Microcosms (and dandruff)

Within the least lay lesser, still
slighter repetitons;
infinitesmal patterns.
Is any particle of a rose not a rose?
is the dandruff on the floor, the bedsheet,
is this anything other than me?
And is a single letter,
devoid of context, rhyme, function,
is a single letter not mere fine-tuned dandruff,
shaped by, and shed from,
an endless sea of scalps?

Six thousand, seven hundred, sixty six years

when last your light had graced our skies
you looked at us. You heaved your sighs
at pains, and pangs, and scrabbling hands,
as we, whip-bled, marched across the sands
and burned, and put some towns to axe,
and discovered great and graver acts.

and now, so many years have passed
the deserts grown and some made glass;
when you turn your eye to me,
do you still sigh at what you see?



The bones will never truly settle the
foul earth will spit them up, brown and black and
broken into slighter splinters; again, the bones will
never be buried, only swallowed
for a moment until
choking, choking,
the world purples at the cheeks, gasping,
hacking again until it spits and
floods us all in convulsion


My brain is beat with flukes and foam and
dreams of the sea,
and dreams of home,
and lancing at leviathans while
wondering, wondering:
Is all the world a whittler?
Whittling whales from every wild wood,
and whiter whales from wilder ivory?
Oh, whittler, take your stabs and strokes,
for creation is a painful thing for the created
and perhaps equally for the creator.

Warp And Woof

The world is all meridians,
woven latitudes and longitudes,
and power surges through them all.
Life is ups and downs, lefts and rights,
Raging storms and wilting calms,
The interpolation of sorrow and succor.
And this is good,
And this is good,
for an easy life  is a thread that frays at slightest force,
but this mesh? This warp and woof?
It will survive shipwrecks and sicknesses.


There is an American in my heart,
for good and ill,
for death-drunk nights and
cheaper thrills,
There is an American inside my brain,
coring and boring, silently,
a worm veining the lumber,
There is an American in my soul,
yearning to be free, to
exult, and
to subdue the world.

The Burning Of Gilgamesh

I hollowed out a vessel
from the yielding basswood,
placed you inside and
tacked a paperboard lid on top.
It was my own hand
fed Gilgamesh to the pyre.
The rain tried to drown your flame but
a strong spirit swims through either,
and gone you were,
and ash remains.
And some will say,
“It was only a fish.”
I am only a man.

Roses Are

Roses are and
Roses aren’t and
all that lay between is
the flicker of a moment;
that universal gardener,
weeding and succoring,
cultivating now, only to
appreciate a fragrance
before the frost smothers all.