Wednesday, October 29, 2014

even with a shift of dimension

volume does not dissipate

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

depth and volume


conceive of the volume! she snapped
slapping the water goblet to the table top
i was twelve
i had no idea
i only knew dry from wet
now go to the well and drain it with this glass
and then find what feeds the well and drain that!
she was tired
so was i
i was twelve and had no idea
she put on her boots despite dull limbs
went out into the winter's night 
latched the barn
cud chewers bawling that mournful hymn
while silver light turned white hills
to water

Thursday, October 23, 2014


the awkward girl at the counter tried to cage her smile, an understandable form of self preservation. a grave scar dove down her delicate neck, lazed between her breasts, and then disappeared beneath her blouse. her buttons were done up poorly. when the situation dictated that she absolutely must - she opened her mouth to speak - and the silliest voice spoke out from her. i could not have imagined such a tragedy of characteristics. such a strange and awkward creature. something flung open a door in my chest and flew out toward her. immediately. i loved her.

Monday, September 22, 2014

from the lost writings of wu hsin

There is no owner;
No one to claim:
My body or
My thoughts.
There is no owner of consciousness.
Consciousness owns everything.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Sunday, September 14, 2014

"another window to wash our faces in"

Hilda Morley

Taste of salt on my fingers,
                                           that’s how
I like it:
               the line of sea rising
above the dark-green pine,
                                           the sea meeting
the horizon,
                     so always the eyes are lifted higher,
                     the pulse buoyed upward
with them
                  So it
should be for us all—
                                  to belong to
whatever moves us outward into
the wideness, for journeying,
                                              tales of
distant places,
                        treasures piled
                        to fill our smiling,
                                                       for us to know of
along the travelled coastline,
                                           the mountains
we can climb to,
                           each port,
                                           each harbor
another window to wash our faces in,
                                                         pull us
               & made for us,   made for
all of us,
                as the birds know, who
fly the continents,   the oceans
for their secret reasons,
                                     a map of the earth
written inside their bodies,
under their breastbones:   
                                       a continuance
of the now most fragile,         
                                        always travelled
patiently enduring world