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Archive for December, 2011


cognitivist bias

left me mis-
understanding this:
there is no space
here and there
between the wind
and the winding
sines that wave
the model is not the phenomenon
drawing
is not the same as
the line left behind



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shadow falls
my day across
destiny calls—
dance close
dance close
your heart to my heart
your chest to my chest
working eyes
i can’t forget


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mary child of my eyes,
breath of my body,
i think i knew you
before you arrived.
fruit of someone
else’s labor and
wicked determination
led you to me. did you
realize on your way here
how much i wanted
a child like you:
wide eyed and blearily
bespoken with irreverence

and a

barely contained nativity
of young minds?

how could i not love you
how could i not keep you

here in my heart for another?



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I am
what
my daughter calls
peripatetic

atoms,
planetary rhymes,
loosed by a sun
turned
tantrum scholar,

maniacal
and slightly dissatisfied
by the silence
of her peers this all
arrived

to discover
oh, I don’t know,
maybe just a
steady hum of fear
which drained
its way tiptoe
across ten carpeted
galaxies,

tripped

over some
whispering sands
you left behind,
took

a turn and
there encountered,
world-keyed
and faint,
nothing
but

sun-faded laughter.



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on the strength of the absurd

on the mountains of tomorrow i count only dark
curls of your hair that were in my face but
yesterday, and thereby know that faith
preserves what always was within its proper
provenance. i hear

that well along
our sacrificial path we eventually
encounter
the difficult part of practice.

now they are no more
the owners

of individual life-streams;
each flows its own way

well loosed, into memory cells
contained

within a softened heart.


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Too much for me.

A pen laid by my pillow.
It sleeps with me. November
trees I imagine
I am destroyed.
I remember them.

O cold eye that hurts
you threaten to show me a world
voiceless and
sightless, a
plain.

stop here. You gaze around
what do you see?
not a home.
not a resting place.

Take me back to the place where snow fell
and I was a day
plucked from the summer of vision.

Hiding in a darker shadow
and still singing of spring.


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a sandy provenance of stolen dreams
which devolves upon the winter tide
is all that woke me to morning, once
again not even the dog wanted his walk.
i have come this way and then this way
haunting for some unfounded teaching
but the ghost dawn of one more day

was not your breath filled leanings
that i once loved,
nor your joy glazed thought:

meandering of winter light
this too long life
this too long longing



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