From Water Every Living Thing   Wednesday, March 02, 2016

This is week  of water as the dominant  theme for my photos. I didn't plan it that way, but since that's how it came to be, I went looking for a water reference somewhere in literature to title the post and came up with this from the Koran - "from water every living thing." Being from somewhere where water is not always so easy to get, the quote strikes a deep chord with me.

New poems, old poems, library poems, nothing  revolutionary going on here.

leaf blowers, the sociological and theological implications  of

Wistawa Szymborska
I Am Too Close

admiring the dark

B. H. Fairchild
Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower  Midwest 

as long as the road runs ahead

Jane Kenyon
No Steps

habits of mercy

John Ashbery
Involuntary Description
You Spoke as  a  Child  

budding time

John Hughes 
The Blackbird

what I'm supposed to be doing

The Feminist Photographer (or, Camera Obscura) 

when Einstein met Bergson

Paul Auster
Song of Degrees

I sleep too much

Eugenio De Andrade
In Praise of Fire
The Art of Navigation

when I meet someone

Lawrence Ferlinghetti


             how did the doornail  die and how old was it at the time               

First new piece  for the week.

I hate these machines.

leaf blowers, the sociological  and theological implications of...

leaf bowers roar and the
swirling product of their intrusion
breaks the morning calm

churning in  the air
like a hurricane is passing

Buddha's peace of acceptance
thrown to the wind
by the Protestant Ethic's demand
that we push against the disorder of autumn leaves
forsaking their trees

of a more Zennish nature
hunker down
Calvin's disruptive impatience with our world

First  from  my  library this week is a poem by Wistawa Szymborska, Polish poet, essayist, translator and 1996 winner of the Nobel  Prize for Literature. Born in 1923, Szymborska died in 2012.

The poem is from the book, Poems New and Collected,  published in 1998 with translation by Stanislaw  Baranczak  and Clare Cavanagh.

I Am Too Close

I am too close for him to  dream of me.
I don't flutter over him, don't flee him
beneath the roots of trees. I am too close.
The caught fish doesn't sing with my voice.
The ring doesn't roll from my finger.
I am too close. The great house is on fire
without me calling for help. Too close
for one of my hairs to turn into the rope
of the alarm bell. Too close to enter
as the guest before whom walls retreat.
I'll never die again so lightly,
so far beyond my body, so unknowingly
as I did once in  his dream. I am too close,
too close. I  hear the word hiss
and see it listening scales as I lie motionless
in his embrace. He's sleeping,
more accessible a this moment to an usherette
he saw once in a  traveling  circus with one lion,
than to me, who  lies at his side.
A valley now grows within him for her,
rusty-leaved, with a snowcapped mountain  at one end
rising in the azure air. I am too close
to fall from the sky like a gift from heaven.
My cry could only waken him. and what
a poor gift: I, confined to my own form,
when I used to be a birch, a lizard
shedding times and satin skins
in many shimmering hues. And I possessed
the gift of vanishing before astonished eyes,
which is the richest of all. I am too close,
too  close for him to dream of me.

I  slip my arm from underneath  his sleeping head -
it's numb, swarming with imaginary pins.
A host of  fallen angels perches on each tip,
waiting to be counted.

Here's the first this week from my 2010 book Goes Around, Comes Around.

admiring the dark

the dark is
staying dark
longer every night

as July
heads for the back door
and August

stamps its fiery little feet
out front, waiting...

I enjoy
the dark in the morning
eating breakfast

by the big window,
looking out  to the dark
of night waning,

the new day gathering
in the east

just a hint,
a bare  little shadow of light

almost  lost in the ambient glow
of clouds softly-lit
from below

by the city's  night
clouds always glowing

from below
in a city of a million and a half people
fearful of the dark -

porch lights
lit all night, motion lights
flashing bright

with ever rustle of leaves
by the wind,
every twitter of a bird -

street lights,
security lights, night lights
that let us sleep

in semi-dark, certain
that whatever  lurked
outside the luminance  we wrap

around our sleeping body
will be as  frightened
by the light as  we are by the dark

and  will stay
away - it is the way
we have lived the dark

maintained the flames

that kept us safe at night
from the earliest history
of  our kind...

sitting in my well-lit cafe,
typing in the glow of computer electrons,

I admire the beauty of the night
while looking past the dark
to each pool of light around me

calculating the distance between pools,  clocking
how quickly I could race the dark  from
one bright pool to the next

if I had

Next from my library, a poem by B. H. Fairchild, from his book Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower Midwest. The book was published by W.W. Norton in 2003. This is the title poem from his book.

Born in Houston in 1942, Fairchild earned his degrees at the University of Tulsa and the University of Kansas. With a number of books published, he also appears frequently in literary journals.

Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower Midwest

In his fifth year the son, deep  in the backseat
of his father's Ford and the mysterium
of time, holds time in memory with words,
night, this night, on the way to a stalled rig south
of Kiowa Creek where the plains wind stacks
the skeletons of weeds on barbed-wire fences
and rattles the battered DeKalb sign to make
the child think of time in its passing, of death.

Cattle stare at  flat-bed haulers gunning clumps
of black smoke and lugging damaged drill pipe
up the gullied, mud-hollowed road.  Road, this
road. Roustabouts shouting from the crow's nest
float like Ascension angels on a ring of lights.
Chokecherries gouge the purpled sky, cloud-
swags running he moon under, and starlight
rains across the Ford's  blue hood. Blue,  this blue.

Later, where black flies haunt the mud tank,
the boy walks along the pipe  rack dragging
a stick across the hollow  ends  to make a kind
of music, and the creek throbs with frog songs,
locusts, the rasp of tree limbs blown and scattered.
The great horse people, his father, these sounds,
these shapes saved from time's  dark creek as the car
moves across the moving earth: world, this world.

My birthday was last  Friday and I  spent much of my poem-time last week thinking about it and approaching it through my week's poetry.

as long as the road  runs ahead

birthday coming up,
a week to think about it

and I  will, because
this one unlike others seems irrevocable...

I do not dread the advance
of time and time's inevitable denouement

because it's like what Darrel Royal
used to say - you got to dance with the one who brung you

and the years have "brung" me
much that has been satisfying, rewarding

me with memories
I would not trade for any extension

of years spent dull and dreary,
without the pleasures that come with things done

people known, places been,
even the mistakes  as real in  my mind

and as important tome as all the times
of  smooth and proper sailing...

this life, like a ocean, the deeper the better,
stagnant  ponds where life is encrusted with the waste

of never doing, never trying, never flying,never falling, never
choosing a  fork in the road, a dull life of sitting

at the intersections of life
afraid to move, afraid  to choose


I will think more of this in the days ahead,
and, as always, as I think, I write...

my conclusion now, well,
wait, this story not yet  ended

as long as the road runs ahead,
there will always be horizons to reach for...

Next, from  her book The Boat of Quiet Hours, two poems by poet and translator Jane Kenyon. Born in 1947 in Ann Arbor, Kenyon died in 1995 of leukemia.

No Steps

The young bull dropped his head and stared.
Only a wispy wire - electrified - kept us
apart. That, and two long rows of asparagus.
An ancient apple tree
blossomed prodigally pink and white.

The muddy path sucked at my shoe,
but I reached the granite step, and knocked
at he rickety porch door.
Deep in the house a dog began to bark.
I had prepared my Heart Fund speech,
and the first word - When - was on my tongue.

I heard no steps - only the breeze
riffling the tender poplar leaves,
and a random, meditative moo
behind me...Relieved, I turned back
to the car, passing once more
under the bull's judicial eye ...

Everything was intact: the canister,
still far too light and mute,
and metal boutonnieres where they began -
in a zip-lock plastic sandwich bag.


All  day the blanket snapped and swelled
on the line,roused by a hot spring wind...
From there it witnessed the first sparrow,
early flies lifting their sticky feet,
and a green haze over the mountain...At dusk
I took the blanket in, and we  slept,
restless, under its fragrant weight.

 Another from my book, Goes Around, Comes Around.

Written in 2009, this poem particularly meaningful today, my 72nd birthday.

habits of mercy

I was thinking this
of what I want to do
with the rest of my

and decided
it's the same thing
I want to do
with the rest of my
day -

my wife at least once or twice

some good food

some good poems

a nice nap

with my better nature

and forgive myself
for all  recent sins, known as well as
secret, even to me

easier for some
than for
others, those

with no true love
to kiss

no food to

no  bed for

no poetry
in their soul

with no key
to unlock the door to self, their
true self as unknown to them as
a stranger passing dark
on the street

and most difficult of all for
those who can't find within
forgiveness of themselves

ego-obsessed creatures that we are,
sinners almost form out first thoughts
if we cannot forgive ourselves
how will we ever learn to forgive others

and if we cannot forgive others
how can we ever live
in this world
that needs cleansed hearts
as much as it needs clean air and water

habits of mercy
are what will save this world;
human sins
by human sinners

Next from my library, a couple of poems by John Ashbery from his book Where Shall I Wander, published by Harper Collins in 2005. Born in 1927, Ashbery has published more than 20 volumes of poetry and has won just about every prize available to a poet, including the Pulitzer Prize in 1976.

Involuntary Description

That his landscape  could have been the one you meant,
that it meant  much to you, I never doubted
even at the time. How many signifiers have you?
Good, I have  two. I took my worries on the road
for a while.When we got back little cherubs were nesting
in the  arbor, below the apple tree. We were incredulous,
and whistled. The road came back to get them
just as darkness was beginning.
the comic and the bathetic were our interior.
The kept integers at bay, and, when it was over,
toasted a little cheese to  prove it never happened -
It had been reflected in a needle by the road's side.
The lovely sandlot was purple or gray.

Sometimes I think it's all one big affectation.
The forty jars, each holding its thief, draw closer
to me, trying to eavesdrop. But the only sound is water
dripping in the last millennium. I try and say it too;
you are glad it's over, except for the ton of sleep
and the half drams that people it -people you knew,
but they weren't those people, only figures on a beach.

You Spoke as a Child

We sat together in  the long hall.
There was  something I'd wanted to ask you,
a new mood I was after. Something neither posed nor causual.
Outside under a slappy sky the leaves were right on.
They're our own skeletons. And slack was the tautology report.

They don't have bare beds. The children here are as
hunted rabbits, and don't think goo much about what comes after.
A suffocated prince summons the septuor,
celestas wax dim and bright in the distance,
what was meant to be distance. You spoke out of the margin.

Continuing with the theme of the week, birthdays and aging. Not a very good poem, but the way my mind  was working.

budding time

a group of six poetry lovers
at our regular Wednesday evening
spoken word gathering last night,
one a writer who read her own  work
and the others who brought favored books
to  share...

all in their twenties, late-twenties
I would say, and watching
and listening to them  reminded me
that among the bubbles we all live in
are the bubbles of age,  among the
mystery of us are the mysteries
of our time, each with our different
time, times mostly passed for some,
for other times still budding...

here's a confession I hesitate to tell,
but even being one myself,
I don't much like hanging out
with old folks, most are spent, their
lives down to the change in their pockets,
their stories most often less than what
they think they are...

though I admit it is nice sometimes
to have people to talk to who remember
times before the Donald and frustrating
to deal with younger people who know not
of kings and princes, of times of war
and times of peace, of the price of bread
before wheat became gold and cows
grew silver udders and of Denture Cream
and all the little pink and white pills before
bed and again when we rise...

and I though of this last night watching
and listening to the young poetry lovers,
realizing that from what I know of  their lives
they could have been a band of Australian
Aborigines trekked in from the outback,
and how I, to them, am equally alien in the details,
alive, as they are to me, mostly in the cliches
of the time, historical oddities somehow still fallen
into space we each had thought our own...

and here's the crux of the problem,how to find the
detour that can get us all around the unsteady bridge
of generational  divide, a way forward
that's not just about what they can learn from me
(and oh how we oldsters are always so ready
to teach them) but also how I cloud
learn from them if I had the willingness
(which us oldsters so often lack) to look
closely and listen with mind's ear open
and eager...

all the mysteries explored,  all  the bubbles
coming together, their thin, soapy walls
melting, welcoming each bubble to become
a part of the other...

how can this be  done, where does one start
to learn the enigma that is the other
and the mystery of their lives?

maybe poetry, like last night's sharing...

but also patience, for mysteries are never quickly
and easily solved, the open mind of a poem required
and he patience of a slow-blooming

understanding each of the other, and through
understanding, a greater appreciation of all the
unexpected possibilities of life, budding
in time like the flowering of April pastures
when the day and the place is right
for rebirth and regeneration...

Next, from his book Birthday Letters, a poem by Ted Hughes. The book was published by Farrar Straus Giroux in 1998.

The Blackbird

You were the jailer of your murderer -
    Which imprisoned you.
And since I was your nurse and your protector
    Your sentence was mine too.

You played at feeling safe. As I fed you
    You ate and drank and swallowed
Sliding  me sleepy looks, like a suckling babe,
    From under your eyelids.

You fed your prisoner's rage, in the dungeon,
    Through the keyhole -
Then, in a single, stung bound, came back up
    The coiled, unlit stairwell.

Giantpopp faces flamed and charred
    At the window, "Look!"
You pointed and a blackbird was lugging
    A worm from its bottleneck.

The lawn lay like the pristine  waiting page
    Of a prison report.
Who would write what upon it
    I never gave a thought.

A dumb creature, looping at the furnace door
    On its demon's prong,
Was a pen already writing
    Wrong is right, right wrong

This is an end-of-the-year poem from Goes Around, Comes Around.

what I'm supposed to be doing

this is the time of day
when I usually demonstrate my
bonafides as a poet

by poeticating
on cue
and t;he problem today is

I can't remember
if a cue is a nudge
and a wink

or the long striker stick
used to re-position
colored and numbered balls on a
green-felt table

in a brisk game
of pocket

- pocket  pool
I would have said  but that
is often construed

to denote
another game
entirely -

which complicates things

since I'm not sure
if I should start writing  now
or amble

over to Fat Annie's
for a pick-up  game of

which reminds me
of several
good pool-playing stories

I could write about
if I knew
that's what I was supposed

to  be doing
at this exact minute,
but since I don't know

I won't write anything,
but that's okay
since I didn't want to  write

a poem this morning
but if  Fat Annie's is open

this early
I might just resolve the question
by connoting that's  what I'm

to be doing...


there is the moon
hanging pale

like a sliver of shaved soap
in the dark night-tide
that cares nothing
about my poem
or any lack thereof

Again from my library, this poem is by Sapphire, from her book Black Wings & Blind Angels, published  by Knopf in 2000.

Better known by her pen name, Ramona Lofton was born in California in 1950. She is known both as an author and a well-know performance poet.

The Feminist Photographer
(or, Camera Obscura)

The smell of sweat & leather climb up my nose as I
mount the splintered stairs in blue jeans & cowboy boots.
I've never seen another woman in this gym,

asylum for black men,, boxers, glistening brown tan eboyn
skins I peel back for a closer  look at bad teeth & califlower
ears rotting in a single room  occupancy. I zoom in
on shiniy black tits, chests wide like land & thighs
big around as my fucking torso. All that power & no money
no camera. Some of 'em can't even read.

These guys don't mind me taking their picture.They like me.
When they see me they say, "Hey Erica."
I trap discontent's greasy meat in photographs
I blow up and & attach to huge placards that hang like
dark pendulous lips on the marmoreal faces of museum walls.

"Hey Erica," he makes a lewd gesture with his tongue. "when
you gonna let me take a picture of you?"
The gym turns to laughter, my cheeks burn red.
I look at his big black bodyi cut to perfection, his face smashed
flat & so ugly it's beautiful. I raise my camera, fix him in my

sight, then his hand drops down, he exposes himself & starts
to masturbate slowly, his pupils narrowing light as he focuses
in on the camera's dark eye. I  press the shutter down,
command my feet to move but they don't & I'm trapped
with him inside this thousand dollar black box & I'm ten again

moving  down the white washed steps to the basement
into the den's damp smell of cement & leather furniture.
Papa sits under the hot blue light of the projector
I can't see what he's looking at. There is no sound.
"Erica." Papa's vice drops over me like a slimy net.

"Come here," he commands. My legs,little pink, hard  as
lollipops, propel me forward. Outside his pants like a rubber
duck in the bath Papa's penis bobs in the light. I turn
to run but am seized by hundreds of naked bodies on the screen
huddled in a large gymnasium, shaved heads glowing -

radioactive alabaster stones that  roll
frame by frame  till they come to a man strapped down
with no sound screaming on a metao table where his intestines
are being wound like thread around a huge spool The smell

of leather engulfs me as Papa pushes me down into the ever-
lasting black center of silence, his eyes conjoined with the
as he rams his penis into me again & again, finally
covering me with the sweet sticky stuff of life.

I read some science thing and, being a science fiction fan since I was a kid, the fact that I don't understand most of what I read doesn't stop me from playing around with it.

when Einstein met Bergson

Early in the twentieth century Albert Einstein met French  philosopher Henri Bergson for a discussion about physics and its meaning. The French man, much better known at the time than Einstein, did not  arugue with the physicist's theory of relativity, only the relevance of it to greater understanding. The theory, Bergson said, was only the theory of a clock,saying nothing about  the meaning of the clock relative to time and nothing about time itself.

Einstein was  dismissive. "The time of philosophers does not  exist," he told the audience. His theory, he said  was not about a clock but about the relativity of time and space. Among the implications of the theory is the merging of time and  space into a single four dimensional whole called "space time," that contains not just now-time, but all time, including all that has ever happened and all that ever will  happen.

Time not a progression of discreet  event,s but a box of all events, that is where Einstein's math led  him, and where now with each validation of his math we find ourselves.


I went to the grocers
to buy a loaf of bread
but stumbled on the farmer
growing the wheat for the bread
and myself again spreading peanut butter
and jelly on the bread I was just now/then/when
buying and saw there my wife, a new born
suckling at the breast of her mother, and the
box within which I lay, and the mourners forgetting
me as I bought my bread and ate my peanut
butter and jelly, spilling jelly on my shirt
as I bought it at Walmart and the poor man
who bought my jelly-stained shirt at Goodwill
and I think I will go back to bed and there I
am sleeping in the box, while the farmer
harvests the wheat and I eat the bread
while I watch my wife
suckle at her mother's breast while I  lie
in my box forgotten as the four-horned
natives of Alpha Centuri throw rocks
at my two-legged ancestors
and the beat goes  on, somewhere
here and someplace else, the clock ticking
while the Frenchman rolls his eyes
and Einstein throws the dice...

The next poem is by Paul Auster, from his book Collected  Poems, published by The Overlook Press in 2007.

Auster is a author, poet, screenwriter and film director. A graduate of Columbia University, he has a very large body of work in all media and genre.

Song of Degrees

In the vacant lots
of solstice. In the light
you wagered for the rubble
of awe.  Sad heaps:
retched into prayer - the distance
in your name.

You. And then
you again.A footstep
gives  ground: what is more
is not more:  nothing
has ever been
enough. Tents,
pitched and struck: a ladder
on a pillow of stoen: the sheer
aureole rungs
of fire. You,
and then we. The earth
does not ask
for anyone.

be it. So much
the better - so many
raked and murmured along
by your Bedouin knees, will not
conjure you home. Even
if you crawled from the skin
of your brother,
you would not go beyond
what you breathe; no
angel can cure you
of your name.

Minima. Memory
and mirage. In each place
you stop  for air,
we will build a city around you. Through the star-
mortared wall
that  rises  in our night, your soul
will not pass

Another poem from Goes Around, Comes Around, this one written at the beginning of a cold, wet winter day.

I sleep too much

another cold, wet morning...

cars on the interstate
poke their headlights
through the mist
like a baby kitten,, just-
born and blind,
groping with her nose
for the fur-nested
of her mother's teat...

I will go  home
after breakfast, take
my own comfort
in the cold and wet, asleep
in my recliner,  old cat
on my lap, if she wishes

- I stepped on her tail
yesterday as she ate
and she is still not certain
I can be trusted -

if I felt better
I would go downtown, walk
the river, soak in the rain and the murk
and mystery of arched stone bridges and the
wet rustle of running water and lights, dimmed
and half seen and the occasional passing
bundles stranger, appearing/disappearing
in the gray mist...

but still I suffer the grip
of nose  drip and hack and will sleep
through the morning instead,
rocked to the rhythm  of the slow
drip, drip on the window ledge by my chair,
a deep sleep, dark and still, un-dreaming sleep,
sleep without dreams, a sign of age
I think -

I sleep too  much
and dream too  little and cannot
rouse myself to the mysteries of the

Here are two poem by Portuguese poet Eugenio De Andrade, translated by Alexis Levitin. The poems are from the bilingual book, Forbidden Words, published by New Directions in 2003. Born in 1923, poet and translator De Andrade died in 2005.

In Praise of Fire

A day
of utter sweetness comes:
everything burns.

Light burns
in the windows of tenderness.

in the bright
labyrinth of whitewashed walls.

Words burn,
the purple shade of ships.

The wind,

where I have a house
on the edge of autumn.

The lemon tree, the hills.

Everything burns
in the utter sluggish
sweetness of the afternoon.

The Art of Navigation

See how the summer
turns to water on your breast,

and the night turns to boat,

and my hand to sailor.

Still on the birthday think.

when I meet someone

when I  meet someone
I say howdy-do
and they say something
like how are you
and sometimes I say
amazing, and sometimes
I say awesome, and
sometimes I just say
then add a little joke,
like the farmer is out standing
in his field, I say
and sometimes I get a
chuckle, most often i get a
groan and I don't care, cause
getting old ain't no square
dance party, if you want to
do-si-do you got to do the "do"
yourself or you're going ot be
unrequited and I'm much
rather  be requited, remembered
even if only for silly jokes,
you laugh, you groan, either way
I know I was there and I stirred
the air around me enough to cause
even such a casual disruption
to the world as that...

it's about getting old, you
just have to work at it
if you want any chance
at staying old at

Except for Sapphire, my library poems this week have been pretty straight, to liven things up a bit, I finish the library poems with Lawrence Ferlinghetti, he who must be the last surviving original of the Beat poets. The book is from the seventh  printing in 1958 of his  classic, A Coney Island of the Mind, published by New Directions. I discovered the beats in the late fifties and that's when I bought my copy of the book. I think it cost me like 35 cents. In all the moves since it  gradually came apart and  disappeared. So I have now a copy I bought at the second hand book  store for nearly ten times more than it cost the first time I bought it in the fifties.


The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in doorways
Moons on trees
The dog tots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog  trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn't hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San  Francisco Meat Market
He would rather  eat a tender  cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he  goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit's Tower
and past Congressman Doyle
He's afraid of  coit's tower
but he's not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young do likehimself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be puzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own  dog's life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit  of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
                              democratic dog
engaged in real
                          free enterprise
with something to say
                                     about ontology
something to  say
                              about reality
                                                     and how to see it
                                                                                  and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
                                                at street corners
as if he is just about hot have
                                               his picture taken                     
                                                                         for Victoria Records
                                          listening for
                                                                his Master's Voice
                           and looking
                                               like a living question mark
                                                                              into the
                                                                            great gramophone
                                                                           of puzzling existence
                      with its wondrous hollow horn
                                 which always seems
                            just about to spout forth
                                                                   some Victorious answer
                                                                             to everything

This is another winter poem from Goes Around, Comes Around which, since I haven't mentioned it yet, is available, along with my other eBooks, wherever eBooks are sold.


a new  year
just a few dawns

one rotation ending
as another begins

within circles
within larger circles still

as our moon
bringing dark to light
night skies,
as our earth turns,
bringing day to night,
circling our sun, bringing
singing birds of spring, summer
meadow flowers,  tangy taste
of autumn leaves,
chill  winds that blow
in winter,
even as our sun
and all its brother-sister stars
on the universal axis
of everything
we can know, for now
but maybe not for always,
as we may someday
know of other circles, turns,
there are that now
we cannot see
and the All we  know
will  grow again
and we, in our knowing,
will  grow again
even as we shrink  ever
smaller in the everything tht is -
circles within circles
even larger circles still...
it seems we're just running in
we say, and

how true and grand that

More of the same.

how did the doornail die and how old was it at the time

Harper Lee is dead
and Umberto Eco and Justice Scalia
and many more, I'm sure,
that I don't know about, all dead
as the proverbial door-
whatever the hell that is
and whatever it is how did it die
and how old was it when the end

 and Ursula Andress is 79
years old
ad that can't be because
the last time I saw her she was
on a beach coming out of the surf
in a ikini with a knife in a sheat
and long  blond hair and a lean, tan
body and there is now way she can be
79 years old and more important, if she
is, what does that mean for

and how did the doornail die
and how old  was it
and questions like that especially
about how Ursula Andress
got to be 79 years ld
and when is her doornail
due, and hwat about
mine and
just thinking about all that stuff
gives me a pounding

(maybe that's how the doornail passed on)

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:


Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)


New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer

  Peace in Our Time

at 12:09 PM Blogger davideberhardt said...

some great photos- others not- you need an editor (like me)
i mean- a photo of a battle ship?

please do not bother printing poems by Ashbery- he is a creation of the critics (as was Warhol)

ted hughes also lite weight

by the way i thot of a funny today
by mistake instead of "comments"
i wrote "vomments"

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