never have i heard something
so lush, joyous, desperate
as the cicada song
that's shimmers superfluous
raining hard from a million hidden sources
(kkkraaakkkkkk)
(cccriccc)
they shout themselves weak by fall
but for now it is nothing but persistent joy
in recognition of their hour
Weeks ago a graybrown park
silent but for rock and rubber
heard a green whisper
from across the water and
stirrings deep under ground.
tensely listening,
though long hesitant,
word spread and
buds perked up at the sound.
a slow-moving
silvery haze of a river
(where does the sky begin?)
unravels beside me
as house music topples and blits
in my ears.
leaves of all colors flicker sky-down
and scrattle cross the road as their mother
trees shush overhead.
each first and last leap of braven zen
leaves a hush in its stead.
a still narrow clearing
is soft underfoot,
tender, rich and wet;
I imagine the soft is
filled to the brim
with mycelium
muttering underground
while shaggy trees drop
needles, whole limbs
to feed all;
their roots crawling over-under
eating up fresh decay
pooped out by the moon
squeezed in then out by earthworms
that wrangle the wet mush
into new life
i dreamt
we went to prom
but i had no dress
and couldn’t find you
in the crowd
of cots
so i went to sleep
in a tshirt
with my friend
dorothy
starting is cranky
legs feel all wrong
hunched on the highway
trucks scream along
the turnoff is quiet
smooth, unassuming;
brush unattended,
lovebirds a’crooning
cool mountain mist
now opens me out
soft morning flower
by asphalt, devout
she lays me out flat
crimpled and raw
wide beige expanse
studded with awe
at top of topanga
time is awarp
to turn back, reluctant
is my only resort
trucks scream along
but now i flow steady
with head in the clouds,
legs are now heady
trail unravels
wise
wide
just like my eyes
immersed in sky
cresting the
crust
of earth, which
seemingly shimmers
laid out under
miles broad
but i still touch her
a rolling crunch
of dusty rubber.
gray mist of the morning
is pierced and opened up
by many rays
which flood mountain flanks
with color
…
below the cloudline:
gray again
the road twists down down
furry green-brown cliffs lurch
above
suddenly i am
afraid
let me kiss you through
the uncanny valleys of
internet cable
distending distorting our
kisses till nothing
but a shift of pixels and
crackle of sound bytes
great clods
clots
stewn cross-sky
filter light in
roving streams
curdled white-blue
i’m blinded
awash in
molten dream.
the little cat mize
is a buddhist
scholar of the highest level:
inside the house she is anxious,
cranky for food;
but outside,
no matter frigid night
or musical spring day
her spirit calms
to that of an ancient monk
her gaze sharp,
her body overtaken
by stillness:
the nervous energy of her indoor
self dissolves
softens
so that you can pet her
unendingly,
but even in her uneasy self
she is the monk
an ascetic:
indeed,
she doesn't even
wear any clothes.