Platosphere

listening to
Crepuscule with Nellie
laying on the couch
and wondering how

the cat managed to
get the feather duster
out from behind the oversized
head of Plato staring
ever upward from his station
on the fireplace mantle

seeing the vanguished bird
in the middle of the floor
I thought
to retrieve it

it can wait
two minutes and
a half I said to the Greek

he did not argue
so I closed my eyes
listened and wondered
if he ever
pounded out philosophy
while wearing
a cool looking hat

a place

a cold stone floor
for my bare feet
a windowless wall
call this a place
to isolate my reaction
to the day
a hole to lower
myself into
to let my mind
tear at the silence
that has found
refuge here

a simple accidental moment

it was the kind of thing
that, had I not stopped
and got in close,
something so small
yet so grand
would never
have been noticed
much less given
any thought

a simple accidental moment
offered
so I could
watch the monarch
shifting position
ever so slightly
in order to
partake of nectar
then
lifting away
when done

leaving flecks
of wingdust
nearly microscopic
where she had been
had I not slowed down
that one time
those colors would have
(as I’m sure so much in
lifes spectrum has before)
been lost to me

a spouses glance
a childs laugh
a friends troubles
an apology
a bit of praise
small answers to
big questions, all gone

with little but
the smudged markings
of hectic choice
left behind

a sigh deeper

a sigh
deeper
a straightening of phrase
behind a wall of crepe
and petal

a hand goes
to cheek
before thoughts of
obligation
forehead after

leaning
on specifics
exhausted

the door at the edge of
the world
has never
been locked

still
it
has yet
to be tried

unfold

on that slow trajectory
to that plane
where exsists
no distiction
between sleep
and wakefulness
with nothing acting
to shutter the mind
experience is endless there
full spectrum joy
where, when one,
no longer tethered to
freedom stunting half reality,
can be completely
unfolded
finally

debe ser

debe ser el velo de la
cara de la luna
esta mañana
que trae a la mente
como debemos imaginar
nosotros mismos
nuestras fachadas
ablandado
misteriosamente brillante

It must be

It must be
the veil over the
face of the moon
this morning
that brings to mind
how we must imagine
ourselves
our facades
softened
mysteriously bright

again

is there nothing
so immediate
and impermanent
as is death

take this piece of soul
send it on the wind
let it be the seed for another

otra vez

no hay nada
tan inmediato
y impermanente
como es la muerte

tomar este pedazo de alma
enviarlo en el viento
que sea la semilla de otro

trash

the city designated
weekend for purging
(circled in red since
february) finally arrived

a warm afternoon
found me dragging
overstuffed boxes
loosely tied bundles
armload after armload
to curbside

when done
another beer cap twisted
I sit on the tailgate of my
truck and wait for
the scrappies to show up

their bald-tired wrecks
low and angry
some prowling by slow
a weathered face squinting
out of the passenger side window
others would side up
to the curb, practically
ejecting someone to
snatch a bit of metal and
move off quickly to a pile
further up the street

like a dingo ripping off a
chunk of meat and
running ahead of
the pack

some would politely ask if they
could have my orphanned bits
of life – to which I would
answer – sure I’m done
with ’em – but only
if their attire suited
their intentions
tattered flannel shirts
oily jeans leather workgloves
an honest mans wardrobe

I would deny such gifts
to the clean ones
sauntering out of new trucks
their designer shades
crisp shirts neat hair
it’s them
I don’t trust
there is something
disingenuous in their manner

I won’t have the
likes of them
rifling through my
perfectly proportioned
pile of discarded memorabilia

them I send away

with a smattering of
profanities and a thumb
hooked in the
direction of elsewhere