The great old redwood naked in starlight,
its yoga clothes thrown down on the soil
a femur sticking up out of the ground.The shadows wend their way up to where
should be, but there is no thinking being done
for a pair of eyes staring out blankly.
climb the redwood trellis and the flies zealously
of secrets held fast since the first earthquakes
was learning to orient itself in the night,
any coverage of the moonshadow moving briskly over
among the creeping vines gaining altitude,
The vines feeding on humus, the accumulated
nearly uprooted by all the worldly debris
made for man budding and stretching
toward the light, but failing to realize
the moral bearings lost,
the lost importance in
the kingdom of beasts.
Anatomy of the Noumena
Morning shadow of maple, stick figure-in-waiting as
the half-light is wrapped (rapt) tight on its frame,
nervous spike of growth
positioning itself amid the infinite matter. Birds chatter hurriedly
with a repetitious wind, echoes untether, reminiscing—
a good life was the life of the covered soil, cleverly hidden,
placed in exact relation to
the machines planning their decay like a plate of cored apples.
What is there to be found inside the mind’s navel?
Is the lathed exfoliate overwrought,
destined to exist only in this abysmal present?
He or she returns to mulch around the pattern recognition,
the problem solving, the awareness of subtle mood,
so much varied attention paid to the inner blemish,
the ache and palpitation of stimulus response,
the spasm of jugular,
the sudden bliss of openness extended flake by flake
into an interior setting. Let the hot bath retool
a fetish, scratch, stretch
the opinionated flag of depression, be steady,
resume the varnishing.
Like that small dog in the grass,
resume the casual sprawl and keep sniffing.
A drip of stain between the slats that a hornet insists on possessing,
similar to the way that it can thrive on spring wishes,
the way that the vicissitudes
stick to each other in warm weather,
in the unheeded melt of confused expression,
the way that the attached web breaks free, twisting
like a lost hair in a torrent,
leaving the head and its companion world isolated. It is like this
among essence, between the poles of remembrance and forgetting,
between the inscape of vision and phoneme extrusion. It is like that
in this way, the way a crippled branch resists
the aggression of a common definition.
It is like that. Like the temptation of a merciful death.
The unseen filler in the air annuls its blend with an open space’s instants.
It’s new job is serious,
instantaneous, and the day is kept long
so its removal will be difficult, an injury pressing
the numinous and the sun’s experience. All day continues,
claiming the germ of presence is
the final toll taken on a handsome worm, dehydrated, ready-to-be-cherished,
curled into a scroll paying tribute to the luminous (loom in us).
After this rewarding situation,
this surprising menace,
like the park ducks rehabilitated to frolic,
a typical past follows.
All that time bare wood spends waiting for an orange rind to be dismembered,
he or she introduces the lumen, its purpose unclassified,
the float of misshapen truth
appearing in and out of phase with the register of accidental memories, blind connected,
almost as if there were an incandescent foam for an unspecified light to arc across,
to burn an image
with an irresponsible flash, where the determined genes of a stick man insist on
gathering to point uphill,
like a migrating bull.
VI. Circuit Board
The long intestine reversed
confirms commitment to the greater flow of traffic,
to the greater practice of
an embarrassing amount of individual movement across a manufactured slope,
across the plowed expanse of a grid numbered with the remnants of antonyms,
the ones opposed to the growth of the self in
an age of electronics, in an age of indecision—
beef jerky and silicon ever after.
Considering this kind of ending,
unlike so much of the star jasmine’s confession ending in the garden,
the yellow pollen settles on all the visitors’ clothes,
the fragrance contaminating them
as they excuse themselves to effect a distant condition.
Nothing stays fresh as long as disappointment,
the stain on the forehead turned to white ash with every exposure to the present,
every surface irritated by the dust of careless initiatives,
dust of expressive whims,
grit blown through the pensive filters, memento dust,
ordinary house dust
returned to the inimitable need to be enraptured
—like the cultivator of the rose.