Some Embryonic Thoughts

Some embryonic thoughts crouch
overgrown and hirsute, bundled in a fragile
egg sac in the mind, befuddled, huddled
in that furry bind already shorn of hope
if not of hair that they will ever find
the unimpeded air: too wrapped already
in too many erring bands of over-qualifying

strands to ever know the frank sensation
of the soft embrace of atmosphere on more
than just a swatch of unencumbered
hand or foot or face. No wonder they look
so forlorn – watching as so many other
naked fresh assertive hunches take
their place in bunches to be born.

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The Trinity of Me

That there were three of us
became apparent
all too soon: at first a sort
of existential burp
produced a swooning eely
flying yellow lavender-
delineated whoosh whose
curiosity about the rest

of what emerged –
a surging head-winged
red-and-orange humanoid
transfixed by a voluptuously
greenish-bluish sleek
amphibian – is what
enlivened to extravagance
my bright abrupt eruptive

understanding that I was,
at least, split into three:
and that there might indeed
somewhere (so far in secrecy)
be many more of me:
spinning in a waltz into
an endless loopy spree.
Surely this revolving

trifurcated multi-colored “me”
was something we
would soon awaken from:
a dreamy altered state
of passing temporality:
but I am still its trio, dancing
round and round with brio –
apparently eternally.

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She’s Okay With That

She doesn’t wonder,
though she sees you do,
how she could represent
the current state of soul
in you: she rather likes it
in her lightweight pen,
an airy circularly meshed

container she can fill with
the prodigious quantity
of her not inconsiderable
acumen: un-used, held in,
and therefore plumping
out her form like fat.
But she’s okay with that.

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Everything At Once

Thick precipitation flicks and sticks and tricks, festoons
the day today: hops – dances deftly all along whatever liminality
keeps it what weather pundits call a “wintry mix”: alluringly
unknowable, it plops and shoots and splinters into undecided

hybrid quizzes: jagged lusty daughters, sons of ice and snow
and slush and other unexampled forms of nearly frozen water:
cold as a calamity outside! – though looks as beautiful as
a kaleidoscope clip-cutting metamorphic shards: now into naked

creatures prancing through the branches: lady’s on the top,
man on the bottom, gazing at you through the freeze, adhering
to the brick of New York City with which they have clear
particular affinity: you’re honored to be in their nude and graceful

dangerous vicinity: remaining, with them, neither solid, gas
nor liquid; nap, and dream that February’s having sex
while God plays baseball – watch! the batter swings and bunts!

As usual, the Universe is daring to be everything at once.

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Thoughts Today

Thoughts today come like a fractured kiddy story –
issuing as if from some balloon-shaped silly hat
plugged on a silly head be-sprouting eight lit
multicolored light bulbs scribbled over with eight
random silly ooh’s and ah’s and smiles and frowns

attesting to the random ups and curves and downs
and any of whatever else makes up the rounds
to which a waking dream will swerve: speeding
from the senseless to the twee with rude irregularity
though hinting, maybe (count those bulbs again),

at meanings of the numerology of eight – or (add
the head and hat) of ten. However, when one does
the math, one finds oneself still wet and drowning
in a bubble bath of light bulbs on a hat, and scribbles
that quite clearly don’t add up to either this or that.

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Not If, But When

The prestidigitating god of change in February
seems so oddly out of whack: so many lame
impracticalities beset this mostly mum unfunny

joker, it’s a wonder Winter ever goes or Spring
comes back: innumerable embryonic fingers
and a slew of booted toes all twiddle, prod and tap

to no avail that we can see; the constancy
with which he seems to do quite nothing interesting
at all is, it is true, not helped by his appalling taste

in hue and shirts and pants and hats: random bits
of thisses, that’s – stretches, dots and stripes
of purple, blue and orange, pink and green and red

be-whirl into a splay before our blinking eyes
which will have bled into a dreary gray before we’ve
had a moment to surmise his questionable prize.

Otherwise he sits – perhaps a touch less clown
than Pharaoh – steadily looks forward, almost Zen.
And somehow tells us Spring’s not if, but when.

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The Grandest February

Late winter vagaries of gray – assonant gradations
through the octaves, black to white – the dove-soft
warm enchanting way you, through them, with them,

guess, today, what may be form or empty space –
molded and eroded by the welcome
and involuntary floods of your imaginings –

a drenching sense of curves and shadows
which appear to scribe and sculpt
a harmony, more like the swells

of an illumination from a sourceless light
than anything that could be tended by
vocabulary: yet you write. You almost recollect

the soft eruption of a consciousness
that comes – just as your barber (tenderly
administering your new buzz cut) –

proud new father! – said, today, was coming
to his infant son – just three months old:
tracking sights and sounds – following Existence

with his eyes – everything a bright bewildering surprise.
Not to notice things is an unpardonable sin.
This is the grandest February there has ever been.

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