winding down

winding down

of late I wonder if it isn’t
  happening  HERE
and whether or not
winding down is equal to
  being unwound

and is this festering wound of
 substantially  no poetry
a sign of the winding down
or is the winding down
 an effect of no/poetry
in which case it is
 a case of being unwound
and not   of winding down

where I wonder
 has my glee   gone
(why don’t I write about that?)

why don’t I write
  about how often  I think about
    being dead (not-being)
 or how my shape is changing?
 or how my hair is getting thin;
   and yes  too,   my skin
or how the beam of my attention span
   flickers erratically?

what it is

what it is

chockful of anecdotal evidence
  this goblet   resting
on its slender spinal stem
the woven mass   contained
reiterates
  in bemused profusion
its amazed   portrayal of an    exterior
         and wonders   at its own delusion

beginagin

starting midstream
originally posted at journalspace
Thu, 19 Jun 2003 06:00:23 -0700

the glue of influence
influxes
a tidal wish in
wash out
of tars old salts
and feather merchants
hawking wares amid the kelp beds

lay me down deep
but not to sleep

black winged flapping
a school of sea skates
slides by

a squid hid
in the rocks
beckons tentaculate
for me to come
closer
come closer

wish wash past
I am current carried
fast a way

in the depths but not
drowning

[. . . . . ]

the window blind is up
 and leaning tipsy
plants   their faces  pressed
  against the panes
no different than the cats
 wishing to be    outside
when they are in

always a sucker for a story

written after repeated listenings
to The Decemberists’  Hazards of Love CD

====================================
always a sucker for a story

-----listen!    this happened to ME!
once upon a     time 
    out of mind 
I had this dream

strolling  red-caped
through the deep woods
unknowing   on the way    to 
 the wolf
and haven’t we all
haven’t we all
met the wolf
once or twice in a life

haven’t we all
mis-understood a delphic delivery
or dismissed some cassandra

and haven’t we all
heard the siren’s call
the siren’s call
haven’t we all heard the siren’s call

entranced  by the flickering image
 by the weekly cliff hanging fix
teevee  comix   operas  flicks
turning pages in a book
taking the  searching look
 at paintings on the wall
haven’t we all been transfixed

haven’t we sat and day dreamed
 down roads  bizarre and erotic
haven’t we dreamed of sins and
  redemption

seeking a sequence of  happy endings
haven’t we all   taken the Fall
into the glorious mess
of the  tallest tale
sweet and gall bitter
we cannot resist
the insistent  sirens’ call

haven’t we  all
looked  listened   lived
 captivated   gape-jawed

for haven’t we all
heard   the siren’s call
the siren’s call
haven’t we all heard them  call

before writing

at her core
empty
a wanton container

image-filled
the taste of words
the lingering scent
of the transient contained
by her embrace

reluctant to loose from possession
to spill what was heaped

[ . . . . .]

not knowing who
is the “you”

in dark moments thinking
there is no you

a new moon night
and the mirror unreflective
draws a blank

attention skitters
harried into brownian movement
broached by what cannot be

my Double unsung
embraces me