Introduction

I have forgotten how to be a bird. 
How not to be tethered to the world by a word. 
I have forgotten  how to to let the wind 
set my wings to sail
 and to trust that my instincts will not fail.
I have forgotten that sometimes 
the purpose of flight is flight  
and the most difficult pattern Is just being still. 

 I have forgotten how to look below 
and how to find the worm.

dated Cliffside, New Jersey Nov. 1995 

It may be ashen white at birth 
and livid black at death 
or vice a versa 
but in between 
Its’ a long long series of grays. 

 Truth It is sought 
discovered 
analyzed 
codified 
qualified 
modified 
over and over 
about and between
You ask then how to proceed 
but the question is not how 
Nor is it even why. 
It is who? 
It is when? 
It is rock
It is sky. 

dated Gloucester, Ma.  Jan. 1996

Plumbing the inner cranium
the shallow black veneer 
white shadows flicker an opening 
can’t hold, retreat
 rooting my root to earth. 

 Eyes open 
The illusion of light has tattered edges 
outlines blur definition recedes. 
The candle flame wobbles as if pulled and pushed by a hidden force.
Eclipses and coronas break free 
dance 
and extinguish themselves on 
the black canvas of the mind. 

I was confused by my birds 
seagulls black white and gray 
converging on the tar roof behind 
the house littered with snow.
 
They stabbed at the plastic garbage bag 
and at each other
ripping, tearing, attacking, eating , fleeing .

Have I forgotten how to be a bird 
or is it grateful amnesia 

Oceans of white shadows
uproot from the root of my left eye
grow in intensity
pivot and turn
and crash into the black crags
strong and firm
of my right eye.

White turns to black
black turns to blue.

The ocean flows forth
the ocean recedes
calm is elusive. 

A single light in my head
upper right
ebbing, relaxing.

The earth ties me to the day and
the daylights white shadows.
Shadows I love.
Shadows I breathe.
Shadows that comfort me.
Shadows that shout.
Shadows that save.

Dark shadows complete the thought.

Circles continue
blue
movement wobbling 
time and sight

Breaking of silence
but not of thought
Seeing, seeing quiet.

Movement of living and creativity
the hard slide of Paper and pen
the scratching noise of creativity

The world within a bubble within my head
ugraspable, elusive
consumed by the mental fire of desire

Ancient voices of myself contained in silence
grateful greetings from beyond

Something
Something hard, palpable, growing
seen not, but there
thick and creamy.

There is something in my head
that is nothing.
There is some thing
that is not thing.

I can not see it.
I can not hear it.
I don't taste it of feel it
or smell it
but not thing is there.

Is it me?
Is it you?
Is it Everything. 

You can break down the fences
of ideologies and beliefs
fragment the rails and toss them aside.

You can clear cut the flowers and weeds of ideas
placing them softly into the compost of time.

You can even chip away
at the bedrock of existence
doubting even your own doubt
but where do you begin
to build a faith
where then do you pace your foot
to take a leap.

Perhaps the muse should remain unobtainable
for when you have her finally in your embrace
you have nothing but the withered hag.

For it is the process not the answer
that has meaning.

The Sirens call is alluring
and as you approach the goal is all consuming
until you shipwreck on the craggy shore. 

She asked "are we of one breadth?
Ponder.
There is a liberty in ones own breadth
for what are we but ones own breadth
but then again
we are all a part of our own earth's breadth
all together we share and merge
until one breadth breathes
and the seesences of life spring forth.

The startling cry of a child at night
whips you back to reality.
one breathe
many breaths
fragile breaths
waiting to exhale.

Silence grows louder
blackness glows brighter
and I with me.

I saw them again this morning
those ubiquitous denizens
my birds.
After the Fall Equinox
in the early morning dawn
heading strangely north.

I saw gulls, perhaps five
floating in an informal circular pattern
like a prayer group lost in a walking mediation
and
a flock of unidentified birds
in an imperfect "V"
flying swiftly like a congreagtion
worried about their souls.

Lastly, I saw a group of geese
giigling perhaps among the gaggle.
Unhurried it seemed
to get where they were going.

Headphones planted on head
and a nicotine patch grafted to my skin
I take the hum of the universe
and anxiety
into and behind the stone wall of self.

Magical movies
smoke rings collapsing feverishly aid
passing beyond wild feelings
shudders of mini mental orgasms
quiet thoughts
of remaining protected, warm, detached.

Eyes open
perhaps too much
silence and calm never achieved
and the hum electronically continues.

Sage advice neglected
better not to bring it with you.   
Let it be  yourself
Your mind, your silence, your hum.

Notified by e-mail
supplemented with phone calls
I am brought there
there after the fact.

The images macabre
the methaphors muted  but many
windswept papers freeze a frame
a dash across a lawn.
You hidden need a cloak
betrayed by your red locks
are revealed ther
there after the fact.

Friends, your friends stand
numbed beyond anythin?g 
holding hands to check despair

The thread is pulled taught
to its breaking points
but it does not break
They are there
There after the fact.

I care not if I'm a poet of no distinction
though I lie a little.
What I crave, embrace and love
is the poetic experience.

The moment in the eye
where the world storm surges
around you
and you are calm
watchimg
waiting 
writing.

When you can imagine it
it is never complete.
When you have it
it is nowhere to be found.

tis the question
that is the answer.

They arrived the day before the last snow.
Flying in groups over housetops to the Avenue
hundreds perched on the wire
hundreds perched on the rooftops
hundreds and hundreds perched in the trees.

A bit frightened I turned away
the next time I looked out the window
they were gone.

Struggling with a literate past.
The beliefs have changed
the images have remained.
They speak differently to me now
Visions foretold
prophecies thaty have missed the mark
music, madness, mayhem memory
its all there
its all poetry
but the elusive poet hides
and is tranformed
by the fire iin the mind.

My poet has a voice
and it sounds like this.
I place the words on the page
untranslated
more or less
and the poets will be done.

My poets voice is different,
from the one I use from day to day
and when it speaks I listen
and record
and the poets will be done.

It makes me think and wonder
did the poets of the past think in rhyme
or did the poet speak
and the craftsman fashion
the meanings into line.

If so
was the poet lost
in  the poetry

I refuse to preach.
I see not what you see
feel not whay you feel.
The blue sky does not rip open for me.
Does it for you.
I will talk
I will listen 
and perhaps our worlds intersect
but I refuse to preach.

How little I think in the present.
I neatly divide my time
between things that were
and things that may yet be
but as I spin forard and back
the moments
the days
the years
Where do I reside.

I am but the present moment
the rest are but figments and ghosts
just ponderable pigments
on an imaginary canvas 

How do you connect with it?
I have cord
but I can't seem to find the plug.
I've got a button but no buttonhole
a latch but no latch post.

I've taken this rope a thousand times
and I've flung it out
but the lasso comes out empty.

I've placed myself in the forge
become pliable and layed down upon the anvil
but the hammer of fate merges me not.

It, yes it
connecting with it
is certainly elusive.

I did not hold a bird in my hand today
it held me.
Its claws perched on my outstretched palm
I felt the fetherweight.

It looked up
surveyed my soul
and taking the gift of seed took wing.

I, left standing took my gift
pocketed in memory
and walked on.

A poem that can change a life
is set in sand not stone.
Its meaning tossed and threshed in the wind
not frozen and cracked in the thaw.

It is a changeling
though words and forms remain
solid like the ocean
hollow like the universe.

If a poet holds a poem
to the mirror of the soul
a relection is not seen.

It must be lived
not observed.