57/365: 4 in the morning (published in Phantom Kangaroo)

at 4 in the morning
it's just me and the truckers on the road

and the psycho killers in their minivans.

no one else is up and dressed,
pants on one leg at a time,
coffee sloshed.

there seem so many trucks but
it's really the same number as always -
just the lack of other cars
makes them look like Stonehenge
has decided to relocate.

there's the truck from Sysco
with its cargo of
Bloomin' Onions/Awesome Blossoms/Texas Roses.
there's the truck from Wal-Mart
with its cargo of
Chinese plastic wrapped electronics.
There's the BP truck
with its tanks full of black
paid for in blood.
there's the psycho killer's minivan
with its grim sacrifice
carefully wrapped -
a Chinese baker, perhaps
who had stopped to get gas
too late at night?

citizens with day jobs
and for-profit criminals
are all snoring -
it's still yesterday's night for them.

us,
we're all driving into the morning of their tomorrow
(except for the Chinese baker,
who will have no more tomorrows
or even today).

55/365: morning stories (published in Mindful Word)

the fall sun just over the trees
leans shadows that are long stories
from the fence posts
lining the road I am running on.

my own shadow stretches out to the west
broken by the rough of grass,
then granular with the asphalt -
this is suddenly the measure
of what is left, I realize.

the light has a metallic truth to it,
unavoidable hard realism,
not like the fairy twilight
that blends the worlds of waking and dream.

but the sweeping reach of the shadows
do not put me into the present
the way the noon sun will,
hanging overhead like an inquisitor's bulb -
undeniable and demanding of truth,
but only the truth of now.

instead this early morning light
forces reflection over what is yet to come.
one must wait until the evening
when the shadows trail into the past
to ponder what has been done.

 

54/365: walking on water

the downpour on the highway
is partly recycled, kicked back up
by the tires of the cars in front of me
and the 18-wheeler clinging to my left
as if we were Siamese twins.

the mist skirts each of us
and it seems as if we hover, tireless, on grey spray -
our taillights like afterburners.

indeed we are barely touching the ground,
the water coming between us and the earth
is as close to walking on water
as mortals come.

there is no secret to walking on water:
if we could only walk fast enough
the surface tension would never break,
and we would not sink
into the dark waves
but glide along,
the lights of our afterburners like shooting stars
along the firmament.

53/365: empty space (published in Mindful Word)

empty space

thinking of a bell, with it's great hollow -
the emptiness is where the tone happens,

tongue swinging from side to side
as a boy pulls a rope far below.

the difference between a hammering
of metal on metal
and a call to reflection and community

is but the shape of the empty space
and the tongue that occupies it.

52/365: running on old trails

running along the Brazos
in the twilight before dawn
there is a misting rain
and this is a moment
when the fairy world
blends with ours -

I can hear the earth
drawing in breath
as her sun cracked skin
is eased.

there is an old man
setting three fishing poles
in stands, their lines already cast
into the darkness

as I pass him I hear
"man is made for destruction
but not defeat."
it is in Cuban Spanish
which of course I can understand
because this is twilight
and the path I am on
runs between worlds

but I do not know if these
were the old man's words,
or if it was just the wind
and the rain
and the sound of my feet.

today when the sun is high
I will go to the house of a scholar named John
and we will speak of the past
and we will speak of the future

but I will be thinking of the fish
who were tempted.

of unearned gold (published in See Spot Run)

you must cross the river twice
to return home I am told
if you wish to gamble everything.

the first crossing is always easier
and is merely
          (as if this were in fact some small thing)
a matter of assertion.

when you return
the river is always drowning swift,
black deep,
and sky wide.
you cannot swim and must pay to cross.
I am afraid I will have no coin for the bargeman.

will you lend me enough for my fare?
he does not take coin of this realm
and I have made bad investments,
lived beyond my means,
and spent all my gifts.

press it beneath my tongue
so I don't forget it
when I set out on the journey, and
so I am quiet and thoughtful
with the taste of unearned gold in my mouth.

(published in Nov/Dec issue of "See Spot Run")

50/365: cutting (published in Mindful Word)

cutting

along the bank of the river
the water eddies
and minnows sparkle,
but this is not where the river
is about its secret business.

I want to go down to the cutting bottom
where the same water that plays along the shore
cleared away the bones of the dead,
pushed aside settled sand and silt
millenia before Christ was conceived

where the same water that laps tentatively
by my shoes
has been chiseling at rock
with jackhammer inevitability,
making its deep way.

with the time I have
I will leave my mark on the world
until my waters run dry
and the fire consumes us all.

which of us said that? I wonder
turning away from the fish
and back up the worn trail

**

audio: 

49/365: invocation

take me to the place
I cannot go alone

(who am I invoking?)
(where am I ask you to take me?)