I’m not saying I know anything,
Anything, in particular,
Kant knew, only what he thought he knew,

Looking up, clouds race the blue,
Looking down, spring jonquils push,
Toward the azure magnificence,
One flees, the other aspires,

Who among us decides,
Which reality is truth,
Aspirations or desperations,
And still, we seek,

Truth – reality’s sole ally,
Some die of reality,
Some die of truth,
Both convene to mourn,

Why does death bring,
Such a crowd together,
Clouds keep racing
As yellow rhizomes burst forth.

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Diggin up the Roots

I was just layin round,
On the black night stoop,
Smoking something I’d found,
Neath a crease in the truth,
When she rolled up like my old fears,
Got out and made the steps in arrears,
Stood her high way, straight back and strut,
And in that instant, I knew my life was but,
A shadow, a mere moment in time,
The bile rose in my throat, and sank to my gut,
Every time we’d made love came rushing forth,
Pouring over me like good scotch, she – mine,
Me a man of words, soft and low, had not one,
She a woman of straight looks and guile,
Must have known her hair alone would stun,
Silence lay heavy, as the moon rose above,
Not accidentally it bore, my love to here,
Smoke rose from my smoke, crystal glass I loved,
Same one she had painted, with careful, thoughtful cheer,
Heavy in my hand this crafted vessel weighed,
Now the only tie, held in my hand she peered,
And not a word between us played,
Silence stilled instead the black night cold,
Standing like an angel fallen, as sure as my swear,
She held my heart in a box, beating now as old,
Almost too much for this beating heart to bear,
What happens when the past shows up to face,
The future now rising like this full, bright moon,
I don’t presume to understand what happens,
When not word passes, but the flowers know to bloom,
In the morn bright with springtime hope,
She reached for my glass and made more room,
I lifted my head, my heart already afloat,
Sprung up and blew, a whale from somewhere deep,
Had stayed down so long that his lungs had wrote,
Some kind of deep wail, a song for the dying,
And in that moment without words, we stood trying,
To dig up the roots, somewhere planted long before,
I in my loss and she in her gain, found roots galore.

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Mr. Watcher

dark pines

We’d sit, looking out,
As the slatted line of dark pines,
Long green shadows pitted in stars,
Lifted and swayed,

Like the evening waltz,
You used to do when a cocktail or two,
Had lit your flame,
And on I played,

Jennings and Jones,
A little Cash number for luck,
Moaning all the while,
About the coming fuck,

Lucky pines held that old owl,
His big, dark blot of nest still loomed,
Over our love, black against blue,
Quiet fright in the evening gloom,

He would scream loud and curdle,
Our hot blood as a low hoot rose,
And I always wondered in those frights,
If he foretold fruitless midnight throes.

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Grateful Buzz



That little bee,
Buzzed around,
Low and fat,

While this rock star, see,
Another drink in hand,
The morning sat,

Fifty million fans,
Fifty million bees,
And here they met,

In same sun, same nectar,
Same buzz,
Same stillness, lest we forget.

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A Blunt

I smoked a blunt last night,
The twitchy boy who’d sold it said not to,
Smoke a whole one, only a few draws, tokes,
He’d used the word “tokes” in his twitchy hairless,
Voice, only a few and I’d be travellin’ on,
But I didn’t feel the need to listen, after all,
His business seemed to need me more than I needed,
To economize the draws, so I had smoked on,
Travellin on, blown on, a tumbleweed then,
A blue-green-brown, round tumbleweed blown,
In the fat smoke, woke, woke to no certain something,
If there is somewhere to travel after,
Then I suppose I’d travelled there, where,
When morning finally kept up her morning song,
I awoke and found my whiskey glass still amber,
Just a midway down from full, just a midway down,
I must have given it release to go travellin’,
I must have traveled far and deep, that blunt,
Like a canoe over still waters, must have borne me deep.

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Often I think of love,
As an animal,
The leopard, with her
Deep spots, wide as night,

Sleeping upon the knarled
Limb, high against large,
Grey moon, a ghost
Herself, quietly slipping,

Amongst the dark treetops,
Like some soulful sojourner,
Missing all that life holds,
For sole reason of stealth,

Though the long tail,
Can always be seen,
Curled beneath her,
Holding tightly her deep sleep.

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“I’m not going to pray anymore,”
She said.
And I tilted towards her
Violet pillow,

The one scented with lavender,
“For sleeping more soundly,”
Her mother had said,

“You are my God, and I,”
She said,
Looking up on blue eyes,
As deep as Calcutta,

“I will speak closer,
My father, who art in
She said.

But I knew my kingdom,
Would never come,
Nor my will,
Be done.

I said, “then you,
You are my angel,
Sleep now and try,

Not to mush your
For they will be
Needed in the morning.”

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