half way home story

is patience making, tat ocean collars.

unit dwellers inner city notwithstanding

“it’s alright” yearning.

not only masculine go fishing

trout, great career  --  fear is hair

falling away, not calm  --  can’t tat

that moderate weather, too forgotten

underneath sunset, storm, daydream.

a hand made ‘best of’

year nothing is here belly up and panting.

skin watches, new tat gravitas.

blah blah critics, blah

yeah, don’t get it, but

see what isn’t here now

holds dimensions, awareness

of the thing that is not present

but is, in all aspects, a whole

thing within a known, and

context should be considered

as if it is 

by the window in this room

it or he or she or the he/it dog

the she/it cat, maybe a budgie

young and unsexed, hanging in a cage

near another window, a bookshelf

a good chair

can’t see a thing not known

unless it runs into 

the flat forehead 

right about now - so conceptual 

in gestured loops make it such 

everything known is post 

/after - real or not

doubting lotus, grasshopper

to be careful enough

to hold a life or a thing

a flower, a child, a teacup of

fine bone, and to hold

as if this had no weight

in hands, even as

arms ache with the pressure

to not let go, hold lightly enough

to touch, knowing where gravity

takes the weighted fall

real estate odes

     3

by accident found Seymour

could be this then, and meets

all requirements

so that each need

is forward of the wildest hope / it’s just there

on its own, as a picture

and this picture holds what a future haunts with  

this picture is you, walking six fur animals

he is welding made things in the shaded distance

sounds of fixing or making / a suitability this space

running out to catch up

people smiling / in the picture

flash / life scenes taking place

they were not friendly birds


(after cronin after rumi)


searching for forms and plans to run out the words
trail the hand and the hand's pen
that seems today to trek over sand towards
somewhere, maybe it's a place with water
or more sand, in this place caught, in a desert
with only the heat burning up from the feet and down
from the head until the hand is all that's left
holding a pencil that trills like a rainbird
or wails curlew into the deep end and dark
when the hand with a pencil or a pen is awake
is around and is present and the other hand holds
some unlit thing, waits for a turn, for some focus
because the hand is moving too fast to stop
even for seconds and the lighter or light is lost


in a later frame is a future, a delayed gratification
and it's better to finish this movement through sand first
wanting to speak without a mouth, wanting to reach facts
to push dreams, in a small room, an insistent hum that surrounds
reminds outside is what overwhelms perceptions, not this
comforting beat where one hand is praying, is caressing
all that's not known and tender is praying the other's heart
with the lightness of each fall, each adam and his eve
in each first garden clutching the only thing worth taking
and each desire, uncompromised by threat, the hand takes
and moves in this slowed path, finds a light shifting
the placeless, signs blur or sea mist or fog or caress
in shoals in a valley or high on a mountain top and the hand
believes this is all worth knowing, a valley a desert a sea


the hand not sharing absolutely all the facts, and the facts
are in buildings, or forest groves or out at the edges of pages
only not this hand and not this story where forms are like birds
and they are crowding and pushing hard at the silence praying
in a small room, with a large door and outside is a future
wanting to take all this back into itself, and the hand moves
on using whatever history, whatever the past says now