Still Working

nothing pleases the snake more than
calmness beauty devotion to art love
play third way completes the picture

Dan in Ha Noi Julian in Taos closer
than here Steve acknowledges missed
messages still working on his days off

nothing matters more than plugging
away at my book put in corrections
revision may actually make it good

Gone Again

who are real the actual
humans in my life the
characters in fiction I
read or write people
I make up imagining
all they do think feel
newsworthy forces
or the ones I dream
the far away or dead
alive then gone again
emotion can't count
the difference slight
to me if not to them

On Work

Getting anything done requires attention to one thing for a sustained time. Think of video editing, how much you have to look at and keep in mind, how many large and tiny judgments you have to make on the basis of nothing but attention, how slow (mostly) and relentless a task it is, necessarily—larger or smaller according to the size of the project, obviously. It's the same with writing a novel. As soon as I turn to it, it comes back to life (wakes up) and I start making progress; but I am reluctant to turn to it, indeed procrastinate, because I don't want to narrow my focus: I want to stay with my own thoughts and feelings, stay open to the moment, be more not less mindful of my actual existence. At the same time the rapt experience of working, narrowing in, then opening up within the focus, is itself precious and uniquely satisfying. It's a relief to stop all that flitting about for a time, settle on a twig, and look closely at the bugs behind the bark.

Who Knew

as you didn't know I was coming
you didn't know I didn't come

my mind was not fully made up
so I hardly needed to change it

nothing much happened instead
but at least I didn't rush around

Too Much

I teeter on the verge of being overwhelmed by the size and complexity of the world—huge buildings, teeming cities, terrestrial nature, proliferating words, bombastic music. Why is there so much? Why is everything so confused? It is like a fabric but in multiple dimensions beyond warp and weft. Inner life is a maelstrom of hormones and enzymes, submicroscopic lightning and insulation breaks. There is too much to think about, infinite detail, finite body and mind. Reality is a bottomless lake. I am the world and less than a speck of cosmic dust.

New Life

granddaughter arrives timely "perfect
in every way" says her father my son
magic telephone connects happiness
a new life begins everything possible

Clean Dishes

in full panoply nay regalia we can
acknowledge the day is now done
night has fallen why go on about it

the midnight snack is eaten milk
drunk everything already happened
still trying to describe convey show

colored sheets clean dishes sweet
kisses dream friend letters video
books can't hold all our delights

whom do I thank for this sudden
ripeness beyond thought or just
dessert following a varied meal

Remind Me

all right I'll do it
remind me again
unresisting gladly

what's that you're
what I expected I
couldn't imagine

Shakespeare then
a long drive home
stories everywhere

Bruckner chickens
"Downton Abbey"
warm to the night

New Clippers

crazy pattern fallen multiple extreme
differentiates being into fragile shards
most precious finest distillation breaks
cleanly crystalline shimmer meaning
we have come this far this direction

what else is there simple still exists
knowing better even if we can't do it
ourselves new clippers less well made
admire participate relish excellence
beyond the further edge of sane belief

Days Awake

Schopenhauer nails it in "The Wisdom of Life"
in the clearest prose tells the essential truth
reminds me what I already know lack words
and fortitude to say or even think for myself

still I do in halting steadiness stumble along
untried but trying aim at value in proportion
inner daemon principal contender real life
days awake dazed nights of peace or dread