It is a mystery how all this matters
 light circling light so intently
 a profound weight born of relativity
 changes a negative to a positive
 turns a lighthearted affair substantial

A vast collection of these contingencies
 congregate by some strange attraction
 reaching across the void
 only to crush themselves in their collective action
 into carbon copies, hot air, and other complexities
 shedding continual light in its smashing
 only to collapse under its own manufacturing
 and give itself back to the universe
 to perchance evince a life of its own
 upon the foundation of its ruin

From under what strange circumstances
 does the miracle of life spring
A mere chip off the old spitfire
 collides with a celestial being
 who sets its orbit, gets its pulse beating
 and ritually guides it in its dreaming

After phases and phases
 of icing–over and fuming near extinguishing
 from within its nebulous sea
 a chemical compound redounds
 in recreating its structure, preserving its memory
 with tiny changes here and there
 growing larger and more defined
 recomposing its recomposing

At first, blindly following the light
 a sensitivity beckons focus
 a pair of eyes peer out from the depths

Now on two legs, a monstrous
 stomping over the earth
 kings tyrannously rule
 and a growth of wings
 and a chirp, chirp of birds
 and tender little things

Who begin to talk and repeat
 make tools to pass along
  and pass along ways to make tools
 and think about things

And ages and ages of such talk and figuring
 such that remembering back
 to earlier days seem a dream

And with each age some savage desire
 to love and sustain
 yields a development
 from the elements
 of a previous fire

The world is heavy with inheritance
 buried in the vastness of time and space
from half–conscious fumblings
 cosmic heirlooms accrue
amid the ruins of ancient beings
 arises, painstakingly crafted,
itty–bitty things
 from itty–bitty things

Union Woes

Dimes wouldn’t been in use if they weren’t generously given as alms during the great depression. A man tells how he just took the clip of his pen, the clip having a dime near its base, tore it off, and made a collection of these torn-off dimes clips for the local union.

I’m driving around the union parking lot looking for a space. There is a fellow union guy or a client in the passenger side. I get trapped for a little by a somewhat young Asian woman when I drive down a dead end of filled spaces.

We walk up to the building. I nonchalantly approach the women (there is a young man and young woman (similar to the one blocking me in the parking lot?) monitoring the entrance here) in the security aperture. She yells at me for a good long couple minutes. There is some mistake. I just wanted to use a room for a meeting and she thinks I requested a spool of printing ink cartridge.

I explain.

Field Work

I forget its beginning
 perhaps first found in The Origin of the Species
 or that strange story I read as a youth
  of the unknown naturalist–fiddler
  wading through that field of flowers
  scientifically concluding in his heart
  while evolution was still evolving
  that each creature unto itself
  is its own species
 Perhaps the same man
  who despaired at helping a butterfly
  to its death
  unrealized without allowing it
  fight out of its self–made cocoon
  to discover its own strength

The poets may take for granted your beauty
 taking you for something perennially special
The botanists may catalog
 your delicate reproducible features
The sellers may know what price
 you command at the market by your heritage

You grow beyond these interlopers
 your very bothersome incommodality
  is that prize secret hidden in your bud
Your uncouth break from tradition
 turns intellect superstitious
 renders traits broken and molted
The world rotates upon your axis
 seen afresh through your aspect
With a joyful pain the world births itself anew
The mysterious law of your specific genes
 hums a song composed in situ
This is what the world is dying to see
 Your nature is wild, naturally


No. Peas will not replace
this strange desire to add capers
to my already quite exotic Indian stew
God, do I have to go over this
 with myself again?
And Live
Get that which I happen to want?
There even ain’t no shame in it, for shame!
Jeez, just go to the grocery store where
 they have a whole shelf of them — 2 kinds
And don’t wait for tommorrow’s regular
 beautiful shopping; the desire is for them now
And shit if this ain’t the first day
 of spring and bare feet
 and the children out playing
 and Terra out happy despite
 a benign cancer near her stomach bulging
  and red in her eye
 and joy to hear the birds chirp along
 to Flaming Lips’ Fight Test
 as Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots
As I still feel bad for not working
 and wonder when I will give it up
 like it’s inevitable
Marching past the children echoing Yoshimi’s
 battle cry, their young souls
 shaming my reluctance to fully embrace
 my capers for all I know
Past the teenagers hanging out
 fresh in courage, laughing smiles
 at one another as they embrace
 awkward, vulnerable, vibrant youth
I taste one
 salty; almost grimmacingly bitter
How many capers? How many capers?
1, 2, 3
Fuck it. Stop counting. Keep going.
My intuition will tell me
And if I don’t just cover it with ’em
Add black pepper and a crush of bay leaf.
Add black pepper and a crush of bay leaf?
Add black pepper and a crush of bay leaf.
You will need a smidge more rice.
Really. OK.

I load up my plate up
hear my roommate in his bedroom
loitering, lounging, laughing with his fiancée
as I go out to witness the dusk of a beautiful day
and the slightest dusting of spring
 tears have anointed my table
I wipe the seat and as I eat
 any evidence of wet is vapors
And, no, those capers are not bitter tasting
 they fit perfect, well: smashing
and, hmm, maybe not enough rice
 ah, no, just just enough
I needn’t have thought


In her presence,
her presence I have breathed

A blinding beauty,
a blinding beauty I have seen

I gazed
no thought
The muted radiance burning the film
 attempting to capture
Knowing, as my eyes held her,
 my mind would not catch her
 burned into my memory
 Just the pleasant burn and
  delicious soothing of grace in nonchalance
A beauty that did not strike
 unwittingly burned and crumpled
 by invisible flame

I accept and graciously
 with calm, pleasant passion
 with blissful, resigned frustration
 such effortless perambulation


Thank you for the time we share
 and the wisdom you provide
Knowing you adds something to me
 I couldn’t be on my own
Admits opportunities
 I wouldn’t take alone
Before I go, I take part
 in the superfluity I need
I’m better now I is we

Blue Jewels

What to do
 with a bejeweled soul?
 Just glimmer, glimmer, glimmer
Barred from the bank, cold
 no thought in it
 no exchange value
 no takers
Just take the rays of the sun
 and inflame the world in gleams
And naked with the moon
 reflect amid its beams

Big Globes in Half the Space; Pudgy Canary

In a mall, shopping with Brian. We walk into a store that only uses half its space. I’m looking for a globe. There is a 10 diameter one and an 8 inch. Those are too big and I don’t want the bulk of a stand. I had three globes a year ago, but I through them all out.

We walk into a fast food restaurant. Too bad that pudgy woman in canary yellow isn’t here. Then a few moments later, I see this woman and her two fat black woman friends.


I forego tasteless economics
Common chocolate I destroy
 cheating myself unfulfilled
Savoring exquisite trifles fills
 my entire being with contentment
 as they go on triumphantly half–eaten
For so long, I’ve half–heartedly snacked about
 when I was hankering for just a bit
 of the richest delicacy
I want no banquet
 but break the bank for me
Permit my plate to remain sacrosanct
 embracing those dear
 morsels that suit me

Disappearing Pizzas; I’m Not Even Working Here

I walk the dogs to pizza hut. No one is there; it’s closed for bad weather. It must have just been closed; there are some pizzas in the oven: a last order. I cut one of the pizzas. It seems to disappear on the table. It shrinks to a small size: I salvage the bits into half of a personal pizza.

What to do? I know: I’ll just put in a new pizza, what with the store closed and all this extra dough, and then I’ll take that little half one for myself.

No hand-tossed in the main refrigerator. None under the make table either. Did they stop doing hand-tossed?

Back to the cut table to cut more pizzas. I cut a large, placing it in top of the small. It completely eclipses it.

A driver comes in, returning from a deliver. He apologizes for an argument he had with another driver before he left. I don’t really care and tell him so.

Gill comes in and sits down in the back office and gets on the phone. I go to him. I’m leaving soon, he tells me, and then talks on the phone some more.

Well I can’t stay and work: I have the dogs, besides didn’t I already call in and say I’m not working? The remaining order burns in my mind.

I try to interrupt Gill, but he keeps talking.

“Gill,” I tell him with desperation as he finally acknowledges me, “you have to tell me where we keep the hand-tossed.” Phones ring indicating new orders. This isn’t the crisis situation I tolerate. I intentionally stop the dream.