i.

coyote brush and
manzanita blooms-

if you've not seen them,
what to say?

"what's the klammath like
out there?" she asks.

"wade in waste deep,"
he replies.

ii.

ive become sure that the pine trees lean
over to kiss one another when im not looking.

theyre always winking.

iii. 

a new biology of trees:
bees as phelanges,
toes of mycorrhizal fungus,
synapses of sound and light.

where does one thing end and
another start?

im listening.

i.

sky leans low and
breathes in
her ear.

elms dance
upside down.

and here in this world-

a woman,
listening to wind from
under winter shade

is possible.



ii.

mr. mole wakes and
rises.
warmth draws him up-

but to what?

he does not know
spring by her last name;

but follows her scent.

sometimes
i wake up half-nights,
sweating at the wheel,
fettered to a parrot who
knows only one word.

and breath wears the sail fabric thin-
plunging, dipping and
cresting dreams of an
oceaned awakeness.

and storms arrive unto which
these dripping eyes cannot close…

…and horrors.

then, there is the desire to flank the
wind and run (or sink),
as we all know that keen need
for the sleep beneath sleep.

but…

in this war of madness is
the husk of sadness
peeled back from my brow,

revealing some
strange homecoming
joy.

this breath-
she is the wet and darkened
foam of a sea that
i cannot contain without
being.

she curls into
a damp and roaring circlet of
moon-

becoming one graceful
lengthening...

her body is the body present,
softly glowing,
finely smooth
and stretching,
stretching,

and soooo stretching into
some vast transparency.

i am so unalone within her that
i am left alone,
orphaned in greatness-
in awe.

at my feet- her feet.
at my fingertips- hers.

she opens the door to tomorrow and
yesterday, taking their
coats in hand and
hanging them by the fire
to dry.

somewhere and yonder knocks and is let in.

this is the house of the body,
she,
our body the temple,
frothing,
flashing,
foaming sea body.

and we are so unalone within her that
we are left alone with each other,
orphaned in greatness-

and in awe.

from: 02/21/2008 04:59 PM

i.

there,
at a meeting of the saints and
devils-

he rips his chest awide,
pronouncing himself
nameless.

he remembers everything:
raising hand against his
brother mark.
burning the bridge beyond
mcpherson's old house.

nursing a sick bird back
to life.

nameless, he weeps
and speaks Words to
listening pines.

and they forgive him,
Wordless.

ii.

when the light went out,
wasted on penny candies,
he dug in the dark earth-
looking for what he'd
thrown away.

centuries passed.
mold took root in his skin,
his hair.
scent replaced sight.

and what he found,
he had to give up.


iii.

bouyant,
she gives gifts from
inside to inside.

there's no keeping her out!

we wiggle like rotten kids,
but her love gets at us
anyway.

(who knows a damn thing, anyway?)

cant sleep.

and wondering how
many poems must
begin with the words,
"cant sleep."

and ...

even if i could reach into
the past and change this now,
i would still be this
me guy.

this me guy who doesn't
know anything real-

and cant sleep.

i. the pitcher

he worships not the sky,
not the spinning bullet of ball,
nor the batt.

it's the intimacy of wind he
craves and carves (whether
foul, fly or strike) as
eyes trace a cheetah thrown from
curling dispatch through
to crackling release.

there -<….ssssssssssSSSSSSSSSST!> -
that split second between his
fingertips and the other world…
he sends of himself to
dance
with the breeze.

ii. spin

she traces the centre in
terms of motion,

he defines the arc in
terms of centres.

pointing, laughing,
yelling and arguing,
they collapse on
the sofa.

what eyes declare,
hearts demonstrate.

iii. xuuss (dream)

kids form dolls of
bean sprout and clay.

momma leans a smile
into them, breathing.

eyes wide,
forms dance.