for Greg 

 Of thread, cordage and umber
our patchwork armor is grown and shed
 Woven from strands long gone under
cross bonded with others locked arm in hand

 Who must yearn to remember 
the old adventures in which they bled
 Walking through darkness in thunder
also haunted by brothers lost to the land

 This conflict, universal
conscripted or drafted in the end
 Either to serve or to plunder
the long ago promise of a reprimand

 A soldier's song will be sung
and always remembered by a friend
 When it has torn you asunder
captured in the drum beat of a marching band



for Brian Eno 

Like waves crashing on a beach
faces sinking into the murk
amid shafts of sunlight below
thriving green stagnant ponds

phantoms of angler fish merging
into fading profiles of Maya kings
legion drown into the scintillating murk
overseen by the eye of a cephalopod

or is that a spider exactly the wind
hisses over diamantine droplets
you're just conjuring a host of names
the human heart a polished mineral

making contact along the circuit
breakers sinking like a rosary
dropped from the deck of the Titanic
the demonic wreaths of coral gardens await

O, green whale, eagle of the depths
spilling incense taking turbulent shapes
of faces mirrored along the crown of eyes
shredding into angels of birds

the Ancient of Days reflected in stellar parallax
within a quadrant of time reaching out
for the heart of a burial into rebirth staring
back from the well fed wide open hole



 First we must allow trust

   to develop.

It requires a certain amount

   of courage,

not to mention a degree

   of patience. 

All the rest has to do

   with tenderness.

Meet halfway with trust

   and a kiss.

We may suffer


Having been conditioned

   by violence

to never comprehend

   what is amiss,

or we may take a lesson

   from cats.

Observe their silence

   and curious tactics

Serving to impress

   their legend upon us

and be sure to practice

   them with each other

so we may depend

   on our legacy

sailing the seas

   of companionship.



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.