is what is unknown waste? if a book of words, known only to a few, waits, is it being forgotten, buried? does time make what little is known of something be less known until it recedes into the unknown altogether? if a book of words is buried by time is it waste? if a book of words is known by many is it merely appropriated? if something has been appropriated, has it been taken up, gathered, saved? if a book of words has been saved, was it in danger of being lost before? is a book of poetry appropriated waste?

pendulum pulses not mechanical now electrical tiny bottled hidden currents

this now is time

time fires off as nothing other than a dying star now

and so the pendulum is imperfect in its swinging

and the eye feels this imbalance in a shadow on the wall

or time's shadows are made timely by clouds moving in moving out

or the sun cuts through clouds calling shadows to my eye

turning into time attention

12:51

he says it is mirror time

so, time is aware of itself as having self?

well, time reflects itself

no, time is folding in on itself

while reading about the origins of pac man this morning, my poetic mind dropped its jaw. iwatani created a game knowing that we tend to chase ghosts of our former selves around, mirroring a kind of labyrinth of selfdom. however, if we just stood still, these ghosts, although put in motion by our momentum, would continue on like an object in space with no gravity to yield them, save a corner or a wall that they might happen to encounter which will only serve to bounce them into another direction, and any direction at that. how strange to think that these former selves, these ghosts, are seemingly autonomous, that they need no direction and take no real direction from us. the connection we have with them is an illusion, reflected or made manifest in the corners and walls of the maze of selfdom we have constructed. iwatani, thank you for reminding me that it is i who has been in hot pursuit of some ghostly mazed-in self, if, for nothing else, the sheer cyber encounter of it all.

a true treeear

revels in compresseding of stillness

amidst the cuttings, how

and, who could truly fell this ear?

Saturday, noon

a fearful flight is one made in search of sea and sky when one is sailing through it all already as a ship that bows to any body of water and then offers its stern to surrounding air to sigh

Saturday, 1:14 p.m.

first morning in a drop of rain rests

always there, the rest

the restfulness of all the rest of our nights

so, here lies all the rest of our light

in a stardom skydom, dawning in dearness, now uponing

comes dawning our yearful of ear

Sunday, 9:11 a.m.

if the night,

then the morning, a brightening sea

now, believe night into what is lost

then hope to lose sight of it

if morning dawns,

then the white sails of our eyes, a brightening

Sunday, 12:00 a.m.

Drifting shadowcloud of a minutehand

rolls over wood fibers, startles my sight

into the first object bought in a country

not my own, but stayed for years

in this clock.

Can it show the ticking of a year,

of years coming lately back?

The hand of a minute now

absorbs this country.

How a minute hand carries

with it no shadow at all.

Community is too syllabic for us to remember.

Our memory helps us forget within the word what we share after

and then our sense of belonging at first

a book on a roof

now

only the wind reads

it

the pages know when

turns

perhaps a name

whitewashed, open, turning over

a history

not mine, its, ours

in the wake of some quake

will we stay the sunset

or sail the sunrise?

when i break a word open it is to keep from being alone

though there is no home in one word alone

a little summer comes late too early

what ear hears

to the ground

cherries are lanterning

what word seeds itself

if neither bird nor soil wants it?

what language grows

ripe above ground

less silence

for the speaking, only

mid of some night

i blur back on words i

thought(s) were mine to raise

sometimes, the plot of community

from unnatural page comes unnatural ringing forth

to love my machinery without wanting it to be a part of

june spoon poem 1

Hey, let's tame the tundra.

We'll have a flicker of a find

trying to time our absence out there.

But, where will we signal a wick to flicker forth all our debris?

Let's be occupants of our own boat.

Look! There's the print of our hearts and a nail sailing in the snow!

How did that get into the room?

I don't know, but if our hands are certain, we can spell our names onto the bed of a board

and hang it on that single tree over there.

I think they will continue to signal themselves in the world.

I hope they can help alter the skies.

mayday poem 3

here, seasons are weathered into one day

what is cloud is fog is cloud

and can clog the light

but light is what we count of day

and day is time that is fall and also springs

mayday poem 2

i'm listening to what you are saying, can't you hear me?

but, i read your hands before i hear any words

sometimes, your hands move so slowly

so i might begin to speak with your eyes

i think that when i near your mouth i begin to hear it speaking sounds

strange to think that we depend on sounds which come from so cavernous a place in the body

causing us to distrust our eyes and hands which are ever in our sight

mayday poem 1

a voice wails outside an oral culture

when the second syllable came to my ear, i had already forgotten my name

as eyes stitch together the forgettings

words are called into naming --

for a short life