theme with variations

chiming empty aches
gaps filling to space
spaces fit between notes
unstrung, -sung, -wrote
never planned to be heard
gathering unconceived
tumbling uncomposed
out of pieces of peace
fit to dissonant chords
come to rest, ungrieved

As if one orchestra
could read music in leaves,
lives, loves, and escapes
and play everything through
Let us listen for now
Later on, we will hear -
and consider, and do.

Ringing out, coming in
at the end, it fills up
in your head you can make
every part of it clear,
any piece of it new.

As it ends, dots connect
in your heart and awake,
trace hearts, beaks, wings,
taking off, fly anew
with whatever it takes,
into all of the infinite
things it could do.

Improvised and true -
and so musically so,
of such beautiful make.
If only some one
could intend
what you know

"we're like:"

we're like:
2 peas in a pod
two thieves in a plot
two hands in a basket
on the way to red-hot
two nuts in a shell
nestled up like birds
on a perch, cooing love
in so many words

perfectchord

Ringing in the background chiming low
it doesn't make a sound but I hear it, though
a symphony defined by its missing note
it doesn't have a shape, but it leaves a hole

I live my life, listening
walking around
to the beat of something
in the background, missing

- one note short of a perfect chord

And I can almost hear it,
the piece it all resolves around

One note short of a perfect chord
One note short of a perfect chord
One note short of a perfect chord

a perfect chord

a perfect chord

Ringing in the background, full
and beautiful, and true.
The empty part that aches
just makes it mean the more to you
You fill the missing piece in
with your wish, and hope, and mind
You know that life is beautiful, if only
You could find

You live your life, listening
walking around
to the beat of something
in the background,
missing

- one note short of a perfect chord

And you can almost hum it,
the piece that makes it all work out

one note short of a perfect chord
one note short of a perfect chord
one note short of a perfect chord

a perfect chord

a perfect chord

We live our lives, listening
walking around
to the beat of something
in the background,
missing

- one note short of a perfect chord

We can almost hold it,
the point it all dissolves around

One note short of a perfect chord
one note short of a perfect chord
one note short of a perfect chord

a perfect chord

a perfect chord.

"Unrealistic"

For all your life you try,
and try,
and try and fail,
and run, and hide
a penny saved, a penny lost,
a lesson learned,
at any cost
we've all been bitten
much more than twice
- we'll shy away,
away from life
we'll finish our work
at the end of the night, and
we'll go home to life
in a shambles

yeah

For all the lies
we swallowed whole
let's just metabolize them all
we'll burn them up,
a burst of speed
flush out those empty calories
we've all bought into the wrong idea
let's sell our shares, get out of here
we'll finish our work
at the end of the year,
and we'll go out all night,
and get scrambled

but let's be unrealistic for once
let's be unrealistic for once
let's be unrealistic for once
you don't know you won't get what you want

For all the risks we took for free
to compensate, we'll charge a fee
to all the ones who laughed us down
when they come 'round to see us now
we've all got something
to tell ourselves - we'll go to jail,
we'll go to hell
we'll go to lengths,
and heights and depths,
and we'll be unrealistic - Just say yes!

Oh, yes be unrealistic for once
let's be unrealistic for once
let's be unrealistic for once
you don't know you won't get what you want

you don't know
you don't know

For all you know,
it's all you get. But don't
get all distracted yet
- we're all in love,
in life, in pain,
for all you know
it's in your brain
we've all got something to hope for, hey?
For all you know, it's all in vain.
We'll finish our work
at the end of the day, and we'll go out
bang

just like candles

to the drink

To whatever
's been poured, as we
raise up this glass: may I
lift you back up
if you fall on your ass. Let us
drink what they pour,
til we go, dumb or
blind -
from the lip of the rim,
to whatever's behind, let us
clink. And then drink,
to what's here
in this cup.
And when
every drop's drained,
let us raise it up.

Nowhere With You

Well we've got it in our heads that we're not ordinary,
but we haven't figured out what makes us special yet.
except, of course, for what's unique in each of us.
but it's not really clear how that makes me stand out

it's my singular ambition - for a better life
and my piercing indecision, on what makes life get better
it's my having no idea how to find my way,
and my implacable need to have my way,
which has gotten me where I am today

which is nowhere
I am nowhere, with you
this is nowhere
I'm in nowhere, with you

Well I'm usually okay, but lately I've been thinking
and that's usually a sign there's something going wrong
so I opened up a random page in the dictionary
and I put my finger down on a word I can't pronounce

I considered it an omen
tried to take some stock
then I counted every moment
it did not add up

Now you're making me believe there's nothing wrong
with nothing - and maybe there is
for all I know, but it's getting me where
I have to go, which is nowhere

I am nowhere, with you
this is nowhere
I'm in nowhere, with you

To determine your location
- in the darkest dark
First you turn and face your partner
- and then there you are
Now you're making scary faces with the flashlight on,
in defiance of all that space and time
at the speed of light, you can see that I'm

going nowhere
I am nowhere, with you
this is nowhere
I'm in nowhere, with you

I am nowhere, with you
this is nowhere
I'm in nowhere, with you

Promise

This
is going to be one of those
non-rhymed
poems,
with maybe a few
accidental

or off
-rhymes, and
in the
middle of it, I'm going

to
try to say something
truly

offensive.

"cartesian wells"

I think
a stone, a
coin, a drop,
a bucket slip
squeak-pulley
rope, and
plash - how deep?
Does this thing go
I think therefore
I do not know.

grace before

So many blessings are laid before,
but we walk right past with our eyes intent
on some glorious goal. Let us not pass by
this greatest gift you have ever sent.

"Couldn't Anyway"

It just slips out, how fucking cool -
how I see you - I see the bad, but
all that good is so much more
remarkable. And so I do!
I always have.
And it's all true,

but not too cool, huh?
Not too fair. Not too good.
As if I could -
As if I care,

As if I had
a thing to give.
I ought to shut my stupid lid, when

I can't have you anyway, and I
can't have you anyway. I couldn't
have you any way that I can see
my way clear to. And I can't
have you anyway, and I can't have
you anyway - and if I could, it's
just like me and just my luck,
and just like you - I couldn't
have you anyway. I'm pretty sure

I'm pretty sure I really need
to stop asking about these things
that have no place in space or time,
and nothing now to do with us,
or do for us - a waste of trust
a waste of patience, tried and tried
to waste imagination on
what we can't make-believe of life
and probably only one of us
would even want to make of it.

As if you wished - as if I knew,
As if I had a thing to give. When

I can't have you anyway,
et cetera, set, repeat refrain
and I can't have you anyway.
I can't fit us in any frame, I couldn't
have you anyway. And anyway, you wouldn't
want - at least, I think - that's
probably. I shouldn't speak,
for anyone

You're really something else, though huh?
Though maybe I do make too much,
it doesn't feel I've oversold.
To me, I cut back quite a lot
of all the things that come to mind.
The kind I'll say: You've said enough
already, now! It's obvious, and nothing
to be done about. And maybe you could shut
your mouth?
As if I can,
as if I could,
As if we ever had a doubt.
As if I had a thing to give
As if this was one life to life,
well

I can't have you anyway, that's
probably. I'm pretty sure.
And I can't have you anyway.
I shouldn't want you anymore,
I couldn't have you anyway.
I couldn't want you any more.
And I can't have you anyway. That's
probably, I'm pretty sure

Interpretive Coincidence Artist

Finite symbols, signs and forms,
finite numbers, dates recur.
Reach your hands out into them,
pulling out what strikes a nerve,
sets you off, makes you jump.
Teasing out connections, with
a never-ending search - commit
to drawing pattern, making fit.

Future ages will look back on this,
and call it modern Art.
Interpretive coincidence: you
spot the links, you play the parts
and draw a sum much greater than
the helplessness you feel when faced
by uncontrollable events. Reach out
into the details - place
your emphasis, and draw your lines:

There is a pattern of control.
The pattern we can see here, shows
that something is behind it all.

Albeit: something sinister.
Still, we reassure ourselves.
By being in the know,
possessing hidden knowledge, we can tell
ourselves: we are not at the mercy
of events uncaused. We are
wised up, we know the score.
It all unfolds by unseen laws.

While all the sheep read digest news,
believing what they're sold into
- that uncontrollable events
weren't planned - we know,
we sift, we reach our hands
into the finite forms and signs
and dates and numbers that recur.
We spot and pick and pull design,
to find control. It's sinister

'rainbow shades'

Rainbows cast a shadow
when the sun shines
behind them.
Those shadows
are so beautiful, but
so hard to find them.

'since you'

My brain and my balls
are full of pus, And
anything I could ever
conceive
will be sick
of us

lost in a cage

My love for you
is like a roaring cage
made out of the universe, with
you and me in it.
"You and me" by the way
- not "You and I" -
is correct. Objective case.

Objectively, it's true
we can't see the bars.
The bars don't keep us
apart. The bars didn't keep us
together, either. They were
(or are) too far away, or too
widely-spaced, maybe. But
still we both know
about the cage.

Because it roars.

Shades and Shines

To shade through, like deeper chalks
and oil crayons, pulling out dark
tones into waking light. Shading
through, like a person's soul.
What's left after death -
according to Greeks
- is not you, but

a shadow in your shape,
that moves on in your old
habits and ways.

It no longer
is you. It no longer is

moved,
as it always was,
by the dance of light
and spirit you gave it. That you
give it. That makes it you. It can
never change, not even its mind - it
hasn't one. Just a memory of. So it goes,
on through all the old steps,
shuffling off into shadow,
infinitely stage left.
It's just
whatever impression you've left.

Just so you know:
it is you now dancing,
shining, who creates and shapes
what you leave behind. You
who you are, are your life.
Your memory cast, in everyone's
love, and eyes, and mind, is
but a shade.

And that image you make
while you live every day, it grows
long and goes on, and they stand
in your shade. Already,
day by day, you you pass,
as if into shadow. But you make
of it a shadow play. Because you're
still here to play it again,
to make it last, for as long
as you stay.

Each impression you leave
with each passing of yours,
through any mind, any pair of eyes
- As long as you live to cut the light,
and step however you wish into it,
your deft decision, your grace and might
bring every shadow of you
to life.

And in some ways, maybe
you could say that shade
is a realer somehow, than you
yourself. Considered in terms
of sheer multiplicity? You
are only ever in that one place
you shine, but you leave such array
of reflection behind. Everywhere
behind.

While you live, you do everything
your shade ever can't. You cut
and drape and arrange all shapes,
and color all shades of you, as you go.
You can even stop. Look back, judge
the effect, perhaps have a moment
of self-criticism? Anguish? Some do! And then
twist, leap outward with a cry,
or after a cry,
in some new,

or at least

strange-to-you way, path, plot,
dash, stab, lash, twirl, pirouette?
Something never seen before
in your silhouette. They may not
cry encore. You may say "Hm.
That's not really me, though" but this
is the point: You're the one
who has made and keeps making that call.
You are the one who tries who tries
you on for size and fit, and flings self
into it. Any time you wish, you can throw
new shapes, let old contours go,
bled away in light. An afterimage,
fading soon to past all recall.

You are the light designer
of the show you put on in others lives.
It's you, always, and after all,
who shines.

- but the shape, tone, depth you've laid down
as you go by always shades through. The cumulative you,
in another's view: an aftereffect. And as you play
(at being you) it is that backdrop you play against.
Careful or careless of it, you choose now
always now: mark! Don't look down, step up
hit it on feel, how to get through this scene, this
act: whether word, or dance step and turn, or emphasis
on this or that matter of fact - and what on earth
do you mean by that? That meaning is what you leave
behind, but it isn't you. You have meant far more.

Very little of that has to do with
Greeks, I confess.
They didn't carry their shades out from Hades
into all the images of sense and memory
that one makes in others while living. A shade
was strictly for afters, for them. But
it seems to me, it's the same thing really.
What I thought was kind of wild is that
they knew: your shade was not, and is not
you. Just the shadow your life has cast
off.

It's true.

Angle

All I need is a metal hook.
And a bit of flesh to push
it through, and I will catch
one bigger fish than you.

Shades and Shines (retired draft, since revised)

To shade through, like the deeper
chalks and oil crayons, pulling out
dark tones into waking light, woken
to notice. Shading through,
like a person's soul.

What's left after death
- according to Greeks
- is not you,

but

a shadow in your shape
that moves on, in your old
habits and ways. It no longer
is you. It no longer is

moved, as it always was
by the dance of light and spirit
you give it. That you gave it. That
made it you. That gave it
life.

So it goes, through old steps,
shuffling off into shadow, stage left. Just so

you know: it is you,
dancing, shining, who creates
and shapes what you leave behind
today. You who you are, are life.
Your memory in everyone's love
and eyes and mind, is but a shade.

The image in mind - that you have made,
that you make now while you live,
every day, and long before you die -
is your shade. Already, you pass, as if
into shadow

but you make of it a shadow play.

Each impression you leave
with each passing of yours, through
any mind, any pair of eyes - As long
as you live to cut the light, and step
however you wish into it, your deft
decision, your grace and might
bring every shadow of you to life.

In some ways, you could say
that's a great deal realer
than you -
considered in terms
of sheer multiplicity? For you
are only ever in
that one place you shine,
as you leave such array
of your shade, behind.
Everywhere behind.

Yet you yourself are greater,
clearly. You
are the dancer in light, whose life
is what cuts, drapes and arranges
all those shapes, those shades of you,
for others - you do
everything your shade ever can't. Even
stop. Look back, judge the effect, perhaps,
have a moment of self-anguish and criticism?
Some do! And then twist, leap outward with
a cry, or after a cry,
in some new,

new, or at least
strange-to-you way, path, dash, stab,
lash, twirl, pirouette? Not seen
before, in any play of your silhouette
well, they may not cry encore, and you may
say "Hm. That's not really me," but this
is the point: You are the one who tries
you on. At any time, you
can throw new shapes, let old contours
go, bled away in light. An afterimage,
soon to be past all recall. You
are the light designer
of the show you put on
in others lives. It's you,
always, and after all,
who shines

- but the shape, and tone, of all you've laid down
and thrown as you go by, shades through. And as you play
at being you, you play against that backdrop. Careful
or careless of it, you choose now, always now: mark,
plot, feel, how to get through this scene, you
choose now: act, and word, and step, and turn, and emphasis, and
what on earth do you mean?

Very little of that has to do with
Greeks, I confess.
They didn't carry their shades out from Hades
into the images, of sense and memory,
that one makes in others while living. A shade
was strictly for afters, for them. But
seems to me, it's the same thing really.
What I thought was kind of wild is that
they knew: your shade was not, and is not
you. Just the shadow your life cast behind
it.

It's true.

personals

I love rain
after drought, and love
after loss, and hunger
where the food's on its way.
I love beer
after beer. I love
a kiss that actually does make it all
better.
I love to talk
about things others love
to talk about. I love an old
-fashioned, red, kite-shaped kite
against the sky - bright
red diamond with elongated
bottom point, trailing
a tail, with a ribbon
or two.

I love a deck of cards. I love an excuse
to wear a jacket. I love feasting
and making merry. I love a long, slow lie
in a hammock, preferably strung between two
big trees. I love
the difference between puppies
and kittens, and the moment
before just before you taste something
you've never had. I love loud thunder

: CRACK! BOOOOOM,

and rumbling roll. I love
people on foot who you pass
in the street. I love finding out
somebody you always assumed
was just being nice
was actually flirting with you the whole time.

I love songs. Not love songs,
necessarily, but sometimes
those, too.

I love towering clouds.
I love the weird majesty of stars.
I love beach sand, your feet
in it, damp, hiding from sun
and your eyes
in the shade of your hand.

Antiphon

Precision is
how I give in, to you.
Decision is
where you give in, to it.
It goes on and on,
if we intuit.
Concision
is how you constrict its wit,
conditioned on content, style
and form.
Depending who blinks,
we could be succinct.
We could easily rest,
take pause, go on.
We could even critique,
just to make us think.
We could even conclude,
for the sake of taste. But
before we desert
to such wastes of time,
let us first

say: grace.

And let us begin.
And let us dig in: For we
define.

Garden of Even

She's got a fundament
that you could rest a firmament in.
And I would rain every star
down upon her sin, to cool
the volcanic grace
she lets go. We create
and recreate every
day we know.

Birds on Fire

The birds set on fire
fly out through the night.
Tradition, and ritual make it
right. This is the way,
our mothers used

To crack open the door

But we have squeezed through. So
do we need cruelty, anymore?

A Fine Thing

FINE. Like treasures. Like
fine things. Like spun gold,
regardless of straw. Like gems,
regardless of facets
struck from them. I,
am fine.
What more
do we want, from
Men?
Let us give it to them,
then!

Fine.

I was the Dragon

If I was The dragon, what
would I do? First,
I would present-tense that shit.
I would BELCH, no ROAR!
I'd give into it.

For nature demands: no counterfeit.

No camouflage, no feint, no dodge.
Even a dragon must
pledge that lodge.
But I'll tend bar, and
I'll crack eggs. My body
is sinuous with legs.

new moon fever

The new moon is
the closest black hole, we know,
it recurs like the tide to draw us
rushing back in up the shores of hope,
just past the shoals, and be
either beached or wrecked,
washed up upon them.

"Small, Secret Smile"

I have a small, secret smile
that no one can see.
I wear it on my face.
Don't look at me.