AD.

WALKING ON THIN ICE

WHAT IS THE THIS OF THIS?

WHAT IS THE THIS OF THIS?

Where is the keening of my senses?
Where is the keening of my ears?
How and When and Where of it?
What and Who of it?
What is It?
Is It?

The answer’s asking, asking again
rapping on knuckled doors

Doors exist
What do they hold in and out
How do they let us in if
they are sometimes shut?

The nature of a door is sometimes shut
The nature of a door is sometimes open

An umbrella is an umbrella
A tent is a tent
A sky is the sky we all share save for
peculiarities of geography
that change the frame

But the air’s still there

The air they breathe
is the air we breathe
The bathwater they piss in
is all of our bathwater
The they they are is we
We are the they
The they are we
Us + Them = We
I + You = Me

Lady

WE HAVE TENTACLES

WE HAVE TENTACLES

we have tentacles
extending into the immediate
not only the capsule of skin
tentacles that mix
and throb and meander with
the immediate

innumerable tentacles

innummerable tentacles
permeate into our skins,
our cells
ultimately and immediately

every tentacle
is connected
to every other
tentacle

the thickness of it
is that it is clustered

skin is abstraction
for a bundle of will
a bundle that seems to bump
itself around

eyes, legs, hands, mouth
allow the bundle to move
through the greater mass

it is sticky, the bundle,
pulling itself through this
mother mass

this is what we perceive of
as separation

separation
clumped together again
with gravity…

I pray
and it casts a net of will

tentacles
into this greater mass
of information

I pray
for immediate perception of
connectedness

everything is so simultaneously logical
and illogical, simultaneously banal
and miraculous

the banal part
is mostly the grind of ambition
of getting through the day well
and the miraculous
is the empirical stuff
that I observe “around” me
signs and sounds

it would seem
it should be the opposite
that the mind inside this shell
should be where novelty resides

and everyday sights and sounds
should be not so novel

but I look at our breathing
tail-swagging cat, and hear
the river of traffic outside,

and I know it is an orchestra
and a ballet

and the permeating song
of crickets outside
the lush August sonic carpet

it is thick, This

the carpet of sound
is thick and humid
it is fabric cumming
into my perception
that by handling with mindfulness

I either tune in to
or it tunes in to me…

I focus my ears, my eyes,
my attention and it is a machine
that becomes keener

the volume and quality
pulls itself together
by my tightening attention

Lady