The world shows me how
small minded I am. Typhoon
Hagabis, 100-
miles-an-hour winds strikes
Japan. Can I hold that in
my mind? One minute?
Yet I am asked to
avoid metaphysics. Like
the idea of beauty.
It too blows my mind—-
not the idea only the thing
of it. Turning the
corner towards the
setting sun the bay shimmers
as within my reach.
I think of Thom Gunn
testing his limits in love—-
the unborn haiku.
Crossing over the
Tibur to Trastevere
with the slow river
gradual and green
under us was comforting
I now remember.
Our late love needed
memories and those crossings
made us a couple.
Do take this at self-
value. It’s just a selfie
taken in a full-
length mirror. Montaigne,
Durer, Schiele, Auden’s
rubbery face. So
other we are. Still,
our contingencies promise
sweet festivity.
News of the first Nor’-
Easter. As I stepped inside,
the trees heaved a sigh.
Raindrops now and then.
We expected something sub-
lime and took a walk.
My master prepares
for nothing by sitting still—-
nothing original
about that. As his
cat I am his example.
Nothing in his face
gives him away—-he’s
that good. Yet something gives way.
He rises, goes to
his desk, and starts to
write. There’s no alternative
for me but to jump
up there, sit on the
still blank page. He loses it.
I maintain my cool.
A wanderer I
reach this quaint village where I
read master Li Po
who made the most of
violent times. I can not
concentrate on mine.
Sometimes a little
thing—-a fly, a sparrow, a
breeze—-is the last straw.
That I am at all
and that I’m as nothing fuse
to my confusion.
I’m beside myself,
a coin found in the street, both
sides rubbed out smooth, or
out beyond myself
with the fly, the sparrow, the
breeze, though sitting here.
Whereto next, Li Po?
In your time of troubles you
took your dodgy raft
as far as Tung-t’ing
Lake. You died in its depths with
China on your mind.
The poems you left
behind are now taught in schools
by the faint of heart.
Where are the young men
in polished shoes, white shirts, dark
glasses, anxious hair,
Manhattan canyons!
I once fit in that crowd, but
lacked purity of
heart. To see one now
spring down from the bus on his
way somewhere hurts, hurts.
I return to my
task. Who recommended me?
A Mr. Nothing.
You seem to rest, fly,
as I aim my blow but you
were just leaving. Com-
panion in no-
thingness, your flesh mine as my
aim finds its target.
Our joint nothingness
is just the other side of our
chance for a good life.
You keep me honest.
They say God dies with us but
is back in no time.
Distance is substance
this fall evening as porch
lights go on across
the water one by
one and the sky between us
resolves in darkness.
There is no ‘as if’
about it, just the surplus
of the local now.
I have noticed at
the pub the tyrant’s people
scowl the way he does.
I assume the blood
on his hands is on their hands.
Tonight the baseball
game keeps us focused.
Over our heads blurred figures
mimic our passions.
I caught Peter-the-
bartender’s eye. His laughter
was quite politic.
Metaxyturn Diaries 