he sees one on the branch of his oak,
the other on his picket fence

eight decades he's heard names
of these creatures

one that makes sad songs (though not
a song bird...)

the other known by its color
(not red robin...)

he opens the door and walks
toward them

as if removing distance will erase years
which purloined their names

they fly off, so many eons ahead of his species
which now lives long enough to forget its past

a breed of ape which worships words, and
dreads the loss of them

the mourning dove and cardinal need no
symbols to know to flee this beast

the mere sight of him evokes the
wisdom of the ages in them

wings flap, currents abide, they glide to
another spot to roost

while the old man curses himself for
unknowing their names--cursing and cursed
it seems, are not part of what is forgotten

Morning, Nine-five,
To the tiny flowers in your garden,
And celestial ongoing bloom.
To the cadence of the sudden
Bird awakened in the noon.

Morning, Nine-five,
To a drop of light that slithers down
Down the smooth of shins and to your ankles.
Morning to the heedless way it gowns
Tips of feet unhid,
Naked toes uncovered by your blanket.

Morning, Nine-five.

The everlasting wisdom perpetually transforms. It narrates unknown,
Uttering the verses of its love in winds and snows.

It rains and calms from day to day,
It ceases only in the summertime;
For a halt
Is also gay in its own way.

It will urge precipitations,
Warn us,
Coax us to beat in flocks.
While it never leaves a mark
On the azure dome,
For the ceiling is the face,
It has traces on the boiling rock,
Ancient earth,
And on my holey socks.

The holy "wisdom" is
Merely the way perceived
By me.
Solely an imaginary bliss.

Though the mind elevates,
Sublimes it. After, states
That the chemical occasional coition,
Which is way up high,
Bears all the answers,
To my weird childish whys.

No dark, no light
And no extremes the Lord has made.
No rights, no beauty and no fights.
The only are: the null; the one,
And every bit that dwells since then
Is built upon a hierarchy of a mind
Of a man.

Keeping eyes against the sun,
I dress air
With my lips.

Time will seize
When what's to share
Fills your blooming lungs.

Anna-banana,

Keep your vessel shared,
Keep its match along the wind.
Sixty million thousand metres
Seem no job with people in.

Keep your heart shut open,
Keep its tempo up the beat.
Sixty seconds on a sofa
Are eternity with (pointing at myself)