a pronounced profile without pensivity--

turned sideways, like that.

an installed idiot, an endless green

stretch, beyond curious but not curious.

imagine no further than the following:

his mind consists solely of a thought

that will not come to it.

only the lingering impression of having

to recall itself--seven Sundays in a week.

what would it be to look for the light on,

without knowing it?

it would feel like you're always about to

die, without knowing what death is.

what if such a one was charged enough

with impending death, to suddenly recall

more than the mind.

facing forward now, like that--as would

one about to recreate a week.

ITS OWN GOOD SELF

no God just
the sweet rain blesses me
with its own good self

a robin
unaware
that he's my prayer

the miracle of sunlight
playing
with a kitten

wind sings
in a choir
of trees

STANDING NAKED BESIDE ITS SKIN - SEQUENCE

(1)

A CHAIR SITS IN AN EMPTY ROOM

The woman unhooks
her shadow

drapes it over
a chair.

She plucks her reflection
out from the mirror

stashes it away
under the chair.

She looks into
the mirror's nothingness.

She strips off
her skin

leaves it on top of
the chair.

She switches off
the light.

The chair just
sits there

absorbing the darkness.

The woman becomes
her footsteps.

The light from the bathroom
throws itself into the room

falls just short of
the chair's legs.

The razor blade
slashes through flesh.

She bites the tip of
her tongue.

She watches her blood
whirlpool down the sink

( she does not stop to think )

washing away the pain
washing away this self.

A chair sits
in an empty room.

(2)

THE MOON REFUSES TO SHOW ITS FACE

An owl is the darkness.

Only its voice is
visible

to the naked ear.

It gives voice
to the darkness.

The darkness says
nothing.

It lets the owl
speak for it.

The darkness transforms itself into the owl.

The owl becomes the darkness.

The moon refuses
to show her face.

Silence seeps back.
The owl says nothing.
The darkness says nothing.

A human cries.

(3)

MANY MOONS

she remembers an apple
standing naked
beside its skin

apple cut and cut and cut
like little slices of moon
fallen on the ground

the apple no longer a thing
to be eaten
now only a thing of fascination

the many scattered slices of moon
the earth a black sky
ants walking on the moons

she picks up one of the moons
licks it clean of ants and dirt
places it upon her tongue like a wafer

soon she remembers nothing
nothing
nothing at all

her life the empty space
where she had cut herself
out of her photographs

"DÓNALL DEMPSEY INDEED!"




'LLANÓD YESPMED?"
he squinted at my driver's licence.




"It's pronounced CLANÓD!"
I said with extreme exasperation.







"Y'are not from these here parts
. . .are ya fella?"
he drawled dryly




squinting closer firstly at me then
back again to my !D.



"I'm of Welsh/Turkish extraction
but I was born on Venus!"




I explained as if to
a little kid.







"Ha ha...haha!" he snorted
a tiny trickle of snot




yo-yoing up and down
his hairy left nostril.





"Ha ha...if you were to
spell yer name backwards
it would spell:




Dónall Dempsey!"




I was not amused.




"Ya know...that crazy hairy
Irish earthling poet dude!"




"I'm not him!"
I fumed.




"Alright...alright...keep yer
antenas on...geeeez!"




He handed me back
my Id ID.




Tipped his hat.
Wiped his nose across his sleeve.




"Welcome to Mars.
You drive carefully now!"





I stepped on the rocket boosters.



Left him eating my stardust.




"****** customs!"
I yelled to myself.




"Huh...Dónall Dempsey
...indeed!"

To have loved a cat.
Amongst my accomplishments this ranks highly.
So, I gave freely. Understanding the rewards might be fleeting.
Yet I loved whole. True.
The entire monty.
And there i paws
A cat hair in my eye on lookout for every stray
Who happens by

Seeking....



Nor, is it folly, to have served their whims upon a silver platter, when rewarded only by their regal indifference. For, there comes a time when you feel a bit down, or you are sad, and lo, her catness rubs your leg, or turns her head upside down and let's you rub her belly.
And the ultimate when on a dark gloomy night she consents to the rare kiss on your lips. And rubs her side along yours. Softly

I live on a small (25 sq. mile) island, accessible only by ferry.

                                                  <>

“For we are dear to the immortal gods,
Living here, in the sea that rolls forever,
Distant from other lands and other men”

—Homer, the Odyssey (translated by Robert Fitzgerald)

                                                    ­  <>

sea air inoculates the slowing breath-taking ferried voyager,
our landed cares felled, fall into a wake, trailing, sunk & submerged,
a ferry’s ramp contact-clangs, belling a “Here, Here!” alters our mien,
the softening airy enveloping, fragrantly, a greeting of immortal gods

no matter that we can vision-easy the neighboring isles, with
their trafficked-light busyness, the to and fro of mainland life,
bustle necessity of hustle, our riveted river moat cancels out
imposing surround sounds, our untucked flavor, floating free

wafting perfume of quiet inlet, creek and harbour, touch us safely,
alternating currents of gentle breeze, stiffer sailing winds, gusts,
bending us, these reminders, we humans too, creatures of elementals,
water, sun, forest, sand, animals, singular upon co-hosted menagerie

the brackish water, where fresh + marine waters mix, live + die,
reflecting our pooling diversity, so few of us born here, yet so many,
adopt and adapt the isle’s peculiarities, endearing all without any
distinction, we blessed together by Immortal Gods to shelter together,

by, from, the seas that roll us into one peaceful island, nearly, dearly,

and now departed

                                                      ­ <>


Shell Beach,
Shelter Island
August 2021