The Kitten Mug; A Chronology


I sip from the mug with kittens on it,

And recall what you taught

Me, the slow learner;

The mug is just sand

That once was rock

Chipped from the crust

As it withers into the ocean,

Having emerged from magma

Scant millennia ago.

So too the mug is descending,

In to pieces, in to dust,

Dancing around drifting stars

In grand, listless expulsion.

I sip from the kitten mug.

It is

Neither half full

Nor empty,

But broken

On both sides of now.


Artistic Concerns


There are only so many
(‘bout a quarter of a million),
Most of which are obsolete
Or beyond my comprehension.

Blessed is the remainder,
The swirling at the bottom,
The backwash, the last few
Vibrant leaves in autumn.

What if I use them all?
The tank (dry and broken)
Endlessly repeats the same
Words already spoken.

What if nothing new forms?
The tank produces, yes,
Strangely familiar shapes of things.
The perceptive detect the jest.

They notice the form dances
And loves, and rots, and careens
In much the same manner
As things they’ve often seen.

They come in droves, knocking,
Grey shadows on my mind
Who want to know the reason,
Would have me turn back time

To vast creative landscapes
Where nothing’s been before,
The inner frontier (my neurons)
Just waiting to be explored.

What if, instead, I wait awhile
For inspiration to appear,
For clouds to part impressively
So that my purpose is made clear?

Meanwhile the numb starts to spread
As others drain the pipes
Of all potential outputs
(The fruits of labor are past ripe).

I’d refrain from mere lucidity,
Taste freedom, let it flow
Over the rim of commitment,
Where thoughts are known to roam.

Or maybe I could hold them
In a closet, in the back.
That way they’re safe for later,
Waiting (patient) for attack.

Although perhaps too desperate
Are those held silent in the wings
To be combined intuitively,
Convey the countless things

That they cannot contain themselves,
Hidden beneath the bed;
The bottled words are bursting,
Begging to be said.

Nor will I ever, can I ever
Hope to know them all.
In terms of storing our creations,
Our skulls are rather small. 

In which case, I do confess,
My worries are unfounded;
Our capacity is minuscule,
The possibilities are unbounded. 

And what more, when it’s time
(if such a time ever might occur)
To wrap up the devouring,
New terms will have emerged.

For every one consumed,
Three more fill its place.
Like vacancies in the infinite,
I cannot keep up pace.

Chase the inner turning
Gears of voluble expression.
Allow me to touch the mists
Of beauty, humor, and intention. 

Though (I realize) I musn’t grasp
The twinkling, formless moments.
To tap the pipe beyond the tank
That runs through us is my torment.

So let me settle it (here and now);
The task is far beyond me.
But I must attempt somehow
This daunting, madman’s reverie.

made of stone


made of stone
or at least
tethered there
parting air
second split
woe or no
matters not
let us go
so you take
my mistakes
and retrack
all the loops
and their holes
forge a way
here to stay
though they pass
cause i laugh
for a while
sandy smiles
drift in turn
edge of you
circle square
fan at night
numbing feet
promise me
that you see
baggage racks
and the lack
of the man
in your hands

The Silent Pylon Speaks


No inherent meaning here,
Nor inherited purpose
From early, neon pylons
(Conditions could be worse).

At least I’ve found stillness
On the parched concrete,
Plopped on clods of soil,
Catapulted through the deep.

Just what I’m indicating
Is never always known,
For very few perceive me
And their opinions are their own.

To him (boy in quiet cage)
I’m a symbol of absurdity –
The rubbish of the dispossessed
Preserved now, momentarily.

When my form’s uncovered
By life just speculated
They will guess incorrectly,
For function’s doors are gated.