From: Sonic Blink

Movement Twice Removed

You squeeze dreams into the crease of your elbow, the
way a nurse presses cotton on a vein. It was the
falling you hated, the girl draped in white tumbling
into a hole. Living had become such a habit: sit,
stand, walk, look, write -- leg meets hand on lap.
Subtract motion in the first line, and begin at the
moment when moths and dime-sized finches float in
rooms, smelling of sour milk. This is a tidal wave
coming and going for fifty years across a mountain
where ground is covered with spoiled plums and hard
pits that hurt the soles of my feet. To illustrate
collaboration you open your mouth and a sparrow flies
out, hangs in the air, frozen like a marble carving.
The silence was a footprint falling a great distance.
Someone important said knowledge is between Sixth and
Amsterdam and correspondence is an alley with no power
lines. The child in the parking lot, who refuses to
separate geometry from basketball, listens to a tree.
You try to remember the woman who spent years knitting
on the porch, planning the tours she never took, and
the man who tells a fib, flinging the fork to the
floor. But there is only Alice, clutching the rabbit
in a nursery with three Buddhas or Beethoven-like
babies eating the flowers off the wall.

A Method of a Sweater

Contemplating elongated objects, she translates
sensation into a large block of expression.
Interpretation goes unnoticed like the period after
Dr. and surrenders to randomness, the whole
crepuscular dream, the snow white. There is a chance
for satisfaction, though temporary, like savings or
eating, or meaning something because symbols are
cymbals making noise. What I mean is everything is the
same, but of course everything is not the same. It is
so easy to doze, connotation sheltering the structure
of everything. An empty can rolls somewhere in the
dark between an angel who bows down too easily and the
small boy who reads "The Walrus and the Carpenter" in
a lighthouse. Can nature's participation be one way of
looking at dogwoods or nasturtiums before they
politely drop away? The woman, holding a lamp looking
in a mirror, mumbles to herself as if weaving excerpts
from an autobiography; one person could disappear into
that page. What I want to know is, what is the
equation of sleep divided by the taxing authority of a
man hammering a sixteen-penny nail, and could you
reproduce a childhood where Dick meets Jane, Sally has
her pets and everyone gets the measles? The pathos is
so small like the index of one waiting for maximum
exhilaration, or patience in a waiting room. An image
suspends between visitations and private experience,
while she, already involved, knits a hidden pocket for
the fallen gesture.

From: Kind in Glass

3.
Error fractures the well-worn path with fallen
pleasures, descending from a sigh in the woods to a
sign on the corner. Grass erodes tar as wind railroads
blueprints, endearing enduring diversion. Yet we
measure and adjust in an effort to avoid the flaw,
helplessly summing up thoughts from fifty years. "Life
is maintainable," she says coming across rows of
tulips in a flower farm. "Look how night rends in two
leaving geometric miracles before truth." The
difficulty lies in the fact that you cannot understand
it from here. There is no there. There is no
difference between right and wrong; "worst" is
relative and you are next. Morning comes insisting on
prey and the world consumes. We fold at the knees and
drink from the chalice because Death Valley's
landscape must be a mistake. Hundreds of species of
plants, including orchids, thrive in hostile
surroundings on the verge of combustion. Living and
dying is circular. Who can figure it out? You will
notice to the left, an abandoned gloryhole -- a mine
entrance in the short-lived town of Skidoo. Above,
Lonesome John rocks on the porch of his smithy where
he occasionally gives tours. Does this convey a world?
Carpe diem. What happened to the chorus of chromatic
vowels lulling with a moon and slices of silence?
Imagination loosens and expands in the fecund gap
between language and point of view, while limitation
dilates future. We change despite ourselves, altering
our perspective by fostering new semantic pastures
that store angles of the Rockies with angels in the
fog, although results are not altogether happy because
we fill the theater with our preoccupations. Art is a
selfish act, making diversity the order of the day.
Does that mean anyone who bellyaches is representing
someone else's good time? Recognizing the drama in
every situation, I understand the world as a stage and
introduce the gravedigger in Hamlet to Ratzo Rizzo in
Midnight Cowboy. Eventually, I favor my blunders to
the security of the expected, and stumbling over old
dandelions, twist and shout in the joy of being pulled
in many directions as seeds in constant
reconfiguration lilt across the page.