I'm a divided island.
Cleaved by a a wide sea.
My two halves communicate by note in bottles...
But the currents are inauspicious,
No word arrives from either shore,
Nonetheless the split isles persist,
"Legs, good morning,
Let's get out of bed."
"Head, we've got to **** and **** down here,
Direct us to a toilet and be quick."
Thus said,
More unread flotsom
Is added to this tangled gyre.

Mass, weight, inertial potential
universally networking
all
into Indra's
bejeweled net.

Five years before retirement
my father in law
posted a note on the refrigerator,
"Everyday throw something away."
I have come to realize
the profound wisdom of this advice.
Letting go is the enlightened path
to contentment.

The interval,
sliced, metered, warped,
occilating space time,
the field where we strut
our stuff
for an impermanent
registrar.

Time and terrible violence
scripted these four-thousand foot hills,
Every stone under foot has a fantastic tale to tell
and the deep river gorges,
patiently sculpt, sculpt, sculpt.

Three obituaries in a week
received from contemporary friends
reporting their parental loss,
all extraordinary lives
compressed within single column widths
and limited
to given story lengths.

On the mirror
in lipstick
was
written "solipsism"