Tonspielen, mit Entschuldigungen zu Lao Tzu und dem Untergrundenmann.

Dust and Essence

But there went up a mist from the earth,
and watered the whole face of the ground.
-Genesis 2:6

From mud we come,
[Formed earthen jars]
To Water we go,
[We drink and disintegrate]

Wind forced across the lips
Our songs of Water,
Sing to the apocalypse
Of dust.
Some from out of emptiness
A round hollow moan,
Some from holding until full,
Shrill, sharp sibilance.

Mine is a song of suction
The throaty gulp grows into
An empty air-sucking shriek,
As I am distended and drained,
Dilate and constrict.

We shake our fists of dirt
Clods that shatter against stone walls
Or dig into the soil
Beneath us to become it
. . . .

Formed earthen jars
[mud, from mud
Holding is— crack and shatter]

We drink and dis-integrate
[water, to Water
Movement is—thinning the blood]

Cloddy arms, shrieking mouths,
“This is where the trumpet sounds...”
Wet earth, dirty Water
“That one’s dead, let’s try the other”

She's back, if only briefly.

Bird at Night

I

The strangled cry of the night bird
And the footsteps of leaves in the air

A dot of sound in a voided sky
Where lights obscure smaller, greater lights
And over-saturate the eyes.

The solitary cry of the night bird
Like a canopy thrown over the dark
I know this bird but not the sound
I know this sound but not the bird
As each pins each upon the sky

There is a sea into which we
Throw out doubts to sound them out
To judge the splash
And measure the ripple
And despair that there is neither

II

I look down upon the sky
And see myself
A point reflected
I long to burst into flame

The air is cold and the shore is far,
I wonder what a falling stone feels,
To pass from sky to reflected sky
And look up upon the water
And see again the voided sky
Unblemished

I scream, I squawk a two-tone prayer
Fold and burn my feathered hands
But the wind is deaf and I am stranded.
I cannot see the shore.

O I wish, I wish
I wish I were a fish

III

I look out of empty pages
In the vast room laid with books
And ask, like the crab,
"Do I dare disturb the Universe"
The answer echoes:
"No.
Skipping stones is a game
For boys."

With the cry of the night bird
I am chased by the footsteps
To the sea,
And strangled, curse the calm sky.

"Als das kind kind war..."

In-flammable

It is dark,
I am dark,
But darkness is not any thing,
It is simply the negation of light.
O this little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine
But I've neither the match nor the inclination,
Only the reservoir of oil.

I am a darkened lantern, or
Better, an unused one.
Fresh from the factory but left on a shelf
For some dark and primeval night
So that I can cast away the not-thing
And give direction to action.
The wick has hardened,
And the glass grown dusty,
All I do is emphasise the black
By showing what it is not.
What I am not.

Stick a searching finger into me
And you find it viscous and thick.
I leave only a residue
That is not easily wiped off.
Oil is only removed by oil,
But squeezed of a different thing.

A struck match does not inspire
A flashlight does not enhance
They only show what did not exist
Until ignited.
Don't let Satan blow it out.

If I only negate, then I am negated.
Who is to say which is preeminent?
Without light there is no dark, and
Without dark there is no light.

There are enough lit lanterns.
I am happy to sit on my shelf and not see
Not things.

27 February 07


...and for something a bit less dreary, and quite a bit better, I was surprised today to receive this from someone.


Violets In My Lawn

I have violets in my lawn

I didn't plant them there
I planted them years ago where they no longer grow
I used to scold them "stay where you belong"

But now I like them growing in my lawn
Like little surprises, little presents, little loves
I want to stoop and kiss them sweetly

-Paula Willis, March 07