Singing the Way

Go ahead–you

know you want to 

sing a song of
the earth to a

new tune. The
imagination

more real than real—
isn’t the song sung
deep all songs, and
madness firmly

embraced, all
clear-eyed sanity?

Sing on, heedless of
the droning—your
notes can be
something new.

Listen: where is
that firm voice?

Is it more than
the monkey chatter
of “more, more”?
To the one we see, 

all qualities cling.
But to the one

living in a self,
caught in the
machinations
of merely being,
each quality is
a struggle with
the real, each

quality a leap
over some abyss.
This world, this place
of the real, is not dis-

enchanted. Merely not-
enchanted when the
chanting leads only to
the in-cantation of

superstition. Of
the not-real.

Words Out of Nothing

The sudden spring snow

melts back to mud with
plop and plop somewhere

on the roof. It’s so hard
not to think it’s saying
something, to think

this world so rich
in contradictions,
caressing as it kills,

isn’t mouthing something
more than the words
I put into its mouth.

This world so rich
it creates imagination
then kills it, whispering,

there’s more. More.

Oh, And Another Thing

(After Hafiz)

1.

Has the sun at last
parted its curtain
before you & you

have seen in full
sunlight backstage,
last breaths, in full

sun dark partings?
Have you at last
opened the curtain

at the sunrise of
your own debut?
We are all, haven’t

you seen, we stage
hands, ready to
rip the fabric,

prepared to smile
in full sun?

2.

I’m not a captain
for the days of
wine and roses.
I’m a captain for
the days of backs
to the wall—

3.

Oh, & one other thing—
this particular “I” believes
that “I” is another
curtain—construction,