What is property, that I could have a deed for it,
A few square (cubic?) miles of minerals,
just like what’s left of you
in weighty ashes
to be scattered over this property,
over the milestones of our years after you.
With a skin of organic matter,
captured from the air with the power of the sun
and steaming away again in a great cycle,
burning, as you did in your furnace.
It is only numbered coordinates,
vertices on a polygon,
perched on graveled turf sliding downhill
on drifting crust of a continental island
on this spinning ball hurtling through nothing
in a universe expanding.
And each atom of each mineral,
Of every carbohydrate and amino acid polymer
is made, we are told,
of mostly nothing
or, more or less precisely,
So, I force myself on these fields
and name them mine.
Category Archives: Arts, Poetry and Music
How can we know the past?
By its tailings, lying by the hole?
Do seasons really come again??
Only higher up, burying the one before
Is it worth saving this bit of plastic by filling it with ink?
I could carry it everywhere
and those I left behind would not know
I had ever been there.
Is this the end of lovely?
It is the universal force, and we
wish the stars above were nearer
to overcome it.
Why does the freeway sound rise in the damp
Riding on the vapor all the way to my window?
What is the hissing in my ears?
Either blood, or memories smashing together.
Why do visitors wait for me to come
to a sound I have not heard?
This one I will bring indoors
to last until I die.
I do not claim to have developed an airtight business plan
for this dream.
It was a dream, and it came from my root
although up in the air, before you, it has proved to be so fragile.
It wanted nourishment, encouragement,
A chance to live and grow.
I see now I should be thankful for those strong blasts of hot air,
If they have strengthened stems,
the lack of light, at first, that made it reach higher,
and your crap, that turned out to be
nourishing, after all.
Just get there, she said.
Any adequate means of transportation will do.
The wind might blow though the windshield, bugs splatter,
and wheels rattle,
you might have to swerve to miss a deer,
then run over a possum.
But if you get there,
You can have the picnic.
Take out the platitudes, piled high,
Say, it was all meant to be,
Footsteps in the sand.
Or, will it be pedal to the metal
and three sheets to the wind?
This time I should call her first,
To pre-empt her from texting me with the usual
“Turn down the racket! What’s wrong with you people?
You don’t live on twenty acres!”
I would say to her, “Pam, would you pah-lease
get those crows in your yard to cut out that racket at seven in the morning?
and your cypress is shedding all over our woodpile.
What do you think this is, a public park?”