Waking, at times the world seems a trick.
An angel locked in granite.
A yellow jacket sun poured like stone onto
All these things go by like a drunk searching
What were we before we became? How do we know
the past fragmented world, Dali’s mad dreams?
Then there are the blue mountains, dusty trails where
we walk with weak hands, think of Picasso’s
History does not exist till read in books,
viewed as entertainment with the evening’s
We do not exist except as reflected back through
media: glossy covers that tell women how to have
the best sex, men how to rip a sixpack, as though
these are tender mercies needed to fill up days.
How then is truth.
There is always the mist, fog before us but what
How thin is truth.
Not found in greased gears, clacking cogs.
Perhaps the Iroquois song in God-scented
Lakota love of plains grazing buffalo.
Spring is ambiguous but fall the fullness of
mystery taken as an unrequited lover,
where sometimes a diamond tipped carbide
blade is needed to cut into the core & see
what is hidden, whether there really is a
kingdom of fog, of rain, childhood astonishment,
of a spreading cinematography rolled out through
the mind, of Constantine’s Cross & Mr. Hyde, of
Mara Corday & Marilyn & Mamie, all tossed
together like a restaurant salad, snapshots through
the lens we spy, mere fragments in a fragmented
To know that there is nothing to be
Known—not Ecclesiastes, not women with bare
feet, not the sun before dawn or the moon before
winter or a bird husking the last autumn seed—only
blank loneliness cradling us within its spell.