Evening Song

Here legs run and their humans
A pack of females, entangled
But they laugh, they joke
There are rivalries.

That’s okay, that’s not the worst
By any means. The field is clear.

Across the way small brown birds
Forage for worms, for shoots
And all the while the sun slides
In and out of haze and clouds

And thin sheets of light glint
From many soft lenses.

Sylvia, nature,
It’s not the lack of inner life
This simple celebration.
It’s simple, but not only simple.

You can keep honey hives, you can.
But certain bees can clump and sting whenever.

Of Cultivated Quiet

Perhaps there is more?
Something to expect from things, a tangle, or some crunch.
Sings the body, as its silent vibrations
(to which we are blind and impatient) erupt
Into glorious assonance, and deep in my gut
That tiny spring of pleasure starts up
Only a trickle, and hesistant
As it might be cut short by rocks and bits of stone
Dislodged by the slow moving of tectonic life-plates
But quiet – it waits, buoying me up on its flowing
And little by little,

A moose, born from the trees
shakes off fallen snow, crosses a road and sees
out on the river, the frozen river, dark in the dusk
a quicker path, and tentative paces out
feels the deep crackings of the ancient water
echo through its soft-shined hooves

Just so, little by little, my life begins
To ring so soft, in bright cascades
Of cultivated quiet.

Pleasure leaps forth in orgasm, in winning, in commanding
And this leaping can distract (behold the heart’s hard landing)
from the budding growth of softer joy
The intellect, and itself, deploy.

Memory in Interface

In  a black bedroom, in a land far away, and in bed
a soft irridescence lights up a blue grey heavy head
and the fingers are stroking a glass oh so darkly and gone
are the tiredness the world all around and only left one
But in ghostular form on this vast and rotating halo
lie the dead interactions of years used up and the hue
of the borders hem in all the feelings and empty them too.

An affection, attracting the deadened caress and the look
an emptiness hanging inside and a phantomly book
that should be there instead and a homely glow to the world
is taken apart and replaced with this placeless abode
But in place we move as the clocks are opened and set
and the words that are changing, cracked and raised up once again
Help us see that the meanings remain, with a rust of regret.

One sequence or two from a luxom ago have a sheen
of what we didn’t see then, but now can say might then have been
and it all calls up a realisation reluctantly raised
from the deep understanding that colours the background of days.
It’s memory, friends, it tears us all up into shreds
But there’s no big idea, no blanket, and that’s what upsets
of the many events, we forget most of them, and the rest
are spilled in intended rememberance of murky old sets.

Now it’s clear, all too clear, that we really ignore most of life;
a significant fraction of our lonely way is not bright:
and all this ignorance, dullness and shit makes you think
that world peace is refuted with one look through your message history…
How many friends lost and chances blown
simply by them being unknown to me then?
and I hate my past style.
Fuck this horrible zombie archive.
Stoic anathema.