself comfy and i'll make 
coffee.

"yo."

full moon, plums and clouds
dull knife in tall grass 
juice dripping from lips.