2/5/11


From small speck of stardust to wondrously sentient
Revolving and spinning in space
Waking and sleeping and yielding to gravity
It starts to show on your face

Millions of forces of physics and providence
Teamed up and brought us all here
Waking and sleeping and yielding to gravity
Pointless to measure in years

Out in the desert your thoughts are as clear as the stars
You feel golden
You're billion year old carbon.


2/1/11




Hippolyte Bayard's Portrait as a Drowned Man, 1850. 
Apparently the world's first photographic self portrait. 

8/12/10

Lizbeth Gaizo described herself to me as an "unarriving traveler." She made fun of the ridiculousness of her innocent belief in good fortune, but never failed to acknowledge that her nomadic wanderings rewarded her in a way that no confirmed armchair traveler could ever imagine. 

8/6/10

Old Woodrat's Stinky House

Us critters hanging out together
something like three billion years.

Three hundred something million years
the solar system swings around
with all the Milky Way -

Ice ages come one hundred fifty million years apart
last about ten million
then warmer days return -

A venerable desert woodrat nest of twigs and shreds
plastered down with ambered urine
a family house in use eight thousand years,
           & four thousand years of using writing equals
the life of a bristlecone pine -

A spoken language works
for about five centuries,
lifespan of a douglas fir;
big floods, big fires, every couple hundred years,
a human life lasts eighty,
a generation twenty.

Hot summers every eight or ten,
four seasons every year
twenty-eight days for the moon
day/night    the twenty-four hours

& a song might last four minutes,

a breath is a breath.

-Gary Snyder

" ' My project,' he told us, 'is to learn where to go by discovering where I am by reviewing where I've been-- where we've all been. There's a kind of snail in the Maryland marshes-- perhaps I invented him-- that makes his shell as he goes along out of whatever he comes across, cementing it with his own juices, and at the same time makes his path instinctively toward the best available material for his shell; he carries his history in his back, living in it, adding new and larger spirals to it from the present as he grows. That snail's pace has become my pace-- but I'm going in circles, following my own trail!" 


-Dunyazadiad, John Barth 

7/13/10


"Do you see it yet?"

"No," I replied, "I am certain I do not, but I see how little I saw before."