SOUNDS OF ONE HAND CLAPPING

Never mind 

the trees 

that fall 

in forests 

when no one's around—

what I'd like to know now is: 

does silence come 

from somewhere? 

If not from our hands,

from the future, 

perhaps 

as it abandons 

the past—

or when the silverblue 

dragonfly darts 

and then hovers 

as if coming 

into a room, and then 

forgetting why it entered?

Or could this universe 

of reticence 

imply something 

more sinister—

a weaponized quiet 

from the mouths 

of prize roses 

which ring the dry fountain 

at the city park center 

and whose only ambition 

under the sun 

is to put all these flurries 

of action 

to shame, and then 

sit there in perfect 

judgement?

STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS BEFORE

It's no good denying
I am jealous
of the refresh button—

that circle with the arrow
in the corner
of the screen

bidding knowledge
to begin again

like it's nothing
whenever pressed. I think

I'd give at least
50%
of my life

never to have to realize
I'm thinking

the same thought
twice.

*

Moods
are like seasons
which always come again;

they start at 0
and must wend their way
up to 1

before starting over.
No wonder,

although you can
get ever higher,
to get there

you always seem to have come
this way before.

*

In the computer
of awareness,

each intention
is a microchip,

every instant,
a transistor

embedded within it—
whose purpose

is not 

to record the event

but produce
a yes/no

to the question of 

coincidence.

PASTICHE

Strange to say, 

but the mind 

was made 

to follow, 

not to lead—

its Alice in gingham,

raked along 

by the breeze,  

not the rabbit 

who torpedoes 

fleet

and naked 

through the field.

And we say "strange" 

as if surprised, 

as if mind itself

had been first 

to suggest this, 

but the fact is that 

mind is clever 

just 

as a child is—

it can teach us 

new dance steps

when it watches

then burlesques,

and it speaks to us 

only in the most faultless 

sentences

to which it listens,

then repeats.

DELIVERANCE

Grace is not always
just spiritual grease—the
industrial-grade stuff

made for oiling hidden machinery
and lubing-up
stopped locks.

Sometimes, it's conveyed
as a stream of cool water
through the eucalyptus trees,

or a clean shaft
of light falling
exactly where you are,

but which leaves you—
when it leaves you
(as it must leave you,

much as it just left
the feet of your neighbor
who lives one debacle over)—

standing somewhere other
than the place
where you were.

IN PLACE

Does this make any sense? 

Walking past, 

you will sometimes

give the mind 

what it thinks 

it must want—

not the raving 

half-starved sparrows 

warring on the lawn, 

distant 

yet immediate—

but 

the intermittent tones

of a marvelous wind chime:

each chilly crystalline whole note 

teeming 

even as it dies away—

TRUE NORTH

Face it—all children may come 

into this world beautiful, 

but none 

has been born 

whose nose points 

true north;

any such pose 

she is later able to hold 

must be 

made ugly,

must be molded 

into place—

like the creased flesh 

around its pit—

by a long-standing 

habit. 

*

Say, where can a guy

buy a can 

of beer around here? 

Or a bun on its own? 

Or two chicken eggs 

for his breakfast?

New points of view 

are sold this way too—

like it or not, 

it's cost prohibitive 

to purchase one; 

they always seem 

to come 

plastic-

ring-

shackled 

in six packs. 

*

This can't be all there is

because no thing 

happens last!—

If this were your 

last thought, 

how long 

would you want 

to hold onto it

before you 

forgot? 

MINUS THE DYNAMITE

Recall 

the last time you 

felt the warm weight

of a nickel 

in your hand 

and honestly 

thought you might 

purchase something with it.

Imagine being presented

with a granny smith apple

as a Christmas present

by someone 

who really meant it.

The short poem is like that.

It's an angel—

not a real one 

(the kind a desperate 

person may need

to believe in),

but one of those 

white plaster quarter-size 

statues of one:

not so great to look at—

and minus the dynamite 

singing voice—

but at least 

it can neither vanish 

nor inspire

any hate.