the soft green of a desert canyon slope
in spring
after a well watered winter
and the cold swift stream
of the mountain melt
bubbling through the rocks and roots
like truth rushing away before you realize
it is gone

a tendril of thought
in a spiral
through time
same places
different times
arching curves
patterns of life
dancing round each other
barely touching

influence all that follow
 
 

25 March 2001
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cinnamon laden semiotics
and strong coffee
loop back to reinforce the point
that you must think
recursively

think like i do
think like i do
think like i do

not what i do
but like it

enjoy the tangle of discourse
elaborately constricting what you posit until
it bursts forth
exploding like thought
into a fractile structure
that might be everything everywhere
or not
as everything is connected
and there are no closed systems

women have always known this

walking around in circles
between thought and flesh
life and death
repeating pathways
over and over
ever different
like the light on the mountains
or shadows on a naked breast at twilight
takes you to new places by old paths

in the night sky
through time
in the arctic circle
or afghanistan
amid the beat poets
the process of deconstructing process
was yours
before the nuevo vague
deconstructed absurdity
beyond the semblance of reason

i like to think about how
the why is always problematic
informed by the when
the where
and the who

who knows
you
 

march 2001
 
 

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it seems so simple
the past is past
and now is now
ribbons of connection
surface
across the time so vast
faded in the sunlight
flutter only on a tattered breeze
of a thought and moments passage
where willows have grown and shaded
what were marshy sun soaked banks
their awnings of remembrance
obscure a foggy visage
a limberlost dream
until your smile cast a memory
of what never could have been

a simple reflection
of possibilities unlived
as the clock chimed the hour
and all was left unsaid
 
 

jan 29 2001
 

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no one left to tell me there was laughter
 

time perplexes me
it was
it isn't
it is  memory
when the attic door opens
all i see is dust
gathering softly
rebuilding the layers i disturbed

finally facing the pain
i walked into places of the past
looking for memories of another
and saw you looking back

memories of you
ended with tears streaming hot
and salted into unhealed wounds
sabotaging tenuous links
but answering age old questions

when a memory fall in the woods
and there is no one there to share it
it makes no sound
 

30 May 2001
 

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