Theres been a slippage,
slow ricochet into blear, as if
History refuses to reveal its presence in the scheme, its
Eternal being in that verg
Tangled bindweed in the debris of what has occurred.
Acres of fact occupy the
No-mans land I had hoped to explore.
Grass is not greener there, but it grows
Like crazy. And its so hard to find the stepping stones.
Elsewhere is a long way away.
Dust crackles there and I
Believe the fountains have gone underground
In the time it has taken me to get here, which is
Not near at all.
Every step becomes more demanding.
Sequence is the crux of the game despite
Talk brewing in the marketplace about chaos,
Entropy, black holes, and the like.
Meanwhile, I must not forsake
Scrawls on my slate
Scores of music I
Cant hear any more,
Or wont listen for because Im afraid to
Relive those old mistakes.
Everywhere there are rhythms to be
Drummed, notes to be
Thrummed in this incurable
Hiddenness, but how does one get in when
Entry seems always blocked?
Surprises, no secrets, at least not for my
Kin, not in these fin-de-millennium years when no money buys
Yesterday and tomorrows rage storms today, rife with the dark.
Reprinted with permission of Tupelo Press.