The More I Read

The more I read the more the world turns and begins turning into a wide mushroom blur. The colors a swish, the moonlight a gobble. The sense that the world consists of discernible images - past, present, future - teeters and stands as if on top of a pine tree. Then that tree becomes a needle and punctures the sky, which is really a soft blanket covering the sole of someone's foot in another time and age. The danger of unreason unleashes neither pain nor pleasure but sleeplessness. Not even insomnia, just sleeplessness. The beautiful fatigue of a cloud that says: as soon as you close your eyes, the world vanishes. The sounds you hear, they come from another time. In the markets, you see people's faces and remember everything. You never forgive. In the dream realm, you begin to see without seeing, find without finding, say without saying. Meat turns into brownstone, and this kind of thing, small and incredible, receives no attention today. Don't shock me again, pal: when I said the ground moves and breathes, I meant it. It was half seismology. And half animism. But it was mostly: intuition.

Throaty Sore

Dragging a dagger across a plowed field

The cold virus draws a picture of a whale

On the inflamed surface of my throat.

Endless days, e-mails:

No sleep, but no sleep.

In a Garden

I am struck by the way gardens and rivers and flowers fill the emptiness left by disasters. They grow and fill, and cover everything up in their business. Bees mill about, and clouds float high above the fences. The water does not reflect; it shines. The green and the musk fill the air, and you are transported to timeless spring.