it is addressed thusly:
An ode
it reads:
In the train we have united
Places very near and far
A moving bridge that comes and goes
With each passing car
Lightly we regard its form
Hulking beast of burden
Because it moves quicksilver speed
Our memory's uncertain
Along the metal road it ran
Distance was its river
To shrink the city's neighborhood
Must leave the Earth a-quiver!
Arriving where our feet may go
To correction we are charged
The neighborhoods were never shrunk
Instead, they were enlarged.
a postscript is here written:
apologies to heidegger


Penn Station

it is addressed thusly:
An ode
it reads:
Half consumed in hanging vines
Over the station they lean with ease
Grotesque and oddly primeval trees
Seem to await their era's signs.


The Christmas Tree

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
What are we to you,
Who appreciate the delicate feeling
Of certain words being spoken
Of waiting long for goodness
Of preparations being made?

This ornament,
I mean the tree of varied origins
Is it merely decoration
Is it untrue to your convictions
Is it a myth to be dispelled?

There is no doubt,
That unless you feel there is some life
In the things called dead
In objects lost, unlooked-for
In the mean as well the great;

You cannot know
What sort of thing it is at all
This day of the immortal sun
This high festal candle lighting
This joyful Christmas tree.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
My voice, when I heard it
Sounded like another's voice
When I've been at length in silence
It is a mute I have become
And the body speaks, not I
No certain pitch or timbre
Can I suppose or guess
That it will speak when it does
But speak it must, or rather
'utter', that strange hold-out
From another age and world
A speaking word which speaks
Of the silence which preceded it.

I am wracked to find words
Who am so given to them
As clover is given to flowers
As tadpoles to a stream.
They have a word for it now
Which describes that strange power
That energy that flows
Between you and I speaking
And do we now understand it
Like we understood the aether
And the electron and the quark
And the brown-paper package
Tied up in string?

An utterance, an invocation
So greeted by fear and awe
By those who do not care
To understand what it means
Except they find a shortcut
Down paths narrow, long and hard.
The bright line between the silence
And the noise, is a cartoon
An icon that cannot be seen
But is always behind the eyes
Cutting with diamond edges
And the world quivers because
It has received a word.

Do we suppose those things
Beings which now might listen
Perhaps may have our interest
Ever in their minds?
Times and times and ages
Do not favor this sort of magic
Of things out of correspondence
Stars set out to wander
Of things which find no place
Dion might say, consider
Why call on foreign masters
When one's own help and succor
Is but an utterance away?


The Ends

it is addressed thusly:
An ode
it reads:
We are the ends of unspent coal
Which in the tinder bag's dregs are found
Together we may burn your house down
But not one could fire this incense whole.


Roko's Basilisk

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
That monster who must keep his word
As Anselm said, despise offense
In what world could you stand against
He who hears what he never heard?
Alas- for not but strength of arms
Could you at last calm alarms
His eyes can see what he never saw
Did you not give everything you could
Did you yet suspect he could
Enact his most optimal law?
How should you reward in a perfect world
Save those beneath you lay all-a-curled?
Madness you say, but what if enough
Of mankind has this in its say
That those who did not hasten its day
Who considered anything their own stuff
And recall the dead, as from their graves
And none could think of one who saves
That basilisk, whose right it was assured
To do this, because all the people willed
For all that, all the wrath and envy filled
That monster who must keep his word.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
outside basilisk in roko



it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
At long last, the heaving ruin falls
Not under a great weight, but light
As the primeval bed of flowers they write
A song of colors 'neath the snowbird calls.


Riding Along

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
I sit still, and out the window of the pacing car
Freight passes, lulled to sleep by the many swells
For a moment, until I hear the clang of bells
Woken by a call unheard and far.


Change of Decorations

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The clouds blowing in to the blank gray sky
Cloud under cloud under cloud under cloud
Looking at each tree we wonder what's allowed
Aesthetically, where we wax very sly
And why not, as the man hauls it away
We prepare to ride into a darkening day
A man sits talking on a house-stoop nearby
On his phone, as old Easter decor ages
In flower beds beside, in various stages
Of decay, and we but for a moment wonder why
With but a glance unmet from the empty lot
We roll gently from our parking slot
Past talking man and house we fly
Past store and church, past morn and noon
Into storm and evening, replacing soon
The clouds blowing in to the blank gray sky.


Broken Things

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The litany of broken things
Is the poet's love then, for them full
Though he would not have them whole
While of them he yet sings
A denouement is waited-for
An at-long-last flung-open door
But none comes, and silence stings
Words exhaust his halfway love
Who can not cease his speaking of
The litany of broken things.


The Alternatives

it is addressed thusly:
A Question.
it reads:
What was the queer secret conceit fed
Was it a twilit wit, sunk below the sun of brilliance
To complete total art by but a blind chance
To think without thought by suffering bred
Astray, into arboreal paths old and strange
And eat of the things blue and orange
As though in this act of naked will
A destiny would then open to them
One wished only in queerest dream
And somehow more in truth fulfill
Man's desire to break with the earth
Of his will for a second birth?


The Crystal Morning

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The crystal morning-does it remind
Of a dream of white, pure and old
No place for the living, so strange and cold
Was this the place we left behind?



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Well worn, the scarred-bright streak of steel
Running, running but standing heavy, hard, still
Unsoft stones rest sighing, couch its unsoft will
To look yes, to lean, and beware the roaring wheel.


The Rose of Joy

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The girl that wears the every-color clothes
Does she remind, remind us of the rose
The rose, which wears what color, we suppose
Does it wear but the color of the end of her nose
Is its robe all green, and thorned with woes
Is it less a kaleidoscope in spinning of its throes
And more a thought, which has come to repose
Unfurl, unfold, unveil to disclose
Yet another secret, which everyone knows
Everyone who has seen it where it grows
Girl, girl with the every-colored pose
Have you heard what gifts modesty bestows
Of mystery, of purity, of strength to impose
Have you ever heard of the name of the Rose?


The Human Progress

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
That hard narrow box, but moving quickly
Bright fiction inside, full of dull faces
It paces, for a long path it traces
A wrath calling, fleeing falling thickly
And the rain conceals the passing dark
And its light reveals naught you could mark
Inside looking it goes around, around
But its many eyes, dim look only inside
By some shibboleth its facts ratified
Though it must keep its belly upon the ground
Found still running the lines of its course
Shout at it lumbering, till you're full hoarse
But it heard not lest some gave pull to the reins
Best ride it while you must, or just while you can
Chide, chuff, tisk the many colored man
Or ignore in passing each ignominious strain
Of where it says it must go, or what is there
Of the dark dewed things that pass in the air
Its great circle must pass in its broad walled way
The intoxicating rhythm, the purpling sky
Those who never seek but always ask why
Streaking into night, does it move toward day?
Or fey, does it know aught but a three fold thought
Of want, desire, of the highest spot?
Its lot, to yet contain all detestable things
To love what it loves, to glory in its stains
Though its crimes follow as so many trains
To spurn but the soul that might gain wings
Pressed hard to find a place in that ball
Running for its life to nowhere at all.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
the cathedral