Cars go by the windows
and Westernized adults
really a scam,
some sort of sham show
they judge themselves
So the fan turns
the air conditioner hums,
they get up to check their email,
go back to work tomorrow.
For it is in some other world
where they do not
back to work,
but meet other adults
to discuss and address
the real problems
in their lives.
For in this other world
dominators and subservients,
obsessed with myth and power,
vested in both observant locality
and also relational reality.
And these Westernized adults
realize this other world is
waiting to be built.
I remember the thousand
from star dust and rivers
and the tallgrass
when she meowed
I did hear the mischievy
of the Big Bang
the thing hearing itself as itself
these are words you’re reading
in this place in time
I guess you’re on a planet
but it’s possible a space vessel
in the plasma of a supernova
information as matter
and matter as information
the Pinky Da Principle
I was on life support for two years
Then the unthinkable happened
One day I woke up
I no longer lingered on the landscapes
waiting for you to appear
I awoke to another other land
Something like three hundred and
fifty-seven light years away
a million shades of green and tall grasses
Mountains rising all around
With even the dust doing its thing
in the air
the way it floats down in the sunlight
from oak trees
to marry the dirt of the woodland trails
It was in these sojourns that I finally
Did it ever occur to you
that we lived a billion lifetimes
we are ancient
And everything’s ancient that
rests all around
There was that much passion
The oak trees, the red rocks, and the
This is my home
You look out the glass of a
window in a much different land
The passion still is
The sun is another
With you, for you, I shaped a
Trailed freckles and oceans.
Believed in your breath and doubted
your words in the shadows of
timber rafters in houses,
because you are imperfect,
mostly in the corridors of humans.
When driving in a car on a country
Fort Worth and Granbury
the Universe was born.
There, on Spring, ten years ago
you noticed we’ve seen
these worlds a million times over.
So then we become afraid to love.
Turned into man and woman.
Red rock and grasses.
Surrounded by oak trees.
Our emotions are mathematic.
Something that is for and from before.
We’ll kiss in dreams at night.
We will be unformed.
She became an idea.
An idea that wore dresses,
and had corporeal feelings
embedded in memories and
This idea drove in a white
from Texas to New York City
and would never be seen
She woke up from a ghost
on a planet
seven hundred and fifty
light years away
and had foggy remembrance
of a different way of life
a different count of days.
The landscape turned from
the white plaster walls of
temples to orange mountains
in the distance
and the navy blue night far
Her heart beat.
She remembered someone she
She looked down at her wrists
Her eyes blinked.
A transmitter brought transference.
A lifetime had been stored in
molecules, configured into
prior held assumptions were
She died an alcoholic.
Her love was in my heart
one thousand five hundred sixty-four miles away.
This love had made me more mortal
than all the orgasms and funerals in my hours.
This love had been with me in glances down
on muddy floors, dust on countertops,
and when noticing the drops of rain
caught in half-destroyed window screens.
This love had grown from nothingness.
So something similar to the Universe
lived inside my body, something similar
to art, the revolutions amongst particles.
Outside of particles was everything else.
So this love was for her and everything else.
The electricity in her ion channels
no longer rendered from the ethanol.
But the electricity does not die.
There is transference.
Does it go into the air, sail across sweet
tissues or meld into the walls, radio signals or water
crystals suspended in the snow?
But there was something in my heart, each time
she died I lived, I lived oft and oft again apart
born into the stasis between the living and the
dead that many of us evolve to ignore
nor have it in the genetic capabilities we carry.
That old continuum, the holistic continuity.
Many of us grow old and age and many of us grow
old and never age because
we remember love, the broken and the bountiful,
the cyclical, ancient and ever-constant.
We journey to the sun.
The Martian flowers turned on their eyes
turned on their eyes and looked for you
born from red and crushing yellow skies
they rose to bloom and turned to blue
Beneath the temple sacred night
between the ancient stones they grew
gave up on views of vanished oceans
left the vacant learning places
turned to gravity to turn to motion
to explore the timeless pulse of space
Transported from rust and dust to stars
rained down on distant planets
found their seeds now in your earth
to open their memories in your heart
What are these things I stare at in the store?
They’re not legs or asses.
They’re moments of nothingness
that turn into frozen eternities
where the only cognizant thought I have
is how much I love you.
Then I see again
with fluorescence around me.
I have bones that hold me up to go forward
and the sadness of a world at war
begins to live again
for the followers of symbols and power.
Not the philosophers of moments.
The moments are empty here,
ungathered by mortals and products.
It’s what the aliens were calling knowledge
one thousand three hundred and sixty-four
light years away in their past.
I’ve taken to loving the cats
with all my heart.
They’re the only living, breathing remnant
I have of you.
I tell them I love them at night
in the dark before I go to sleep.
I greet them when I come home and
walk through the door,
regardless how my day was,
I make it a point to talk to them jovially.
Somehow, I think I do these things for you.
Ways of tenderness and lightheartedness
I probably never did enough around you.
I am a devotee these days, a scholar.
I think. I wait. I fast.