Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

04/365 - 11/365


An open hydrant
transforms into a fountain—
water burgeoning
everywhere— grackles cluster
as a jubilant coven.

Resisting the fall
into sleep, my son disguised
as the moon, tumbles
and rolls across the surface
of his crib repeatedly.

The final sun drifts
along the back garden wall,
releasing flocks of
red wing blackbirds: testaments,
each and every one of them.

Within the corner
of my left eye, a small vein
blossoms, opens out
a single blood flower
waiting for acknowledgement.

Tonight, no more words.
Leave the lights burning in every
room— open all doors.
Let actions replace the text
of this moment's arrival.

Two grackles bicker
perched on the edge of this year's
drought. With strange formality—
closely circling each other—
wildly spitting out curses.

A persistent whine
in the background. As a ghost
child humming lost rhymes
or perhaps instead it's a
mosquito trapped in the room.

Yesterday, four cranes
emerged from the pond, despite
continuous drought
pouring over the landscape
with a controlling embrace.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

03/365


Within memory,
a lizard scurries across
the kitchen windows—
just managing to escape
the prowling neighborhood cat.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

02/365


We have driven past
the same scene before: burnt out
ruins of a home
that's collapsed within itself.
An abandoned metaphor.