tra

ma


so fragile this question

of place
and time

so fragile are we

when placed between the catastrophic
quietness and waiting

waiting

memories are weights upon residual buoyancy

clasp to this moment
to these words

enough confusion that comes from simply not knowing

not knowing

or knowing

that things take their own course regardless of how we help it along

reckless

waiting

fragile

holding vigil to the inevitability
of what…?

holding on

clear in the mind, the image of love

it is not a sacrament
against any number of well worn truths

fra-gile
reduced in this crucible

it would only be sad if we refused to live
regardless
of truth and beauty and the disparate warmth
offered by a hand out stretched

there are no words for this
only raw waiting

fragile

so fragile

but so incredibly strong

for TB
9/25/07

Ø≠Ø

you asked me if I ever had any reoccurring dreams
I answered yes but did not elaborate
the moment was constricted by the hand of confusion and sorrow
it's too bad as I would have answered you this:

I fall in love in my dream
the woman is never the same but the feeling is
and in the morning when I drift into consciousness
I am still in love with that ineffable spirit that came to visit me

still in love
like the morning light
it washes upon the barrier of body and soul
it sweetness permeates

still in love
we are drifting unmoored
away from a familiar embrace
no
drifting implies a gradual disillusionment
no
this was more like being shattered awake
by a sudden
indistinct tragedy forcing itself upon sleep

the bed is empty
you are gone
and confused longing tears upon me

and though I am angry at our failure of companionship
I can not fall into hate for this would be like hating myself
this notion will not hold
for by falling in love
you believe in kind of supreme compassion
and lingering warmth in the connectedness of things

this is nothing new

in search of an unrelenting truth
sometimes it is easier to tell one story to the self
that is altogether different than what is actually occurring

it is easy to be convinced of sweetness
of affection or intimacy
yet those things are often a seal upon a jar
where the true joy of life is hidden
that ineffable spark glows and snaps
but like a firefly held in captivity
eventually it will sputter lifeless to the bottom of that jar
and becomes part of the crust of all things

some think that the spark needs to be held tightly
under view
that it's energy should be rationed because
somehow it feels finite

but that is not true
rather the opposite
the jar must be opened
the spark allowed to arc from it's cage
it will grow with life and intensity if allowed to roam through the world

you are now that spark

and though
there is still an etheric haunting
for the things I wished to have shared with you
I know you are gone for the right reasons

morning is here again
and perhaps I feel a little older
a little more dissolved into the spirit of the world
and yet
I still have this feeling of love
though truncated
and dwindling
it is still a love worth remembering
like all those other dreams

softly across that canyon
the wail of a coyote
struggles against the steely breath of dusk

in the west
clouds gather like conquering heros
the sky punctuated with molten patches
slowly shuttering itself into the night
there is only moments before the light is gone
monochromatic
before the storm breaks

and I take a turn in the path
down where mostly the four legged traverse
across shattered shale and limestone
the brush smelling of sage and rare gin
I wouldn't dare walk here on a warmer day
only to be greeted by less friendly coils of rattle

I climb higher to a small outcropping
and above
a hawk
frozen in equilibrium
a still life against the shattered sky
the spell finally breaks and she drifts along the transparent spine of the world

what is a measure of man?
his deeds of recognition
his successes scaled against the whimsical blur of human nature?

no
I think the best measure of man is his sorrow,
his quiet failures
his inability to succeed

for all the places we wish not to go in our lives
somehow,
pain etches the lines of where we fall
neither short nor long
these boundaries define us more completely than anything else

standing on this outcropping
as the light fails
the wind comes up
and the frayed sky kisses me softly
sweet pin pricks until the deluge

and I realize that this is my grandest failure
that I will never get beneath the surface of the world
not enough to know god
to hover like a hawk
to sing like the coyote
and I know this is who I am

as the sky cracks open
I am comforted by this limitation
for on this stone
I see where I can not follow
and I turn against the rain to find my way home

3/10/06

I think
I finally figured out my predilection for the color
orange

a few years back I saw a sunset
where the sky stretched from a deep indigo to a thin line of saffron on the horizon
and in that great sheltering sky
the juxtaposition of blue to orange became the inherent energy of anticipation
dawn to the day
dusk to the night
the sense of possibility stretched out before in an admiring table

the sweet moment before the kiss
infinitesimal
liminal lips
barely touching

is this light

knowing that very soon
everything must change
transmogrify
like love upon lust
I give myself over to anticipation
that sweet shattering of one moment to the next

the brightness of orange
vibrates with this universal love
and I wear it like a sacrament
radiating with sweet desire
and true possibility


NYE '05

I've been up pretty early the last two days and caught truly spectacular light on film. so for your viewing pleasure go to:

homepage.mac.com/vordo/PhotoAlbum29.html

I am a sucka for a booty well shaken

be that it may
a shade of a cliche
but when it comes down to it
be it some holy programing shit
or a biological imperative,
the booty shake gets me goin'

lest you say that I am only a voyeur
I have to say
I am not afraid to get my sweat on.

in the 80's we said the spine was the bass line
now it's the mainline
between me and the eternal now
the shimmer and shake that connects two points
that aren't really separate at all.

really
I am a sucka
for a booty well shaken.

12/05

well, I've finally fell off the anti-blog band wagon. I guess I want to leave some more intentional digital footprints that the one's thus far. sure the abstrakt-zone was pretty intentional, but this functions on smaller, though in some ways grander level. so here it is: I promise not to post drivel here, though some of my writing is that, it will mean something - at least to me if it makes it on these pages. having said that there is no specific agenda but for one:

over the years I have written a number of poems triggered by the singing or stinging of my heart. these murmured communications generally are private expressions to the object at hand. but now I feel compelled to compile. I make no claim to their worth other than an emotional catalog filtered through the past. other than that I simply want to collect these in a singular place.

of course I'll post other things as well, this space isn't necessary devoted to personal poetics.

oh and it is also an excuse to show some pix I have taken...

migrating south
down by the water front
I am reminded of the physical map of your body entwined against mine
was this simply a cartography of lust?
or was the journey deeper than that.

etched upon the skin
the contours and shapes of one person to another
locked by geographical formation
and freed by tectonic shifts

I became lost with a lack of understanding
of the landscape that I was traversing.

and now at a distance,
the rough edges start to mellow
and there is a haze brought on by the late afternoon light.
and I think about the objects accumulated in travel
and how you leave a little bit of yourself there as well.

returning home feels a little like a dream
not to wish for the memories past
to become true again
against this geography
I am writing future maps
with the hope of not losing my way again.

10/03

eyes mostly closed
ruminants of dreams scattering
she says
lets keep it liminal
the door way
between two worlds barely touching

perhaps
remaining in that state
neither awake nor asleep
we could stalk the secret pathway to love

rumi commands
that you must ask your what you want
his words about the dawn are
supreme liminality:

_____the breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you
__________don't go back to sleep
_____you must ask yourself what you really want
__________don't go back to sleep
_____people are going back and forth across the doorsill
__________where the two worlds touch
_____the door is round and open
__________don't go back to sleep.

the sleep from my eyes seems old and used
I am not refreshed from the night of dreams
that only make me think
of lost identify

where is the purchase?
that love that I so wish to have?

it lives within the liminal truth
that tastes sour
upon the door of consciousness.
and since I am the fool for my own wishes
back to sleep I should crawl.

wake me when you can
but better yet,
never mind.

11/05

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don't speak often, please post a comment with a memory of you and me. It can be anything you want, either good or bad.

When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people remember about you.

I stole this from da mongolian...

a bunch o'burning man photos...

hypha
people
things (including images of the ill fated la conetessa wreck)


homepage.mac.com/vordo/PhotoAlbum26.html

homepage.mac.com/vordo/PhotoAlbum27.html

homepage.mac.com/vordo/PhotoAlbum28.html