Castles in the sand, or
Castles in the sky.

There's a whisper of tentative potentials
wafting thru the air like mill smoke.

It keeps us withered and wondering,
starstruck, mutilated in spirit & empowered
in mind.

We chant, "I don't mind. Terror
is an error but no error stems from
a terrified wolf," simply reacting
to the terrain like a Ghost
losing the ghost of its mind
in these very same whispers
as they morph into a melody,
a whistle, a beautiful problem
ready to be solved.

(ready to be solvent.)

The wind is a slack freeze billowing
across the low structures of the ferry
as it floats indelibly towards the coastal
island landmass once known as Quadra
and Vancouver's Island, now maintaining
only the former prefix as if either dub of
the landscape was a 'fix' at all. There is a
Canadian flag tangling with itself in the cold,
wound around a metal cable wire on the top sun
deck reserved for smokers avoiding the crisp air
for the formaldehyde devil they already know.

Waves ripple through the fabric flag above and
the fabric water below, both tossed by the same
heavenly forces forever wafting throughout the
globe as if all the steam ever boiled never truly
left the biosphere nor converted back into liquid
but instead became yet another one of many
unforeseen
byproducts
of our
oh-so human
participation
in
existence;

yet another
one of many
unforeseen
consequences
left to ring in
our ears til we
cease as observers,
thus ceasing to
observe.

“It is above as it is below”
and
“there is no difference between
the observer and the observed.”
Not my thoughts, nor I doubt
anyone's thoughts
in particular.

Snow dusts the caressed peaks,
valleys, and crevices of the
Pacific Coastal mountain range,
each geological mound standing
shoulder-to-shoulder looking
across the withered liquid mounds
in quicker motion atop the Georgia
Strait below as if watching a child
relative playing with new toys
received on
Christmas morning.

I have no words
adequate enough
to express all this
beauty.

All I can do
is help you
read my mind
and hope
my
wordless words
equal
poetic telepathy.


The wind is still a slack freeze as I exit the ferry.
There's no one here but all of us,
*hello!

zero in on that second when gravity
takes a small dive into the contrast
that is nothing.
you are left comparing what your
senses still reveal to the soft blanketed
blankness of no-thing at all.

an absence only apparent because
it has been
defined.

the numbered becomes numberless
when there's nothing
to
count.