life’s insistency

trapped birds still flying….
covey feeding on median,
all take off with passing car.
all return only to flee again
moments later, again and again.
life, tireless in its insistency.

what propels your lift offs?

ponders

wasp sucking down  nectar
at the red filling station.
hummingbird ponders–
share, ignore, or
test my bottom lip?

cactus shade

cactus shade.
all it would give away,
without
ouch.

more pleasing

I always loved questions,
but the divorce was even more pleasing.

leap into being

much talk of not looking away, but
looking inward is not much better.
mind sees in a plane as far as you wish.
to profitably look up is an off switch
to looking.
to keep that switch on for a micro more
is the great leap into being.
you are still looking with ‘your’ eyes,
but you are finally looking at the real
underlayment, the foundation of self.

masks

rain masks the sound
of the distant traffic.
is the hiding in my yard,
my ears or my mind?

the swinging gate

asleep, one is disappointed
with things as they are.
unmindful, one always looks someplace else.
yet,
there is no hindrance before you.
you are already through,
the swinging gate
hits your heel.

passwords

so many passwords accumulated,
as if they protected something
worth protecting.
of course, one would be so fortunate
if the mind was only feebly guarded
by such clever spellings.

hidden in brownness

only ruse of desiccation.
life hidden in brownness.
after-rain blooms.

moving on

high desert.
words only adhere
to the tumble weed.

stretched

I walk the yard.
the mile, the league.
I am stretched
way back from the
start to now,
really no distance
at all.
no where
does this walk end.

above the smog

south Phoenix mountains.
cactus standing above the smog.
internal barbs, though,
always within careless touch.

not looking up

not looking up
not looking down
not looking to the side.
but a new viewing
nevertheless.
perhaps like a cat
impartially barfing
up grass at your feet,
all content revealed…

clear away

we‘ve been told to poke
everything that moves.
what we don’t poke is our own reality,
thinking it out of range,
invincible, or sacred.
yet that elusive target, at the end
of wherever we glance–
is most poke-able,
and will disappear with the
right thrust.
–entangling, effervescent concept.
poke freely, clear away the dust,
and stand undefined.

biceps of memory

apparently
starting from scratch,
comfort wants to
write each day’s agenda,
and it’s memory has the
biceps to keep pushing
your lawn chair around.

never touching

stream unattached.
passing all obstacles,
never touching its banks.

moulting

creek or brook?
moulting crawdads
still eat their old selves.

small ones first

mountain side.
here big rocks
break into smaller ones.
inside, we break small ones first
and work our way up.

sequence

type, then edit,
if necessary.
(too much editing
before anything is
noticed, these days).

fingerprints

friend still AWOL.
how could he have touched us so?
fingerprints left, all pointing.

reach

arms borrow the wide vistas
from one’s eyes; reach, and gather
the universe close.

only wetness

my creek reflects
only wetness, leaving
all images to its pond.

all delusions truth

the beauty of Shakespeare
is his facile demonstration of
man’s traits, albeit mostly
an averse pointing.
the beauty of it now is to
see that there is nothing
negative under the sun,
all delusions truth,
bound into the whole play.

hands off

didn’t your momma
tell you to keep your
hands off those events?

fresh

love, fear.
fresh bamboo.

nested thoughts

twigs of thought.
compact bed of neurons
squirrel nest high.
forbearing maple & I

flap

if there is a breeze to carry you,
ride.
but still air is supportive.
you just have to flap more.

relentless green

our caves come and go.
verdant, slithy havens.
kudzu canopy.

up to your eyebrows in previousness

ok, so your mind is just standing up there,
a little bewildered, looking around for, for appropriateness,
a profitable next step, er, something that feels like, real.
now, before saying anything, just casually look down at your shoes, delete
that next automatic shoulder gesture, and

consider, there is never an appropriate
next step—you’re already stuck in the
middle of the last step—
up to your eyebrows in previousness.
so reconnoiter and see that you are still in
the classroom and are standing alone up
in front of a hazy audience of selves and it is clearly
your turn-a queue of one–
nothing memorized, no dance routine handy,
just you.
on stage.
trying to be significant or relevant or whatever.
(a hint to the queasy here, it is not their
room, but yours, and you make the rules and pronouncements).
a good simple starter is that
there is no meaning.
anywhere.
not embedded, not hidden,
just no meaning inside you or out.
what you see is what there is.
and once ‘meaning’ is excised from your head,
there are no requirements or expectations demanded.
just a little improv stichk and the audience vanishes…
you are suddenly free to move about.
course, you are still in a slow dance–
just no longer always stepping backwards.

(now you can do that gesture, but do it, intentionally…)

mental sanctions?

ok to dream.
but know it.