picking up deadwood

after a long winter
picking up the deadwood, revealed.
entertaining guests
who had left me to the snow.

clouds

autumn clouds this morning
folded azure golden gray:
a cold foreboding.

when the road turns lonesome
and shadows grow –
the great turning.

really it's all a turning
only noticing
at the slipping points.

31 years around this bend
like the flowing blue billows –
accomplishing nothing.

night commute

two hour journey, chasing a sliver moon
on the horizon, an eerie purple
thunderstorm in the distance and water in the air, my lungs
almost summer feeling
the last stretch of potholes, heavy fog
crossing the road, peepers
hopping, between my swerves,
i am so sorry

response to an internet stranger

sitting in utter silence
vast exhalation
the passage of wind
exertion, a quickening
a glistening turd: mani pearl
only fools gag
at the smell of God's gift

response to a poem on a window

someone copied this poem onto a window. next to it, i composed:

there is no learning to attain
at MIT or beyond.
no mind to haunt
with difficult questions

set it all aside:
the past, evaporated
the future, fantasy
the present, unspeakable

set aside benefit and extraordinary.
stop making past
to fit in
with phantoms

with benefit and world set aside
and acceptance not willed,
even the ordinary
saves the universe

forget forgetting
and institutional bondage.
there is only one difficult question:
who is reading this?