Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Better Question

What if you’re the unreality? – hearsay or a rumor,
ephemeral idea, breathy supposition, substanceless
hypothesis, word that cannot ever be made flesh?

What if the alien you are imagining is sitting on
your lap is fact? – the actuality, the proof that proves
the Is of Is-ness? – the thing that’s really here? Or,

better question: would that make Being clearer?


Tuesday, October 25, 2016


Today you were a quadruped.
Your curiosity had prodded you
to undertake investigation of what
beasts on a quartet of feet go through.

You liked the planted sturdiness a lot –
yet you were careful to decide on it
on the condition that you get a lumpy
back so nobody would want to ride on it.

Got the back. Day went well. But hell!
Can’t recollect the trick! You’re vexed.
Forgot that quick shape-shifting spell!
You’d hoped to be a Rockette next.


Monday, October 24, 2016

Inimitably We

You’re the nth
degree exemplar
of yourself,
my little elf,

and I’m the final
stop on any tour
of me. We’re
thus self-evidently

singular, and surely
not an us – and yet
together, quite
inimitably we.


Sunday, October 23, 2016

When Dreams Are Done With Them

Creatures aren’t happy when they have to leave a dream.
They’re rarely asked to come back even when they play
its vividly embodied  theme, or are the presence

that the dreamer has the dream to undergo –
which may have kept them purposefully in the center
of its flow. It’s far from guaranteed new dreams will bring

them that again – that they’ll mean enough to be recalled,
or will in any form again be seen. Their substancelessness
may be sprinkled into minor roles: crumbling mortar in a wall, 

cold spray off a waterfall, or a grayish fog that terrifies –
derives its ripe dank wet from some faint anguished
memory of gym class sweat. But memorable roles are rare.

Dreams here and there may care or dare to call them up
again if they were the afflicting sharp specifics of horrific
rape, or the abusive horrors in a childhood trauma.

Mostly, though, when dreams are done with them,
the odds against a future starring role are great.
Mostly they are shown the gate to their oblivion.


The Bond Entre Nous

My queen confides in me
and I always tell her my secrets.
Sometimes we simply take peeks at
the view through the window to see

what the street's panoply of sweet trees
is in business that day to appease
in their gods and themselves and in us.
Nobody prods. There's never a fuss.

The bond entre nous
is as calm and as true
as it's fond.
Every dawn, from Beyond,

some anima magica wafting a wand
softly sifts down to touch us -- procure
what will keep this nonesuch of us pure --
and enable the flow of our status quo.


Saturday, October 22, 2016

Drizella, Vindicated!

Stepsisters! Nasty, grotesque Anastasia, Drizella! That poor
Cinderella’s impediments – led by her witch of a stepmother
Lady Tremaine – all of them sinister, greedy and vain! Disney,
at least, made this plain. But Lady Tremaine was in fact standard
issue for seventeenth century wannabe rich: her itch to succeed

in society was as ho-hum and as common as pine tar and pitch.
It’s true that the elder stepsis’ Anastasia was not at all pretty,
but she wasn’t nasty: she hadn’t the wit to be mean. She could
daily be found leaning over her lap in a daydream, nearsighted,
attempting to knit. However, Drizella, though less nicely named,

was a beauty. Moreover she liked Cinderella (whom she would
call Cindy) and thought it her duty to offer her friendship: she’d
sneak from her bed in the night and go down to the down-pillowed
nook where she gently would wake Cinderella to lend her a book –
Montaigne had published one lately Drizella was sure would regale

Cinderella – its scandalous wanton abandon was certain to tickle
them both: and tickle it did. But the pickle they say Cinderella was
in was a crock. In fact the sole female who couldn’t attend the block-
buster ball of the Prince was Drizella. That week she’d a hell of a flu.
Cindy, it’s true, was the belle of the palace: her stepmother

wasn’t delighted. But neither was she full of malice. Anastasia,
weak-sighted sweet dope, couldn’t win: Cinderella was Lady
Tremaine’s only hope (damn the flu). No fairy godmother, no lost
glass shoe. The prince had his eye on the girl, and that moment
decided to marry her: that was the end. Well, not quite the end.

When Drizella recovered enough to be summoned to meet Cindy’s
husband-to-be – Cindy (aghast!) watched the Prince fall in love
at the sight of her! But the light of her wasn’t to last. Drizella fell
back into flu. The royal man cried as she died. We hear that
they all made the best of it. But that’s all we know of the rest of it.


Friday, October 21, 2016


I think I'll scrape the rougher encrustations off my day
today and stay somewhere beyond the ego’s pale: catch up
with Hill and Dale – leap over Hill, make love to Dale. Or play
the enigmatic Melville whale and be whatever that entails –

cut living into tender meat and eat it, flow as unencumbered
by bewilderment as I can choose to be; let all neurosis be
unthinkable and sadness, news to me. Doesn't mean I'll opt
for gladness: merely skim the waters with a slick bare skin,

be fodder for each cosmic whim (is there another way
to swim?). I cannot buy into the aims I see around me
anymore. I don't adore one thing I notice others do.
And so today, and possibly for longer: toodle-oo.