Postcard 163

The moon is bored by my broad backed hubris
I - a small idol, worn by many slender hands -
a fallen fragment of a forgotten tree

My lazy daily backscratches lean
fenceposts in prostrate graduated angles
striking her sidereal path

My gated apsis is a persistent plod
mud-stomped retreading along
the fence-line's weathered undulation

It is a splintered rosary the moon
has absentminded dropped as if
she is fingered, as if she is anything

more than a myth lumbering
toothless in desolate twighlight
I bore the moon? No, she bores me!

Though I am an ivory horned beast
I am caged in alfalfa bliss and heather
I pace I stomp I charge I bluster

Wire hemmed I am fierce and mighty
Free, I am the idol comforted
by the moon's worn fingers -

fenceposts on her slender hands
We are free power but when bound
Moon penned bull in syzygie

Postcard 162

Each bold moment - forgotten
marvels of self seen & touched
Each shy motion:

a free twitch of hip, a gasp

of just stale breath still sweet

the grip of denim thighs

light fingers measure strength of arms

challenge runandjump

across bridges fog obscured

Your knees strawberryjam stained
We a leafpile of gggles - smoldering
Kissed like light rain


Met at bussstops cloaked like spies
ignored signs -- smoking, loitering
All eye corners full of wet wonder

Made love through clothes
each taste touch a bright splash exquisite
in blank sweater filtered light

Watched old movies
blackandwhite in splendid poverty
of cold rooms Noir sharp air
 
You laughed & itched on filthy rugs
in strangers partystrewn houses
under my shushing grins

Room a scattered room, bodies
muffled on the floor Ashtrays
full of kissstains Bottles sunshining

halffull of gold oblivion Clear white
takeout boxes open inedible -
broken winged memories

Now smell of stale & cheap
of cigarettes & whiteboxtakeout
recall our twin cookie fortune:

Life is but a dream.
Merrily we followed eachother through
misted streets, blackcoated ghosts

Postcard 161

 

There is a boundless wave here fleeing the bland catastrophe of origin
There is a mad hustle ahead of a spectacular frothing of death
and even the smallest success -- there are none great -- melts quickly back to death
This is life out here at the far points of matter that seems to cry
'Make me more and more' with an urge boundless in pain boundless in despair
Though cast off like isotopes the wave persists and matter builds
and builds and each mutation is a doomed crap shoot
But nature rolls a billion times and rolls a billion more,
a boundless roll of losing dice. Life at the far point pushes its luck
and matter builds and organizes, almost meaninglessly successful
out ahead of the wave, each success games the odds
Of a trillion particles but one is part of this, but man does it run with it
'Make me more and more!' There is a boundless wave here fleeing bland catastrophe
And we are at its crest
And nature, doing nothing small, we are likely the statistic mean
And we project out of us stacked matter more and more
And we perceive. Is it accident or apogee?
And then anxiety at the far point of selection
And then death and desparation
The cost of percieve is separation
The gift of separation is perception

Postcard 160

Nature does not by small amounts

There are likely, it seems, near infinite universes flying from each other at near infinite speeds
We, at least, exist in this one

Of this one there is dark and there is light
Light -- or know -- is less

Of the fundamental elements, near all helium and hydrogen, most has never had the chance of being star
But those furnaces have been condensing matter more complex and spitting out

As far as is known, there are six building blocks of life. What small portion of matter are these?
And what smaller portion finds itself on the thin film surface of a body neither baked nor frozen, spinning, near a warm star?

Nature does nothing by small amounts

There are billions of such planets; here we are upon one
So far, neither supernova, nor black hole, nor galactic cloud of poison, nor electromagnetic superstorm has culled this one

Here we are, a statistic irrelevance
But we are imminent and we proceed

A great clean stone holds its face to us and churns our oceans, wearing stones in their constant hands, runs laboratories as countless and surf-washed as their sand
How many unseen suns looked down upon a little churn of acid, carbon, protein machine - success at replicate?

Again Again Again and then
A splash, a cloud, a salt lick, a thermodynamic shrug
But Again Again Again, protein machine

Nature does nothing by small amounts