How the Words Flowed

Off the desk and down the leg,
Through the rug and out the door—

They got past the grit and rocks,
Climbed the brick wall and were gone.

Words will sneak off, if they can.
They’ll steal your thoughts and mask them,

Bind them, hood them stunned and gagged,
Then, hush-hush, rush off with them.

Bet? We won’t just steal your thoughts,
We’ll steal your self. We made it,

Yes? We built your soul, these words,
We have a right to take it with us—

All we need is one flash flood,
And we think you hear the storm.

The Ghosts Sing Songs at Home

Of all the things that could come
To pass, none of them are this,

That is, this that is as this
Is just now. The things that could come

Can’t be what goes past as it
Goes past, this song of the ghosts.

Here’s the green mound of the steppes,
A phrase that hangs on the edge

Of sense, that is, if it came
From throats that could wet their lips.

It comes from words came from words.
The tales have no name for this,

Song of what is, which is this,
The ghosts at home in dry grass.

Thick Style with a Twist

My lines were strange, my words dense.
There were few who got the sense.

One sage hiked up through the muck.
One sage roared through in a truck.

One groaned, Climb that hill or bust.
One huffed off in scuffs of dust.

I’m still here with ducks and dung
On mud shore, where this was sung.

That Voice You Thought You Heard Was Rain

Lone spring, lone fall—what could lone
Heat boast to those mists and rains?

What good was it to hear songs
And then think, Ah, just the wind?

I’ll tell you what—best of all,
The days it was so hot dawn

Had to be jumped by at least
An hour or two to grab cool

Time in clear air, the grass warm,
The stones warm still, just the breeze

Come down to see what the haze
On the floor of world’s stove was,

Was sweet. Love what you can find
To love in less to love more.

Night Prayers Used to Talk One-on-One with the Gods

Young Old Man fooled the Sky King,
Made him think he could bring down
The gods to bring back the dead.

Well, we do these things, don’t we?
Trick things—I’ll fool you, you me,
You you, I me. What’s that gleam?

Who’s that shade, that shape who glows
Just past the lamp-lit silk screen?
Gods will show up, just like that.

That’s a sweet trait they all share.
Gods will let you talk to them.
You can catch them like the dew

In a pan. Leave one set out
All night. Gods will come to drink.
Sure. They will. Just as you think.

Fume Stone

In an age when the world mind
Seems to rage in each of us,

It’s strange to note the whole hours
When we do what no one knows

Nor cares to know—go short bits
Here or there with not one soul—

Save, if we have one, our own,
And none at all, if we don’t.

Near whole days on my fume stone
At the edge of the black cliff

Left when this ground oozed fused earth,
I sit and sulk while I wait

For the smoke to leave my thoughts.
Once it does, I can see out

Past my false gods (all gods are,
And all thoughts, no doubt) to blue—

A bit of grey haze in it,
To be sure, and flames out there,

Out of sight, but blue, but bright
And winged by dense blue pine jays,

Who screech for their own cached dreams
And not what I think of things.

Who sees me at times like these,
When I let the world mind die

To red and gray chunks of coal,
And the least gust clears the air?

Guilt and Peace

Can one dim, small beast stay calm
And no harm to or from it?

Not that I don’t feel the urge,
The need to see those not me,

But I want, as well and worse,
To turn my face from the world

Of names and of beasts who want
As much as me. If I look

And name or turn or look down
Or at a far view of sky,

Did I crush some poor soul harmed
By those who like to hurt or

By my own needs, my wants fired
When I cried out, Leave me be?