When a tree falls in the forest

is it mourned by its standing survivors

the vibrations it made indistinct 

as the memory of a thunderclap?

Does the question become 

not whether a tree makes a sound

if it falls without anyone around

to hear it, but rather, is there even such

a thing as the ground when that appears

to be gathered from our perception?

Not even the forest suspects this much

least of all the trees, each one of whom, 

for instance, may believe they are the king 

of all existence. In whose dream, then

may a leaf be heard to fall, again?

Listen up.  Without you

there can be no story.  

A very old tree totters over 

into the wildwood far away

with a sound approaching 

the memorial of thunder

to its standing survivors.

Around the edge of the bay

outspread in their foothold

through funereal compost

melding with rotten mold 

a blue unreal mossy fungus 

spreads out and grabs hold.

Under the loam of bedrock

another microtone gets added

to the layers in the chorus 

of their growing forest song.



Under the ridges 
of unfurled magnetic 
schematics working their
magic in collective tides.

Rendered beyond 
the coldest fringes 
stalking the tragic on
their retrospective rides.

Sacrosanct thy presence 
in the crowned wake 
of an eternal sunrise 
on the other hand.

Of darkness let the rays 
cast down be reminders 
illumination may also 
come from the damned.

They say you have never 
seen obscurity like the lost 
ones in the caverns who 
must betray the light.

Indigo droplets 
form for all those 
who enter the void 
and escape into night.

The minimal bead has
captured the inverted 
sky and mirrored it off 
our own blackened eyes.

The multifaceted compound 
flower of panopticon 
stares into itself 
at every focal point.

Drowned into a yawning 
crevasse unzipped along 
the stepping spine 
of its own device.

A factory's evolution 
of reassembled parts 
can never reach a true
symmetry of outcome.

Over the fallen 
waves receding into
the rhythmic imbalance
of periodic ice.  



behind the veil
of stars we can see
hides the night
of eternity among
these folds remain
the very ones
we can reach out
for with our finger
tips with eons
left before they
grow to yield
their sentient fruit
that light the shroud
of a ghost that has
found itself yet
to be born



If there is any such thing as silence
Where on earth would we find it

So long as we remain alive here
If not inside the deepest, darkest cave?

Even nestled down within a lightless cavern
We'd mistake the colossal subharmonics for quiet.

And Death itself will not offer us this complete peace.
By that time, we will no longer be listening.



for Al Attanasio

 the mirror-people escaped 
from their self-portraits

   individual droplets 
comprising a much larger wave

   creatures of a greater dynamic
whose crest disappears when examined

  the waves of a myriad individuals 
so long as they do not interfere

what breaks down 
into a higher order

   the reduced forms who peer
 over  their own event horizon

growing into a greater array
   to look back from whence they came

  broken down from an ionic compound 
and reconstructed by electrostatic forces

  the electrically insulated beings 
of a highly conductive experience

  the few freed electrons of a greater surge 
that made it through the slit

salt to sparks
   sparks to salt