16 April 2011

dreaming this now, part one

    part one:

    hiroshima to fukushima

please turn off
    all electronic devices

please be sure to help us
sincerely consider the

this may require specialized equipment or

it is not necessarily obvious to us
if we are incapacitated
by hunger or

please retain all rights to the
next set of challenges
now taking refuge
in the details

o, ancestors! who never
wanted it to turn out this way.

you fly over
the world at night and
you see
there below you
the glow

of this or that town
industry, too.

there's more than a few disasters
making the rounds

if we put the last thing broken
on the scale
our images will fall
into place

this has been coming since i dont know when.

ask any mofo turkey for a real piece of pie and
she/he will tell you the right thing.

we call this the end of time, oh yes and

lets talk about it
for about
another minute

and then?

we wake up
into the dawn of this perfectly
fine day -
soon terns barking, geese

the insistence of the surf
on the shore
is a constant that
        can't be divided.

we see the moon pull her this way
and that
and we say yes

yes we say oh.

option f:

madman predicts:

End of the World (as we know it)
the ten thousand circles of yellow light
    in these few blocks alone
    moon looking with her eyes
down on the dead 
and the not quite yet 
now praying to carved
demons on the cornices
of this civil despair,
city-lit gulls like
demons on the street corners,
as glazed and worn
as a pad on a brake.
    blogging into the stratosphere!
    to the very top!
against our own

we can look back to
these years  - each fish
to the top of a lake,
white-bellied and bloated,
as black birds fall.

now poems so
large they got
whole modern cities
and all of their beings
burned to the ground -
blowing in the wind. 
as if such was a
suitable fact
for a poem.

these two guys are standing at the bar
one leans back:
        'enola gay? -
i think she got married and moved away.'

(we might each have secretly longed to sit
where the captain sits. a fantasy of power
is as common as mice - but that's not
where the action is.)

this particle breaks as a wave
and dives.
those five gulls flying south
above the crest of the dunes -
and the loon crossing over from
the bay.

this is a story of westerlies
and tides.
and a modern lament:
how do i outrun the sky?


step into the wave, she
steps into you.
the ocean says,
that's why.

the ocean says these and
    those and this and that and
        each little and big
live thing.

the ocean says
as long as
the deck of a ship
and the sailors all slide
down - down to the sea.

    listen, while you sleep,
    to the
beat of her nearby heart -
open your window to the
rhythm of the surf
and you'll see.

sanderlings evade the last of each

no one expects the ocean to think
that another wharf will
make the world
go away.

the ocean is just the ocean,
she says.
(as) she sees it,
the ocean is

she says rolling in, she
drawls pulling out


you can hear in the
slip and slide of the
wind and the sea
on the grasses
and the pines
and the lupine
and the dune,
the crying of gulls six
hundred miles away, and the
amplified string of a
distant guitar
and the hum of the land as we
sail through space.

you can hear the world knock
as persistent as a

you can step close to the sea and wait and
the wave comes. that puff of wind blows
the last bit of foam against an exposed
bit of ankle - a tingling surprise, a
sparkling breath. you find yourself awake
in another of these moments, singular,
alive and more frequently seen, that occur
without  passing and leave no residual