Sunday, November 24, 2019

Fourteen Leftovers from October

Wreck on Tour

It can be valuable,
To play the fool, to tell
The anecdotes you love

To tell, because you love
To tell them, even if 
You rarely tell them well.

Well-told, they’re of value
To listeners; to fools
They’re of value told true.

Give up the Ghost

How could we ever know we’ve died?
For certain, we see others die.
The rule should generally apply.
But a profound solipsism 
Would require we stay agnostic 
About our own mortality.
What’s life, when we’ve never lost it?

We’ve Been Artificial for Some Time Now

The ancient Chinese hermit in the hills,
Perusing his small collection of scrolls,
Preserving shi in his calligraphy,

Planting root vegetables, brewing his tea,
Was as far removed from a forager
As from the wayside ghost in this car seat.

It’s Earlier Than You Think

Given you’re human, you care
About synchronicity,
And you tend to get anxious
Whenever you wait too long.
I’ve come to reassure you,
You’re not too late, just early.
Something will come along soon.
Might as well savor the wait.

Passed As We Imagined Them

I imagine none of us
Imagines what happens next
Will mimic exactly what
One imagines may happen.

Yet we continue to play
Dupes to our imaginings,
Dreaming and dreading the days
We rarely recall having . . .


Time is our fugitive, hounded by hope.

The Rose in the Steel Dust

Most people are not magnets.
Most people are just metal
Attracted to the magnets
But unable to attract
Those magnets (or each other).

Dread Lavender Enlightenment 

You can’t be what you aren’t,
And so you ask yourself,
Over and over, is what you are
Enough? For what?

An Unclaimed Ticket

A lottery is a state 
Of being, perhaps 
The only state being is.

What Happens Next

I don’t need to know.
I’m sure I’ll find out.


Piled-up bric-รก-brac,
Poetry’s just this and that,
Quanta and the void.

Grave Facts

All beings who claim to be
Alive remain fictional.

I am by myself forgot,
Or will be, once I forget
To remind myself to forget.

We are all best-adapted
To the pasts that selected
Our ancestors from their packs.
Shifting winds extinguish that.

Poems to Be Taught in the Dark

Whatever in water strove
To speak, whatever in fire,
Whatever the stars desired,

Something inherent
Was coincident 
With the condition

That wet salt could enunciate
One day as these lines
Of conversational clay.

The Long Autumn

This autumn has been 
Replicating the autumn,
The long autumn of this life.
The weather slowly changes,
And the winter must arrive,

But every storm threat dissolves
In these bright, becalmed blue skies,
And the golden days 
Stretch out like drowsy felines
Lounging in late-angled light.

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