from meribah springs

sarcasm is become lingua

franca, the earnestness

of a soul. sore

bruises make the best comedic

gold. silver ruby sapphire emerald

are precious matters.

A quip I quip must be equipped

O quips, you quip sometimes why quip.

Why? they are a defense. strata,

gems must dug at from the surface.

Meribah Springs, 2013

one good turn

the world is a slow turned wheel

  pivoted

stirred but not steered

                 impulse

with all the ambition imparted to

                 momentum

objects falling

spheres descending

reaching the terminal velocity

                    station

before their terminal stops

                   station rails

them dead in their tracks

       terminated

where do i get off      escape

                make my stop

         point

of departure

saying I am

different

saying I am not

the same things come up

in our talks          come down

          actualities

          accidents

as the images perform before

          visions

          visuals

my eyes and i am aware urged

    impressed ruptured

          

          F=MA

          form                  shattered

by the force of their content

          minutia

upon me as I lean upon a wall

        god

like a beast of burden

        sage             query

my hand upon the mill quarry

                              grind

      push

and turn urge urge urge

      labor

until i turn in

                out

for the night

nocturnal emissions

flow

streams

rivers

currents

oceans of consciousness

break into tributaries

that contribute to the tarrying

the pooling in my hand

my hand of dust

where puddles make

mud

clay

bricks

hold me leaning on the garden wall.

i steal my best material

i steal my best material

i steal my best material from charlatans and pass

it off as my own--chicanery--sean connery as a double 00

agent provocateur--i tour itinerant--i tell

my snake oil cure-alls cure all--detour--

the magic medicinal--shekinah in a box--

i saw the women in the box--i saw them in half--

but they haven’t arrested me--nor i them--so i cut and run--

split--up in smoke--dash--Houdini--who-done-it--

convenience store blues

convenience store blues

as idle as these moments are

they are filled with bags

copious arrangements of air & chips & candy

among the atavistic delights, we mill about

for the satisfactory morsel or trinket of utility

i run in, i run out with my wallet in hand

sometimes bumping, sometimes grazing

my herd of unseen ruminations, unheard undigested

for you, glazed eye at 3AM or 1PM lunch

break. i am caught in the teeth of aisles

you wait for me to pass as i wait for him to pass as he waits for the other

everything passes or doesn’t for the other

and behind the deli counter, the deli girl calls out #137

i look down with anticipation at my ticket

as a girl look down at hers with expectation

#138, #139, #141 “one forty-one” you are

affirmed and leave without me

numbers work their unnamed magic

not to be counted on

we check out without mingling except

as all things mingle without terminable ends

save for measures of discreteness