From The Wisdom to Grow Downwards:
Approaching Equinox
In diminishing light Star custodian of the pyre When he swells the sun
Thus we see-saw our way The worst is with approaching equinox. It's useless.
my portioned keeper bates me
with fire.
he downsizes the flames with seasonal vent
sets stardust particles smoldering
clouds the constellation with gaseous fumes.
he lengthens the day
raises my stakes by lowering his own
weighs down our compromise
with distended labor.
from one season to the next
from one mantra prayer sighing, rising,
holding, longing for any equal contact
made sensible.
The sun sits rival in the sky
not falling down, nor rising up.
This burning equilibrium
displaces the spectrum of my senses
comes closest to center
rubs raw the magnetic pull between
clenches my insides out
makes me want to parachute myself
out of my skin
nauseated by the g-force
flee, scurrying to heaven.
There's no way off this flying machine.
I grip both sides of the base
knees knocking for balance…
I huddle myself into a little ball
and chain, secure in the new growth--
old growth knowledge that
the universe too
swings itself along.
Scar Tissue
Scar tissue in my vein needed an extra tug Another had already closed down. Too bad, really, But it's not too complicated, really, to have still able to open to the point that needs to be made, but
telling me how sorry you were that you couldn't help me
you did the best you could for all my rapid necessities. I threw
from the nurse, to get the needle through, to
the corpeus delecti, to the red wine sapeous perfuncti.
that they're not designed like escalators--drawn up
into the shaft, automatic-like, in orderly succession.
a piece of myself over-grown with myself, thick
with stubborn, ineffectual unresolved pliancies, yet
it's a questionable point, really, a testable point
they're seeking. So when your letter arrived today,
I didn't think much of it, really. After all, your remedies were
ineffectual too, and your costly caseload overwhelming, but
it out, your words the same ineffectual thing, again, and now
I'm just too tired and overgrown on this point to care, really.
Green Cone
Bright morning sun sets I walk along a rough shallow, Deep down, below my obvious need White sweet daisies raise their faces Finding endpoints lodged into my brow
An old friendly man walks towards me I walk along the road to Long Lake Sighing into my new green cone
my circadian rhythms
tightly, like a steel band
braced around my head.
an untried path,
and stop to etch my shoe
firmly in the sand.
there runs a current, a deeper dread.
How do I transverse this line?
Cut through this coarse dirt road?
tall trees with pine let fall green cones
red berries rich stretch forth entwined tendrils
I'm submerged in soft ripe purpose now...
I gather in this thick timbered peace,
picka fresh handful to taste the shade,
the rest, the comfort.
waving to passers-by. Nodding,
he speaks words I divert quickly,
don't want to see him, don't want to chat.
as the sun bakes my back at noon,
knowing soon I will have to steady static rhythms
with retreat.
I listen to the birds.
Their shrill songs show me to the
confidence of the day.