Forms come to disappear
as damp stones and
a fox running through
a birch filled wood.
The dreamless night, hard and damp as stone
reveals morning and
running through the wood
Stippled with mists and mosses,
the peeling silvery bark on slender trunks,
whisper of acid greens and
the tenderness that is in spring.
What awaits in this day?
What persistent clouds will cover the filtered sky
with dangling questions and lingering doubts?
What fogs will sing initial apprehension
in a minor?
The motif returns in breath, a song.
Neonatal light is a melody
of startling configurations,
Cardinals and Wrens, Finches and Doves
in arpeggios, at first cacophonous
only to resolve singularly, a fiat,
chords in D major.
At the furthest edge before croplands,
the trickle, treacle slow stream
begrassed edges, beflowered grass
the damp stones and birch behind.
The fox follows a fugue of scent
to the den of his mate
gone 40 more days.
The glens and glades are
The soundtrack is the tingle of James Brown barking and
cajoling Sex Machine.
I am at least
one fourth of the way hard,
laughing at provocative images of entwining.
Please, pass the Three D glasses.
Succulents in brick planters,
Walled Bougainvillea red, pink and magenta and
Junipers pruned and teased into
arrangements of spheres on a line
Offer a tentative respite from the forms
of forty days hence
on the rumpled bed linens.
Late spring morning light
filters through the wafting curtains,
the scene overlays
with reflections of planters
tended to order.
If James Brown is the Bach of Sex,
would Marvin Gaye be Mozart of Seduction?
Would that make Mozart the Marvin Gaye of opera?
and James Brown the Sex machine of the cantata?
(at his organ,
the choir exalts.
as the soloist reaches the crescendo
the space fills in glory
to all above.
Get on up ah.)
If honi soit qi mal y pense,
then does love come to he who thinks joy?
Look upon this as
a calculus for
arranging the momentary
into a semblance of realism.
If Jean Luc Goddard is the Ornette Coleman of film,
then is Ornette Coleman the Jean Luc Goddard of jazz?
Look on this as
A taxonomy, exhaustive
variations on walking Masonic,
from Geary to Hayes
on a theme by Bach
as seen from behind.
Today, I left dishes in the sink.
Today, is to be considered
in scattered images and
Burmese curry on tofu.
Today, is disquiet and determination
to have good posture.
Today, is a laugh from a distance.
Today, is the tiny dog chasing pigeons.
Straining at his green nylon leash as the pearly birds
flutter in disarray,
Today, fog lifted late
and warmth came promptly.
Consider this a phenomenology
of sensations in no particular order
that result in words of foxy non-importance.