Tell me anyone
Caesar or Pharaoh
Emperor or Beggar
Saint or the ****** -
tell me anyone,
if you ever found life
stable, smooth and fluid

Let's dance then
with clothes of silk
and a life of ease
let's throw our arms about
our feet like a deer in a run
a life smooth and refined
for that's the best we can do

Let life sway as in a dance
Let there be energy in purpose
and intent
And take a leap -
never a bow
Let your hair fly
and your clothes in the air
A life light and nimble
for that's the best we can do

Tell me anyone
Caesar or Pharaoh
Emperor or Beggar
Saint or the ******-
tell me anyone
if you ever found life
stable, smooth and fluid

you need a moment, sometimes,
a moment can be a series
of seconds that add up to forty winks;
a moment of quite, time away from
the clamor and the crowd and the hungry
away from the brightness, the lights
and the demanding, and the conversations
and questions, and queries and routine
just away from people to think a little perhaps
to drop into the quiet of oneself
a moment in the chair, elbow on the table –
could have shut the door, you know,
so the creak will wake, alert you, maybe;
could have had a fruit (did you?),
or could have moved the spare chair round
so any intruder would have to move it
which would have served as ample warning
and you could’ve said: “Oh, how dusty in here,
just cleaning up, nearly finished…”
but maybe you’ve your own devices and stratagems
whatever, we’d just say now, looking at you
the way Vermeer’s left you for us, dear girl asleep,
you sleeping, retired into this quiet, into this room
in your corner, elbow on the table,
you in the chair, leaning sideways
we’d say, seeing you:
*you need a moment, sometimes,
a moment of quiet, time away –
hey, good on you…

we are going
this day in the gentle light
master and bullock
down the dusty path
an anonymous villager
and his sturdy bullock
far in a village in India
for there’s work to be done
like many a villager has done
and beast and master
out determined in the days
when the land must be worked
to nurture its people
across China, Egypt and Mesopotamia
and nameless lands
they have done this
and we do
now this day that is ours
through the winding ways
to the fields
to the end of the day
I the villager and you the bullock
Come, we shall work the fields
as countless have done
and as many more will come to do

Go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
maybe in 1650
radiating a story, still today
riding the donkey
trees behind
the mountain track treacherous
Go Giryeodo
mind clear and attentive to all that is
There is no mind here
that is obsessed by sin
and sharpened doctrines
like the ones on the other side of the world
Detached and collected
rides Giryeodo
There is no sense of destiny or ambition to reach Heaven
There is no Theology, no Thick Books that attract Thick Heads
Giryeodo rides
Donkey at its own pace
free, no encumbrance, no demands
there is no Book, there is no Text
there is no authority or Weight that fills
The mind of the rider Go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
no perversions of religion and conversion
that fills the minds of those on the other side of the world
Fills them like the Devil fills their Books and Speeches
Gentle, uncaring,
no sense of timing
riding since 1650, perhaps before
riding perhaps into timeless-ness
Not caring for an end of time
go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
riding the donkey
riding the donkey
trees behind
the mountain track treacherous

gentle girl
in checkered shawl
in Safonkovo,
the artist's village

charming girl
and of delicate smile
in your simple rustic clothes
like any other girl everywhere
with her dreams, her loves
flowering in time, coming of age
with nature's rhythms

girl of desires and wishes
and warmth and good heart
anonymous, unknown
and growing and marrying and begetting
and loving and nurturing and passing
in time past, another age
another clime

and this your lovely smile
that reaches us from your village
this the beauty of you
O girl in checkered shawl
in Safonkovo
the artist's village

this look of you, Venetsianov
sends from the distant past -
this
I breathe in like
I breathe the fresh air
on an early Spring morning,
O darling girl of Safonkovo

Z is useless
Like an appendix
It's not like English'd collapse
if you threw Z to the dogs
(you couldn't call it a sacrifice):
we'd still communicate
we'd still fornicate

it's like if your doctor cut
your appendix and threw it out
you'd still eat and ****

so, useless Z -
like many parts in the human enterprise
like your religion, your ideology, your prejudices:
it's there,
in the human system
but each a Z;
part of a strange assembly

What's this poem about?

not about this
not about that
no views
no judgment
no aspirations
no declarations
no proclamations