dawn broke cold this morning.

i thought of you the way i always wanted
to think of you: as docile as my dreams
told me to be. then the morning fog shaded
the rolling hills out from the greens and
browns of late winter to the white blues
of obliviation.

gulls danced along the pale orange
plane between the tree line and
wrapped up the easter sky.

i used to be thankful you are now
a whole world away, but these
mornings have taught me otherwise.

gratitude is for the ego.


i thought of writing a longer poem, one that expressed freedom and clarity and beauty, to show what life can be when we choose to just live. but i believe there is nothing more freeing than discovering the actual kernel of truth, the expression and projection of reality as it really is. the tao is the tao that cannot be written, but we reveal something of it anyway.


life as prototype of dreams

my brother hid
with his friend

(i imagine now
his hair
being threaded by cobwebs older
than we)

the broken red snow sled
its cylinders gasping for fresh benzene
now for years we hadn’t known ourselves

behind noises that belonged
between the trees
in the woods
across the road

behind the lesson
that there is no discovery
if there is no fear

this prototype became realized.
he fixed
those iron lungs, and
i went looking
for the noises that belonged
between the trees
in the woods
across the road

though we pretend to be

like the way the bear rolls from his sleep
onto the gentle snowed in morning,

i saw him struggle against cramps
yawning taut

wound tight from a mother who
never sleeps herself

and in consideration of such a rare glimpse
he sensed me too,

we fall and roll into and out
from each other.

waking up from our instincts.
seeing we are not gods.


Aristophanes’ Law

on a whiteboard:
time is flexible with space. as speeds change, the fabric of spacetime reflects its own vulnerability. its impermanence. if the solidity of space and time is not to be assumed, then what is?

yes, and:
riddling. each moment in your eyes carries reflections of my sodded memories, aching up from the grave. you kill them all.


you have the pieces i left behind, tore out and given to a god who spread them across the continents.

its just a myth, lodged in our memory. but we are the shadows of each other.

we are bound in the contrast that sings only when the differential is perfect, and it sings.

forever now.


clouds roll slow
over snowed in white roads and
half shoveled walkways

my eyes imagine
wraiths between the falling flakes,
certain blank spaces

skaters go anyways
round in oblong circles holding
hands of people close

the sun stays slow over
rows of lined up conifers
holding back the baltic fog

i realize i’ve never fallen in love

i’ve been wrapped up in it
ever since my skin was first knit