A Sort Of Mirage
Shadows in ink.
On such evenings I’m
too tired to applaud the maestro
but a fresh maté soothes nevertheless.
War has not been declared
and there is not one fraction
of my life left behind.
There are lots of commas
and etceteras lying about the hallway
waiting to be used, waiting to be set free
to dance across the page.
They seem to comfort each other
after these outbursts;
a sort of mirage
these words I cannot grasp
Another curious expectancy
hangs over this day.
The waters thawing,
whereas there is nothing to do
but sink into the bed
listen to the rain
Words are no good
though I have been indexing them.
I have called for an armistice.
It is finished.
All The World’s A Stage
In this theater
it is all or nothing.
There are no extras,
only willing participants
who want to throw stones
from the back of the amphitheater.
Myths In The Cellar
I have put my myths in the cellar.
You will begin asking those inane questions,
That is why this writing has become a ballet,
movements in which a story is told.
Words appear but it’s no use trying to solder
this stuff to the present.
I am following the bodhisattva’s way.
Why, I cannot tell.
The great quest is how to get to the organic root
of the problem.