Think of something.

titled: the deepening haze of meta-fascination,
the work tells on numerous levels of the tools
that can reconstitute some lost sense of oneness,
and in that without this feeling being lost
it might seem tangible, which horrifies against
its very meaning, and its crying mantra:
the more you know, the more you see
that really you know a shred of nothing,
and in this lies the real heart
of a thousand generations of learning and discovery
and the acquisition of, the fascination with,
the devotion unto
knowledge.

Arc Like the Sun

The Eros of the arc

of a red bull can tilted back,

the balance on your fingers

as the biting philter flows,

the last drops curving down the can

and the pivot of your hand

shading the faded dawnlight,

and the exponential grace

of the can's arc is reflected

in her darling curves

through the filter of fresh brightness

in the rising morn dawn's arc,

and the grace is like the can's

and as the swelling vitriol flows,

the curves stir in the velvet pool

and a sun of greater brightness

stirs up and shades the faded light,

the face stirs up and harkens back unto the night

and the stirring curves are rising in the velvet

and as the can tilts back and livens the fluid

easing the roll of the eyes

that rest on the girl's subtle curve

just beyond, the fervid arc of dawn's first luminescence

in the tender

spirited morning,

you smile a bright arc

and are given to laughing,

an easy flow that blows from the soul

and the laugh is caught and she is smiling,

and her arc is like the sun,

all her arcs are like the sun.

Ashes to ashtrays, a smoke, a praise.

There is something indemnifying
about a cigarette outside in the rain,
under cover of veranda or eave.
The calmness looking out into water,
fire in your hand, livening your mind.
I contemplate the droplets
and forget about the days,
standing on the edge of rain,
breathing foreign haze.
On the border of dry and calm,
and sopping and sad,
I hover.
I feel the expulsion of my lungs into moisture.
A single droplet falls and ruins my cig,
but not my smoke,
and when I feel a cough or choke,
my time on the edge
of security and mortality is done.

Standing On A Corner

I feel unfettered.
A dagger finally pulled
from a deep wound.
I feel my legs can stretch,
my lungs can move.

A hearty dose of self-actualization
and a stolid sprinkle of understanding.
Here is the light.
Right above me, behind the shadows
and dust.

Everything is sharper somehow,
more natural and sudden.
Each line and angle gives
way to the next, swiftly,
calmly, like the wind about
a flag; crisp, snapped to,
but without violence.

I stride now, excitement
touched up my joints,
settling in the muscle,
rapping the bone in spray.

My neck is straight, and it
turns for hopeful windows
of inspiratory secrets,
small moments of
pedestrianism holding
golden hymns to beauty,
kindness or wisdom.

paths.

former trails traveled,
eidetically projected in the back of my head,
sweeping into the sand and bright.

newer paths lay on
sonorous notes drifting through a rough trail,
miles ahead, miles ahead.

souring vestiges
of elderly feelings, traveled past, left winking
in summer waves of heat.

they scrape about,
flinging tense worries in puddles of drought,
asking me to look at them.

lighter thoughts float
up into thin atmos.

Scared treed memories
of dogged, unmissed pasts devolve and curl away.

I stand on a wasteland,
happy for its solitude, searching through salty tension,
padding across memories and memories and time.

I seek a key, a compass,
a guide through these vast deepenings.

Tired eyes of a dusty child, its me at 6,
holding a horsehead on a stick, tattered vest
and a wild west hat.

this has been discarded, tossed at random,
out into the wastes.

I look at myself as I remember and
feel the surge of bare softness
in a patch of grass beside a gray wooden fence.

The trails all lead to me, as I feel a clap
in and of my mind, and realize that I can parse it.
These clear or cloudy memories are me.

stick on branch.

Now,
time is a stick
on a branch
on a thick and
entrenched log
in a swiftly flowing river
It can't budge
the water flows up
and around
the spindly stick,
its slimy now
it needs to be broken
renewal, reentry
to the greater river,
the enormity, endlessly
wide and deep,
yet static is the stick
of our present moment,
hurriedly, encouragingly
our moment bends
and snaps,
free are we
to flow downstream
and to live.

of fate.

Oh fate,
you mighty decider,
how you toss and drive us about
like lithe shapes of tissue,
how you twist and tug on us
weaving us in and out
of endless blankets of
drama and destruction,
as we suffer on
your cruel loom.
But I know your secret fate,
and so I can live my life.
Whatsoever you throw to me,
I might catch it
and make it mine,
and if my lot
fares worse than others,
I live happy still fate,
for still others fare
much worse than I.

Moonrise.

Cascading varieties of malnourished
yellow flood the forest canopy
neath a pallid, shelled dusk moonrise.

A fading orange mountain looms,
the moonlight skirting its base,
and stars shoot, angles zipping in vectors.

Smart tremolos shifting with wind
break the coolness of treetops,
lightness shaking, shifting under leaf.

And now bright trunks are illumed
starkly against blacker corners,
dens of glowing eyes, colder bone.

High thin clouds with stately
slowness shade the moon,
gray-silver on grimy yellow.

The oped sky's eye lidded
and with sickly tone, but
the sight's ray color-gifted,

blessed in fair vision.

Bouncing Light.

I put on my hat I wear each day.
Into my beaten soles I slide feet.

Into my ears I slide bouncing light.
It drives my soles and my hat's guts.

Title, Artist, Album
The song in my head's selfsame
Today, Alive, Alive

Catharsis.

"I've a very analytic mind,"
I said, pouring smooth coffee
into two clean mugs.
"I am oriented towards details,
not the insignificant ones,
but parts that mesh
and form the whole,
and the parts that aren't there,
but contribute to the whole
nonetheless."

"What do you mean?"
she seemed to say, cooly
buzzing, miles away,
sipping my coffee,
sweetning my day.

"Well its just those things
no one can see,
but they're small or innocuous;
they appear to me.
They are there.
That's how I know."

She reclined across the chair
and sighed; a softening breathlessness,
her eyes inside.

Odysseus sees Her.

Stepped in golden sandals,
she appears from behind a tree.
A balanced arboreal frame,
vibrating, emitting arrant harmony.
Sly lengthy elegance,
wealthy in mystery,
her shy bangs drip smartly,
drawn about, circumscribing
a just scape,
knowing and fair,
radiant and rare.
Taut limbs intoning, veracious of their grace,
bright eyes inviting and clever as they dance,
curves of bronze bound in satin,
her opulence conferred through classic study.
A subtle brush, a potent glance,
the journeyed hero sees truly,
his certitude congealed,
in flesh and robe and sight,
is Pallas Athene revealed.

Los Chisos y Chihuahua

Bone dry
clattering pots and pans
the closest star is our own arrogant master
she extracts moisture
tearing deep our sap
our pulsing water
if its dark its hot
if its metal it burns
when she sets we sing
when she rises we die
everything she touches turns to dust
her penchant for destruction is relentless
we scurry in her light, afraid to sizzle
to fry in her tireless war against the damp

endless devious reactions fuel her divine ragings
a great beast trembles
limbs shaking under the fiery waves
a dusty step
and a shuttered gasp
the beast expires
desired by the wicked goddess
to devolve into a pile of frigid white bones
picked clean
a relic of her celestial terror
and the poor beast's short struggle

blighted and wasted, we crawl across terrible scapes
three times the circling vultures call
dead things dangling from their maws
they her bedraggled minions
she the astral empress
how terrible her gaze
how endless her power

the old ones.

these grainy tactile films take contact
pull it into your sight and sing it out
it plays without triteness or fickle guile
the people are commiserative, flawed and bright
and as they flicker by, they are winning,
without nostalgia or irony.

'plot for days' she comments
smirking at this line or that
the dialogue is tense, or sometimes far fetched
but its exactly what fits, and it does
the particular oldness of it, the forgotten wit
and even the new talkies owe them heaps of craft and gold.

Moon Bathing

Our bright orb lolls in the quiescent sections of the sky
between patrolling clouds it hovers
casting a soothing reflection down on the ripe glassy surface of the lake.
Its after midnight but our tanned summer bodies bob in pale luminescence.
The bustle and chop of the summer lake is calm now, and we drink it in in all of its subtly.
We play games and splash the warm water, but we are here for the moon
its mysterious radiance, its transformational force.

The still waters stretch out in front of us as the moon breathes its light.
The velvet of northwoods waters in August laps our skin, mild and silky,
and we gaze at the enormous face, the full moon's patterns of shade.
Maybe the lunar gaze is just the noon Sun's reflection,
a celestial mirror, angled into our atmosphere once a month
but here in this water, I feel its pull, the lightness of my limbs.
surely its touch is singular when moon bathing on Moon Lake.

Cursive turns.

Cursive comes close,
it almost describes it.
Rather it is the mode,
the rotation of its characters.
That is, how it rotates,
cursive closely imitates.

But the comparison is flawed,
a subtle yet essential distinction.
Cursive letters loop and close,
their paths calibrated, ileal.
My curves are different,
they're untraceable, capricious, luminous.

So my soul's turns are unique.
But for now the pen tip's flourish
must suffice.

Cloud Cult.

beckoned to fall swiftly
leaning over rails and bridges
clouds drift in sequence
they desire my form
and I theirs
I stand on the edge
requesting a swap
they all agree
they prefer to remain anonymous and plural
which is just fine with me
I prefer anonymity as well
who wants to be a cloud if anyone knows you?
It's best to float by without notice
casting shadows and rain
watching tiny people
hastily, frenetically try to cope
with the burdens of earth-life
surely I'm a citizen of Earth myself
only my world is miles above pain
above confusion and enmity and coarseness
I am no longer a coarse being
my molecules are more a loose association
clinging water, lighter than air
brushing by mountains, amazonian treetops
I swell as I sweep across still lakes and rivers
my form is now bloated, my shade is now gray
as winds whip me upwards
I feel fit to burst
a thunderclap, and I fall apart
millions of fragments flung downward
gravity's urgings have won out
endless sensation as I plink on a pond
I splash against branches and dribble down leaves
I wash across playgrounds, swingsets and schools
and as I strike the soft sweet earth
I feel at home, my cycle is complete

Circus Love Triangle

The fiddle player dreams
of a cartwheeling bandit
his rolls and turns are strong and graceful
her light hands hold with tenderness close
the steel strings, the new bow, a gift of affection
the gossamer sparks, a web of light splayed
as the small rapid fingers
are dancing in rays
as the evening sun lingers
she pines as she plays.

Her meek bright heart shutters
as chin clasps violin
a glint in her eye, as she watches him soar
the strongman's advances intense and denied
a circus love triangle, her fiddle their pace
but her one true love can with such ease turn a wheel
a flip-twisting full tuck
as she plays, his soul tilts
his tight landing stuck
as her dulcet tone lilts.

Trees of Grim Designs

Trees resound hollowly, secrets passed by leaf
echoing splinters through soft earth
twine-like roots entangled, entombed in the deep
woody overgrowth contrives
dimly plotting against man and bear
whispers chatter, needles and twigs with wind-like designs
bare clattering branches, bones of transmission
the brook and the birch,
the boulder and pine,
conspirators all,
allies in crime.
Preemptively seeking maligned machinations
tangling trippingly devious root, a loop for a boot
a steep crumbling trail, rutted from rain
a tumble a gasp a thump and a crack
and warm sticky fluid, life-giving solution
staining the boulder, droplets plinking the brook
but murderous trees have consciences too
the noble pine broke the fall, and it's sap sacrificed
the trees aim at ending, but save a man's life.

Seasoned Rivals

The bitter rivals sling desperate barbs of malignancy, tea grey teeth gnashed and bared in acute hostility. The rubber endcaps, vilely yellowed and brittle from age and use dreadfully slide across the brown linoleum as the two adversaries advance toward one another. From the unsettling clink of a rusted walker to the muffled rustling of depends on crisp grey slacks held up with brass clasped suspenders, the stage is set for a brutal geriatric clash in the Main Leisure Area of Hyland Nursing Home. Sporting freshly fitted and glued dentures, hugely thick and widely framed glasses, a darkly stained oak cane and fresh depends, with two tours as a marine in Korea under his considerable belt is Walter Drubner, slouched and metronomically thumping his cane. On the other side of the ring now formed by most of the cognizant residents of Hyland is Charles Brainard, the (relatively) young challenger, vigorously shaking and swinging his walker. They continue to toss insults about, one asserting the other is a "weembly commie-loving fairyboy" countered merely with a tart "drool-monkey". The name-calling is fairly ridiculous and rife with outdated words but cussing is frowned upon at Hyland and the intentions are real and are spit vindictively. No one laughs, murmurs circle and fade. A wisecracker towards the back offers bets. They stop with a few inches separating their tumid red noses, Charles's walker is now carelessly cast off to the side, and they take turns clenching fists and leaning in towards one another. Crusty nostrils flare and thin pallid lips twitch and sneer. Far off, the clatter of a dropped bedpan can be heard. Someone coughs. "Why don't you go back to your namby pamby sewing circle, Chuck", Walter growls, raising his meaty forearm, complete with green crinkely tattoos. Just then, the kindly young nurse steps in, and both wrinkled necks turn. "It's bingo time everyone--oh, and Mr. Drubner your family is here." "You lucked out this time" Walter mutters as he turns on his cane and walks towards the door. Charles picks up his walker and sticks his tongue out to Walter's turned back. "We'll see who lucked out tomorrow Drubner."
The End.

Welcome To Ypsi

Two friends from Eastern Michigan University and I hop a bus to Ypsilanti, the ghetto sister city to Ann Arbor and a quiet gangly fellow sits down on the stop after ours. His hair is crispy and blond, as though its been abused by a hairdryer and is about neck length. It shoots out from his head, floating raggedly above his creased and weather beaten neck. The skin on his hands and face is tight, leathery, and deeply tanned. Probably about 36, he looks over 50 and has ghastly bony fingers. A vein stands out visibly on his temple and throbs, sliding over the bone as he turns his withered head side to side. His whole body seems to have been left out in the sun too long. His face looks like that of a gaunt, wide-eyed Clint Eastwood. I glance at his wild and bulging winter-blue eyes and notice a burst blood vessel in the right one. As he sits languidly across from me on the number four bus, arms stretched across the backs of seats, eying the driver and my collegiate looking friends and me, he is clutching a pair of metal handcuffs. They don't look like the fake handcuffs that come with policeman Halloween costumes and they're certainly not fuzzy. They look like cop handcuffs, real ones, the chain silver and the cuffs painted dull black. He is holding them in a manner that suggests the attitude "Yeah these are handcuffs, so what?" He has a cheap ring on every finger and wears a dirty leather jacket. The jacket is black and stained all over and he has an ugly plaid polyester vest over it. He sits shiftlessly towards the front of the bus and no one sits next to him. His expression is blank in the way a serial killer's is and he mainly stares towards the front of the bus, occasionally switching the handcuffs from hand to hand, making no effort to hide them. He glances at us again, we whisper to one another, and he more than likely knows we're talking about him. My friend feigns sending a text message to snap a picture of this creepy loner holding handcuffs and I begin to wonder what his story is. The first thing I imagine is an image of him pushed against a car, being handcuffed by a police officer when suddenly he takes the officer down, brutally beating him and making a run for it. Subsequent images are variations on this including a gun fight, knife fight, unbelievable karate moves, various shanking scenarios, and a car chase. I grip the metal water bottle in my hand and wonder what the best way to wield it against a dangerous street person with handcuffs might be. When he slowly sinks his hand into his jacket my knuckles go white and I tense up all over. His hand emerges holding a liter bottle of coke, apparently very well hidden in the folds of his dirty jacket. He just holds the bottle in one hand, the handcuffs in the other and continues to glance around menacingly. He gets off several stops before us and as he walks away I see hanging from his black jeans a chain with dozens of colored hair ties looped through it. The second he is gone my friends and I confer about the strangness of this person. One friend points out that he has seen him before, riding a bike and wearing women's underwear, he is a hustler or crossdresser my friend speculates, and probably a drug addict I add. This seems as likely as any explanation and we theorize about this grungy misanthropic deviant and why he was holding handcuffs until we reach our stop. Now his story's changed in my mind and rather than a highly dangerous felon he is a hustler junkie with a handcuff fetish. "Welcome to Ypsilanti!" my friend says ironically. I just smile and wonder at our public transit system.