Saturday, March 22, 2014

Assignment #3: Wunderkammern

The shelves there cluttered, full from end to end
Shadow boxes displaying stacked vignettes
The abstract contents start to fade and blend
Abandoned volumes we, in Time, forget
A cabinet untouched and locked will seem
A treasure, if the key is never found
Of Discovery the mind loves to dream
And will ponder its sight, its taste, its sound
Sometimes I wish there was indeed no key
No way to confirm the inside mundane
Just wonderful wondering-- reverie
No memories, disappointments, or pain
It is in our nature-- the need to know
Curiosity leads us. And we go.

Monday, March 17, 2014


I think maybe sirens don't sing--
At least not with voice & lyre
But with tumultuous grace 
They sing to us as crashing waves
As undulating tides
A song of sight & sound
Of salt on lips
Stinging mist in the eyes
Goddess tears
They sing to us songs
Of cutting currents
Delicate rippling notes
Upon the base torrent
They fall
To raise their voices
They hide their chorus
Until we are miles away
They madden us with singular
melodies upon melodies
Upon melodies
Tinkling, sparkling
Trailing, fading, swelling
But never finishing
Or ending
Never ending
Too continuous
To be Knowable
What it would mean
To know them
They promise 
We can know them
If we would just
Get close enough

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Friday, March 7, 2014


There is no cure for his dart
No discovering his art
Or the scope of his part
Until splinters fall
From your heart

Monday, March 3, 2014

Assignment #1: The Book

I've been knocking this around in my mind for a few days. Ever since I came upon the suggestion, I haven't been thinking as much about the books I might give somebody else but of the books I or somebody I know carried around. A friendly acquaintance I had in high school-- Nate-- used to carry around Tropic of Cancer. I used to carry around Siddhartha. My friend, Glen carried around The Satanic Bible, partly for shock value. Another friend often carried Crowley's Book of the Law (after she destroyed her first copy, of course).

I spent some time contemplating the notes they might write, the places they might leave their books to be found. A few people would run screaming from Anton La Vay's black volume but most would snatch it up & scan its pages in hopes of finding the detailed instructions for lurid or violent rituals. Glen's note would be more sordid than the book itself.  Tropic of Cancer...  Ah! What a dirty, sad, gorgeous book. What a perfect book to love, to carry, to cherish to dog-eared & stained perfection. Any book in that state is a holy relic. Nate was a member of the first writing group I ever joined. I heard him read his own poetry-- tender, adoring verses. I suspect his note would be a love letter to Henry Miller. The Book of the Law would be a cheap printout or photocopy. The note would be curt. A brief invite into initiation followed by the order to "burn after reading."

Siddhartha... would I release you, the relic in my pocket? Would I open the bird cage & let you fly out? Could I? The waters speak to me but the world drowns out their song. I hold you still-- your words about Love, about Wisdom, about the transitory nature of all things... I underlined them for school & kept them for my Self. Inked up printed pages would not serve another near as well as a new copy. That is what I tell myself but I know better. I must let go of the relic.

When I open the cage, I will wrap you in plain brown paper, then I will write the words, "For You" on the front of your simple covering. I will leave you upon a rock on the beach or riverbank. Perhaps I will leave you by the waterfall in Russian Gulch.  There is no ferryman but the water speaks. Whoever finds the book-- speak to them for me.