Kiss Me a Blackberry

Do you remember the old sounds?
Let’s put a paw up and funnel them in.

The silent prayer of a pebble.
The bright August bursts of Ha!

Abundance conquers all
in the shape of whistles and waves and even ants have families.
Do you hear it?

Teach me water, the sun is here–
paint me all the early joys
and meet me at the bottom of things,
where the door opens.

Who steps in? What door?
Does it wiggle?

Take your shoes off and step through–
I’ll caress your shapely wound.
Tell your pain, the owl has ears.
I’ll be your Duke of Willows, King of Mud.

Then, kiss me a blackberry
stain your lips
rich with desire around my…

a sweetlings gift.

Flow me your inscrutable peach
and dive me silver
deep like whale
I’m no pond to cross.

The wind forgives, a birdlet flies free.

Datapoints of a Late Winter Afternoon

the sharpness
of the city
has the rabbit of my mind
overtaking the tortoise of my soul

STIMULATE—
the motto of this foreign land
that keeps the beast thriving
and hungry for everything
but never satisfied

I deduce I am still breathing
by the fact I am alive
or vice versa

a type of aliveness
meant for the head
and bodies are mere obstacles
or things to be stuffed
and shuffled around

“Be brave bold robot”
is etched in concrete
for the benefit of commuters
who can’t remember
what the wild water feels like
on their skin
or the mud feels like
on their face

a type of aliveness
that resembles
cold fish out of water
zombie flopping

there’s no profit in the depths
it’s all shallows here

but my tortoise is drawing me
to the nearby faraway to seek water

I dig my feet in the sandy bank
like crabs
fleeing danger

and overhear a fellow zombie saying
“the datapoints show that people…”

and it’s clear—
they’ll have to invent a new chart
to read the datapoints
of a late winter afternoon
along the river

Sitting with a cattle egret
at his fishing hole
the sun warms our backs

Twenty-four birds and sixteen mistletoes
Four shadows of geese
fall on my face

A hundred poison hemlock
hang out with a hundred hoary mustard
and countless cockleburs are an antidote
to the concrete and sirens

A conclusion derived from the data:
Some kinds of prickliness
are better than others

I slow down enough
to notice all the fish
in the depths
and the tortoise of my soul
sticks his head out
jumps in
and fishing can begin again

Sea of Voices

we swim in a sea of voices

some we may claim our own
but most speak to us
uninvited

Pretender voices
crash like wave upon curling contrived wave
upon our shore

their steady rhythm
drums us into
a consensus trance

threatens to bury
the siren song of our sandcastle heart
throbbing to be heard

should it wash away our fortress
well, this is the nature of castles and sand
once a rock, once a distant mountain,
once carried by a river wise enough to meander
towards the sea

so we retreat to the seacave in solitude:
a mere temporary respite.

but the tide draws near
the waves crash in
unrelentingly

The sea of voices
roll along
like so much wet traffic
racing unaware
of the delightful calm below

there’s no way to halt the thundering waves

but we can grow our sea lungs
and dive down deeper

league by league
settle into
the soul-tide
quiet depths of true voice

silent and still and slow
in our hidden
mariana trench
from which,
should we bend
the ear of our heart closely,
the echoes of our sublime bass notes
spring

resonating through
all our fibers

Further down
is a mystery
where no one goes

yet from which all emerge

quieter and quieter yet
it is the deepest voice
and unknown

perhaps it one voice
perhaps it is none at all
some in and out breathe
of Being

not to be conceived
only to be felt

no, let us not drown in the sea of voices

rather, grow our ocean ears
to listen for
reverberations from the trench
from whatever edifices
we find ourselves in

drown out the superficial waves above

rather than be battered
on the shores,
risk ourselves
in deep waters