when you called to me

i could not refuse.

you told me tales

of desire and regret.

you set me on fire.

what could I do?

you said it means

nothing in the end,

then you embraced me

in your sweet sudden arms,

melting matter, just a trace

of melody.

i would have thought to

know that song of surrender

after all this time.

The beauty of things amazes me
The intricacy, the specificity,
The lack of yearning.

Quiet now by the sea
After days of urban chaos.
How politely the tide rolls.

You can be the hurricane
And I can be the calm
At the center of it all.

all that time
wondering
does absolute exist.

great unknown
is not the great unknown.
simultaneous.

little balls of light,
memories of fire.
stage is set.

and there goes.
the drama, the deft softshoe,
cant be still.

face to face,
self to not,

charmed by the rythym
of the yet to be,
dazed by the sound
of our names,

wheels
inside of wheels
inside of wheels.

one place,
then another,
the wave collapses,

the ultimate is ordinary.
seed bears another seed.
all is well.

i will build a castle

where we can

live out our days.

i will sing my

song of adventure.

of course i can never

repay you,

but i will sing to you

of truth and light.

i will find an island

where the water is warm

but restless,

where the night is calm

but deadly,

where the sea is charged

with protein and spark,

where god is in

every eye, and

all beings share

in the love of the maker,

and every

organ grinder monkey

has a peanut to hide.

The Dreamland Drive-In is no more.

It stood at the end of the River Road,

near the Clorox plant and the Nashville Club,

near the dusty urgency

of Mission Memorial Hospital,

where many of our friends were born.

We lay awkward in the back seat,

sweet really, breaking Mama's rules

and Mama's rules,

where the night drifted to the horizon

and the moment was forever.

We knew, I guess, that the river was poisoned,

and the juke joint was riddled with ammo,

but the Dreamland was ours,

pure as your cotton dress,

certain as Bogey and Bacall.

I go to the Dreamland

when I need to remember you.

this humid southern night,

thick with fireflies

and conversation,

chases the day's heat

back to the sun.

crickets, warbling nightbirds,

Ms. Hamlin's violin,

harmonic

in the soft blue.

Janie all flirtatious,

sap rising in the teenage boys

on the torchlit deck.

Granny Baker made

a blueberry pie.

in this insignificant

infinite momentous

nothing moment

the universe breathes;

first this, then that,

one becomes another

in the holy night

as the cattle find

a sleeping spot

and a cardinal

fills his void

with the song

of space and time.

she ordered pancakes

and syrup

(nothing else)

for breakfast and, oh yeah,

some tea

(passion fruit)

relating nonstop her

weekend in sturgis,

or reliving the

sydney olympics.

she really must go,

she's already late

for mastermind,

and yoga at noon...

she's so busy

i'm tired.

how gracefully

this fallen angel moves,

arabesque and stately,

deep as night.

strong as a friend i met

many lifetimes ago.

she wore alpaca.