Groaner

See my youth, unkempt and uncouth,

everywhere, like truth, or is it reflection?

That would mean a mirror be poised, 

to catch my image as a boy, then

turn it ‘round in my mind’s eye

to frame a fearful symmetry.  

I wrote a letter to the Devil last night

for I knew he was coming some day

and I thought, instead of shaking his hand,

I’d hand him my missive, written in cursive,

and send him on his way.  

I sat for hours with pen in hand,

in the dim limelight of a single lamp

wondering exactly what I wanted to say.   

I sit in an Idiot’s trap,

repeating senseless things, 

thinking far too much,

beyond the point, if it exists, 

of where an answer sits,

irrefutably correct, 

invisible to my brand of blind;

the kind recalls with clarity, 

but when it must, it cannot see.

War Poem - Hiroshima

Surprising things happen sometimes, like having a poem published...

http://www.statesmanjournal.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20090820/OPINION/908200318&GID=vRseOwdhn3f3pRou%20w60/uyMlGlyFYGIeRXjdlQRojY=

The Screaming Silence Of The Pacific

The rocks in the sand at Matador

point up to the sky

And the seagulls fly overhead

and laugh at the rocks

But the rocks don't know what laughter is

they know nothing at all

Not the sand upon which they sit

though it shuffles in the waves.

Nor the waves that caress and shape them

the rocks are silent through it all

Nor the wind that pushes into them

the rocks are silent through it all

Nor the sun that lights upon them

the rocks are silent through it all

Nor the rain that beats upon them

the rocks are silent through it all

But the waves roll back to the sea

where they drift eternally

never lost, never bound,

never memory,

but the rocks in the sand can see.

Northfork

Here is a bridge that was built long ago

long before the playful leap became the local dare

to plunge the heavy plunge full of gravity

like a boulder let loose from a cliff over the river

further down that way, northeast.

Cars go past, one by one

maybe ten a day over the cross-hatches 

of wood and iron wrought with love 

and maybe one man's hate

now left in the care of lichen and rust

and underneath where the young boys

gather and wait for the cars

like the troll for his goats.

Old, rotten, decaying machines

dead giants in tarpits stick

arms and torsos out halfway

from the topsoil and, mid-scream, 

died decades and decades

for us to watch with foresight

for our brushes and pens

to record in hindsight.  

Friends

I have friends in many places.  Lots of them are not in North America, but that's where I am.  Some of them are usually in North America but are currently traveling, and some even write about their experiences on blogs just like this one, because everyday is a new day, and new things carry with them new experiences.  Typically, blogs like these - travel blogs - are pretty interesting to read since the person writing them is immersed in a whole new world, not just a new day.  This also means that a chance visit to such a blog, without any prior knowledge of the writer's experiences, would most likely be a compelling one, because the experiences being written about are most likely going to be relatively detached from the experiences written before.  But it could also be flipped; perhaps the travel experiences are consistently being built on top of one another and to read for the first time about a mid-travel experience would prove disconnected and reserved for those vicarious followers.  

Other people think travel blogs are just plain boring.  Others, still, believe the act of blogging in general to be disreputable and vainglorious.  And yet, blogs remain.  I think it is rather innocent.  

The internet is a marvelous place, but of dubious distinction.  It is the only encyclopedia one shall require, perhaps ever again.  But that is dangerous thinking.  The internet is also a lonely place, but most people would probably tell you otherwise.  

A computer cannot replace a friend, even though you can use one to talk to each other when you are miles, miles away.  

You and a computer, together, cannot:

share heartfelt moments.

carry poignant conversations about the human condition.

have a tea party.

drink beer.

play duets on piano.

have sex.

cook brunch.  

play water polo. 

Maybe you can, but that's pretty weird.  

To the moms out there, today.

I do believe that life is infinity, and that all things belonging to life belong also to infinity.  The spirit in all things belongs also to that infinity, and offers thus an infinite comfort which flows forth from within all things.  

In the ultimate mystery of all things, among the absoluteness of not-knowing, is the wisdom of a contented spirit; content because it was never not so, cradled in its many forms, infinitely manifest and constantly alive, omnipresent in all things. 

Happy are they who know this wisdom, for happy are they to be alive to know it. 

"O bless this want to be!", the dust of the universe cries.  But it comes from some strange distance, and we come from you.  

Happy are we, who are granted this life from cosmic dust, borne of our ultimate love called mother.  

Introduction

Welcome to the edge, a very small space that accommodates vast numbers.  This is not the cutting edge.  It is the edge of the field...

How many fields have you seen? There are hundreds, to be sure - if not thousands.  Millions.  Fields are perhaps Infinite, so I'm not going to chart their positions.  This is one.  

Thanks for being here, I hope you find something interesting.   

How do you get to the edge of the field?

What cuts lines into pure air to create dimension, space, thatness and thereness? The sea is the sky, like a great mirror, and so does shadow cause the light to wane, and no one knows.  Everything has a center, balance is essential.  Balance is everything.  One cannot conceive light without dark, up without down, this without that to juxtapose it.  Reflective, the days separate the nights.  Water separates air, and corners separate corners.  Angles cause a stir in perception and make us follow the lines all around our minds.