our immovable dance
threads  the great canvas
of no thing
made of and by
our knowing  
the carrier of sound
stretches
by love
and plays
lights and shades
along the
ever changing curls
of a velvet universe

---

if there is two
it is not even at two separate
ends

but a base of being
for and of
each other

we cannot say that
for each one of the two
there is a sense of two

when one is not existential
without the other
then the other is not the other
but the way for the one to be  

selflessly

then one sees one
then one knows one

Love

one love to one love
like a sheet of purple gaze

flows along
and permeates
one another

it is the dance of grace

in between the two
lies the universe

for they balance
as ever distincts
the sparks of
the tale of things

ah pure love within itself knowing the other
ah pure love source of all divine dance

spans

the carrier of creator’s subtlety

the sign of all creation  
living on its own
– apart from its creator

we hear inside

---

silence of
the vacuum
omnipresent
as one sound
-but not a thing-
permanently
enlightening
nameless
it remains

*
in a wisdom
where
time cannot
be traveled
as long  as
time is defined
to create
time

His skull
like the ivory of a shattered tusk
smooth
hard
the still-moist dull gleam of cream
lining the torn-apart flesh

Clean

Look inside the head
its void
the most inner part exposed

The white of the bone

Free from the marrow of the chaos
the thoughts inside contained

Clean

The hollow warmth of its hue

You won't see
where the bullet burst
through the top of his head
like a boiled potato
lying in its skin
gashed across
and squeezed on all sides

If you look at the white of the bone

Closer, closer

Just look at the white of the bone

on the way
to return sociology
to the library
i couldn't read the parking signs
so ended blocks away
at a salvation army

the kind with no books for sale
but an elevator shaft
running up, down
behind a drum-set altar
and a stage i didn't buy.

half-expecting 'the war room' ads
posted here as well
i let a stranger lead me to my muse
saying none would mind

Chuck asked me if i 'needed to pray this morning'
before unlocking -
i said, 'every day'  but thought
  not in his way
- i'm just begging him to play.

i read a psalm and kneel to test hypocrisy.
lotus palms connote release from suffering
wellness for all beings

and then  
i am here now
at the keyboard again
playing music i will never forget
even when my chainsaw body stiffens  creaks
the keys a saving home still  though shy
they hammer heart strings
broken, born -again again again.

praeludium, goldberg, well-tempered
minuets conjure Bach
in his stone church
and i cry for lost souls
my own lostness found
though convinced there is no static single 'self'
no 'soul'-rewarded other-life to justify our own
no 'god'- or science-demolished mystery
no metaphysic causa sui to separate
contempus mundi from the mundi...
no tidy verbal 'beyond beyond'
but that of Thales  Sappho  Gautama  
Laotse  Yeshua
Nagarjuna  Shankara
Duns Scotus  Hume  
Blake  Whitman  Darwin
Nietzsche  Du Bois
Tolkien  Stein  Merleau-Ponty  Sagan  Jong

but i will say we've sung the music of the spheres
in host-guest handshakes
stranger  xenophilic tunes
my earthling family hums my heart anew
as i begin  again
to sing my being into fingertips

skyward breath to lid-closed harmonies of hell redeemed
in Peter's vacuuming
request for 'Dixieland'
and Stacy's parting thanks
for 'we three kings'
Ruth's morning-making compliments and invitation back
my wish to share with them the love i feel
- from them, Gaskell's book
from deep within where no words win
authentic ownmost ocean depth of
less contingent love
historically embracing love
of errancy and freedom in our different loves
an atheist in love with vacuums
saucha and the music of human kindness
receiving gifts in giving thanks








.

through his window
he could see the oak planted by his grandfather
or his father, or his, however many greats
that would be

few obstinate leaves lingered
like refugees who missed a hegira
to the promised land, or to the
red, russet heap along
the stone wall

some of its ancient roots
had wearied of earth's deep dark  
and now streaked across the yard
silent serpents laying in wait
for another eve

he wanted to write
of his lifelong arboreal companion
but his fingers had adopted a stiff grotesque pose
some forgotten fall, when the leaves
had been long in their leaving

words were there, waiting,
perched behind his eyes, then sinking
in some grave fashion to his tongue,
though to whom would they speak?

nobody remained
who read his verse
still the words kept lining up
not quite knocking on the door
demanding exit to a flat
white world

as his tired eyes rested
on the tree, the words rumbled louder,
until they pleaded, who planted you,
where are they now, and when
will we join them...?

there are two diagonal slashes
in the gauze of screen covering
the sliding glass patio door
each, this very moment
points to a dove

a pair that hid in the oak
this morning while they made
their song, dulcet tones to most
though not to me

I don't recall how the screen
was cut, but now the birds have moved on
and the gashes point only to a bed
of leaves, I will probably not rake
tomorrow

today, I will draw
the curtains and, as darkness gathers,
leave lights off

that may keep me from seeing
my son's flag draped casket lowered
into the ground, without the sound
of even those mourning doves

I am glad your mother departed
before you, for she would have screamed
in today's silence, and would never
have let me close the curtains

she would have implored me
to repair the screen, especially if she happened to see
the scars pointing to two sad songbirds,
even for a brief moment in the sun