Monday, September 26, 2016

"If you suffer it is because of you, if you feel blissful it is because of you. Nobody else is responsible - only you and you alone. You are your hell and your heaven too." --Osho

Saturday, September 24, 2016

a slew of haiku




may the tongue keep wings
& lash unbashful tumbled
flight from perch, with bite






faceplant and footprint
the ground never looked so good
on our stupid hands






my bed of basil
in a love full of fences
grown coiled diamonds




It is how you can
smell a season. It is what
you tape to the walls.






Hills hides the dancers.
I look up and still myself
to see the clouds move.





Rare these days become--
the ones that threaten time,
the ones that feel like God.

Saturday, September 3, 2016

now.


When you hold your hand up to the sun and it will not grow warm. And when you catch yourself saving tears for the long drives. It's time. Long due. Someone mumbles it or a skywriter catches you absent and spells it out in great chemical loops, or you can't sleep because of the growl in your knuckles where pens slip all slender ghost-like. Or you find it then lose it like thread in the bed covers and you spend all day digging through the soft with all that you've got. Or someone asks you, sweet and easily, when. Have you? Will you? And all the scenery says speak--the city and whip-whirl of ceiling fan. It all echoes have you? Will you?



When?

or something like it (summertime, part two)