Monday, December 5, 2016

Best Sex Ever

Christ had sex with Christ today.
Which is to say,
Christ had sex with me.
Everyone’s Christ, you see.


Look, They're Here!

Look, they’re there!
Full of gentle care.
They come & go at will.
But when they’re here,

the air grows still.


Sunday, December 4, 2016

The Nature of My Relation to Creation

Hello, Whoever-You-May-Be!
You’re naked so I know you’re not a she.
Although I must suppose I am the agency

through whom apparently you’ve come
so I can see whatever you’ve arrived to let
me view, I know you aren’t me and I suspect

that I’m not you. But I wouldn’t mind it
if I were. If I were you, I’d cause a stir.
I’d rather like to cause a stir.

I’d even like to have your ears. I bet each hears
a lot more than mine can. You seem a lusty man.
And you dance! I haven’t any rhythm. Oh dear.

Perhaps that marks a schism that will lead you
to despair of me, and to depart.
Please don’t depart.

I know I say I don’t like Art, and you are Art,
but I like you. Can you tell? Might you
be able to like me as well?

Is your name Art? My name is Guy.
What did you say? Ah.
Okay. Goodbye.


Saturday, December 3, 2016

All the Many Middle Distances

Always the extremist, you are drawn
to dreams about the glow of the infinity
of Universes many astrophysicists insist
exist dimensionally, interstitially right here
or there or elsewhere. Quirks of quarks
and waves and particles in their equations
bear the likelihood that this is so.

But why do you so yearn to go?
You wish the particles you saw at least
were snow: but no, they are the motes
that float in all the many middle distances
that you’ve investigated, from your bed,
since you were very small. They don’t
suggest another Universe at all.


Friday, December 2, 2016

What's On Your Mind

"What's on your mind?" has morphed for me from the robotic Facebook invitational gambit which greets each of us at the top of our timelines whenever we log on, to something more enigmatic, deeply if (as one suspects – Facebook is a robot after all) non-consciously coded. It’s the kind of daydream-enigma I used to feel as a kid looking up at my bedroom ceiling, from about age 2 up to when I left for college at 18, virtually every morning of sixteen formative years, tracing with my eye (and mind's eye) a young woman's heart-shaped face in the faint cracks thereon: pursed lips and starry eyes - features that seemed in some ways more familiar to me than any other face I knew, and yet with less 'meaning'. Who was she? Why was she? It's the kind of daydream-enigma, half mesmeric/half blank not-quite-there-ness, that probably almost always ensues from repetitive exposure to any unchanging mildness.

So, with all the above "in" mind ("in" used advisedly), the sole animating pulse for me in Facebook's eternally repeated question "What's on your mind?" has evolved to become the preposition "on." The strangeness of it!

What's ON my mind? For something to be "on" a mind you'd have to think of it as an object with a 'top' - like a kitchen table you put a bowl of oranges “on”. How could the mind know it had a bowl of oranges on it? How could it know what was on it at all? What would "on" even mean to it?

To know what was on top of it, it would have to be clairvoyant, able somehow to 'send out' or separate at least some part of its consciousness from its contained unity, to see beyond it – ergo to see what was 'on' it - and quite possibly surrounding it. So is Facebook asking us (however robotically non-consciously) – in fact, intending to ask - this literally meta-physical question? The consideration of which would have also to shove us into another one: Can Mind know itself? Or can a mind only describe what it perceives - i.e., what its perceptions offer up as 'outside' phenomena, like a Facebook timeline, or faint cracks in a ceiling suggesting a lady's face, and do its best (on what amounts to precious little evidence) to guess what's going on? Can it know its own m.o.?

What is a "mind" anyway?

These are only the first few in a tsunami of questions "What's on your mind?" insistently evokes. From which the most plausible conclusion I can think to draw is that Facebook is ever more completely eating us whole – and will suck our souls like lollipops until every and any Mind in us has dissolved and gone. Ah, but what a tasty treat we’ll have been!


Those Remembered Eyes

Reach back, in time, in tenderness,
to try to capture even one reflected flick
of light in those sweet suddenly remembered

eyes: to bring it up and forward, here,
right now: enclose its tiny globe of fire – whirring
and aloft – inside your cool cupped palms.

Breathe on it – ignite it into softly blazing
psalm: lucency to saturate the atmosphere –
as silky-bright and intimate as any mother’s

whisper in an infant’s ear: we are, my dear,
the progeny of everything, and all we’ve
got to do to notice it again is render whole

and absolute the smallest recollected
aspect of the heart. It is an art to which we,
each of us, if secretly, completely know the inner

and entwining and combining road. Unload
yourself, and look again into the mode
of those sweet suddenly remembered eyes –

be unafraid to wed their past, first mirrored
in a looking glass: be brave: pursue their

lures. Those remembered eyes are yours.


Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Chain-Link Fence

Drunk leans against the smooth wire diamonds
of a chain-link fence to which his knuckles
clutch to keep his body vertical: his eyes

imbibe the locked-up empty lot – as drab a blot
as late November can create of a forgotten
city plot, all sodden grayish brown.

He leers out at two plumped-up pigeons squatting
on the cracked concrete: “Yo! Sweet mamas!
Lookin’ fine!” Pigeons blink, don’t seem to mind.