Saturday, December 31, 2005


When I have walked out to the sea surfing and spuming into meerschaum heaps of lettuce-tinted gauze —breakers becoming light then noise, the ocean raging and rearranging this long spit of sand like a lifeat the mercy of circumstance — I saw the north wind drive trillions of sandgrains to scour every last traceof what the previous tide had done, and gulls snatchhuge clamshells from the swirl and smash themto get at and gobble each salt, soft-bodied helplessness at the heart of its own broken home, and I felt caught between water-violence and the gulls' patience,between shifting ground I stood on and the thunder-turbulence of water, between a slowly disappearingceiling of cloud and the blue sky-cupola it leavesbehind, between titanic ocean-roar and the ticking heart.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005


There are a huge stream of signals coming over and beyond the horizon of the universe. We are still in the first stages of understanding this kind of knowledge and figure out its implication as a whole. Only with the advenament of radioastronomy (in the last fifty or sixty years) we were able to recieve them and codefing in a big network of computers. With the development of radioastronomy, scientists all over the world created a computer web as instrument of survilliance. But the horizon is plug with millions over millions of signals from all the spectrum of the radio frequencies. Henceforth, we need mathematics and technology in order to analize and sort out the signals. Anyone who wants to decode the numbers that hide inside of the signals without being decieve by them needs critical thinking as a powerful tool as well. It is easly to get confuse, though. Thus, we had to use another important instrument which is require to be employ in this process of survillience. That special tool is skepticism. The power to doubt about our first impressions. An enourmus task is infront of us if we want to build this very skill. Thinking about it, I got the idea that the only real way to do this is through honesty and hard work. Hablilities we learned in our primary years of our lives.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Raining around...

A morning after a week of rain and the sun shot down through the branches and into the tall, bare windows. Today is a beautiful day. The sun shines bright I do like to play. The brindled cat rolled over on his back, and I could hear you in the kitchen grinding coffee beans into a powder. I love to see the leaves dance. To the music of the wind. The spring back and forth. They stand tall then bend. I think I'll go for a walk I'll let you know what I see. The birds in the air. A dog chasing me. I love the feel. Of the wind on my face. I love being alive. In this glorious place. I smell roses and cut grass. And food on a grill I tingle with joy I just can't stand still. Everything seemed especially vivid because I knew we were all going to die, first the cat, then you, then me, then somewhat later the liquefied sun was the order I was envisioning. But then again, you never really know. The cat had a fiercely healthy look, his coat so bristling and electric I wondered what you had been feeding him and what you had been feeding meas I turned a cornerand beheld you out on the sunny deck now running in place—knees lifted high, sking listening, and that toothy, immortal smile.

Thursday, September 29, 2005


The mossy transom light, odors of cabbage and ancient papers, while Father Feeney polishes an apple on his tunic. I tell him I want the life priests have, not how the night sky's millions of departing stars, erased by city lights, terrify me toward God. That some nights I sleepwalk, curl inside the tub, and bang awake from a dream of walking through a night where candle beams crisscross the sky, a movie premiere somewhere. Where am I, Father, when I visit a lifeinside or outside the one I'm in? In our wronged world I see things accidentally good: fishy shadows thrown by walnut leaves, summer hammer heads whomping fire plugs, fall air that tastes like spring water, oranges, and iron.

"What are you running from, my dear, at morning mass five times a week?"He comes around the desk, its failing flowers and Iwo Jima inkwell, holding his breviary, its Latin mysteries a patterned noise like blades on ice, a small-voiced poetry or sorcery. Beautiful dreamer, how I love you. When he leans down, his hands rough with chalk dustrasp my ears. "You don't have the call," kissing my cheek. "Find something else."

On the subway home I found a Golgotha air of piss and smoke, sleepy workers, Cuban missiles droopingin their evening papers, with black people hosed down by cops or stretched by dogs. What was I running from? Deity flashed on the razor a boy beside me wagged, it stroked the hair of the nurse who waked to kiss her rosary. I believed the wall's filthy cracks, coming into focus when we stopped, held stories I'd findand tell. What are you running from, child of what I've become? Tell what you know now of dreadful freshness and want, our stunned world peopled by shadows solidly flesh, a silted fountain of prayer rising in our throat.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005


The flower pod, green-white, hand sized, bloomed at night. As the dead increased, the world of objects seemed more dense, different from when our child-days draggedor a sunflower's face, which, once arrived, was heaviness itself. And it was different fromparenting, when days were thick, years thin, or a poppy with a stem. There were more cadences ascending and descending nearer by. We saw one of us not reachthe hand-sized pod before it broke into the mouth of an ordinary night, though the hand reached toward, as if a touch would enter it, end it, or as though by touching what was strange there was relief in being plain, or one might love to cause an opening as when a blade cuts under blades of grass, or words are said, or if a mouth opens another mouth. We saw the hand fly back, the trumpet petals curl. It was perverse to be afraid; when the scent began, one leaned in again.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Time runs sidelongs

Our daydream decelerates our own spinning planet one millimeter-per-second per century until we have matched velocity with it and can stride into our lives and live again — a matter of eons, nothing to them, so patient, since the massed wish of all the dead is only the slide of a hem across a floor, or the difference on your face of milder air. It is their fate, they murmur. It is anyway their way to shun the theatrical or gothic gesture. They would not rattle chains if chains could hold them. It is the wind, so much stronger, that slams doors. They are heard, if ever, in the dramas of your dreams where you cannot tell still voices from your own, intervening, if at all, in the neural substrate, shunting a lone electron maybe or maybe not. Theirs are evasive and oblique persuasions, stone by stream, for example, snows on outer planets, undetected constants haunting physicists, eddies where time runs sidelong or remembers. Their delight is yielding, wind within the wind, to faint velleities or fainter chances, for they find among death's consolations, few enough, the greatest is, to be mistaken for what happens. When your eyes widen, they are surging to observe the evening's trend to mauve, and all you have chosen so slowly you are unaware of choosing. And you may feel them feel, amused or touched when your blunt patience emulates their own, when you sense, like them, all fate might well be focused in the exact glint of a right front hoof uplifted, when you wait, as they must, for that crisis of precision when it will make all the difference in the worldwhether a particular petal's side-slipping fall hushes the rim of a glass, or misses.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Smelling a heaven pearl...

It is a ring of simple petals. In a single surprise as if saying, this is not what I expected. It is color in one shade that doesn't flinch but meets what fate hands out. The slender stem broken and placed in clear water in clear glass, so that there are no more days outside. Near round-faced green petals and there are no bees and no seeds to form. And the earth that seemed so certain always right below is gone. And all it seems to say is I see with my one way of seeing that I will live what life I have left in someone else's house.
Remember... pain is as frost is to some plants: it strengthens them. Pain is very important in the transformation of a person.