The Art of Sinking (Chuang Tzu vi.ii)

You begin to tell
your story, get caught up in
it, and lose your way
to lukewarm applause.
Panic or shifting over-
drive are options or
self-sacrifice. Lose
yourself in the Tao. Sink
into primal mud.

Weird, Religious

Yes, I am a sign
signifying nothing in
particular. True,
it’s taken a while
to come to this conclusion.
I’ve worn many hats,
white hair a bird’s nest
now, my intentions giving
way to laughter, my
own or others’, it
matters not, my art being
weird, religious.


I’m a sucker for
the fine landscapes of Charles
Wright, Hill, and Burnside,
spiritual tourist
that I am. Details gilded
by light and shadow,
poignant and selfless,
pieces cut from the old gods
alive, whole in my
along with Herrick and his
eighteen mistresses.


I sit on the bench.
A field of dandelions
erupts in the screams
of children kicking
a ball between them. A game
with loose rules, a shape
with changing borders.
I close my eyes and listen.
Something free and whole —
as I imagine
it — is the source of all this
fun. I play along.


A block of words in
the right order on a page
in broad daylight —
nature meets culture,
I guess — sublime, perfection.
I lose my place, I
lose my I. A blank
page, in the same daylight, fills
with thought thinking thought.
A work-around is
to bring to this sunny place
some unfinished dreams.

The Chill

Even sitting here
in the bright — too bright– Spring sun-
shine soaking it up,
cherry blossoms loose
in the grass, I see there’s more
to it. This over-
full moment, eros
of God, seeks a weakness in
my chill otherness.

Lettuce and Snowflakes

I admire the work
of Anonymous. Gender-
free, responsive to

sources intimate
and universal, other
to the Tyrant’s will-

to-power, Anon.
delights in created things,
ignores the Tyrant’s

shows of brutal force.
Let Anonymous promote
lettuce and snowflakes.