Creature in My Corner

there is an understanding that stirs in my corner
never a creature of destruction, it is not frightening
but for the weight of what it seems to know.

Footsteps on the Roof

sleep's a distraction.
there are footsteps on the roof,
the thoughts I won't let in,
impatient, are pacing.

Closeness for Comfort

there is a comfort we reach for
and an intmacy that calls us further
without the intimacy
we lie comfortable
in a net that keeps us

State of Mine

mine is with the planter of words
in the stanky dark of a jungle soil where
mangroves will grow from my sentences

their annunciation will not be articulate
and their character obeys a
permanent disorder

Letter to the Future. IX - No One Narrative

No One Narrative

22 January 2011

To Future,
I promise I'll only request this of you when its absolutely necessary:  go to a library or a book store and find the section of such place devoted to quantum physics.  If you run your fingers through the dust on publications of 2010 and the first months of 2011 you'll discover titles like The Grand Design by Stephen Hawking and Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos by Brian Greene.  Like others in this scientific moment, they deal with the question and disagreements of quantum reality.  With super colliders and miles of mathematics, they're attempting to venture into the space which holds the last fragile whispers of our truest creation story.  Their ears are pressed to the wall of the atom, and what they're hearing is remarkable if not unbelievable.  Today's physics suggests the history of the universe, the history of yourself and myself, indeed, even the history of the photon which brings my words off the pages to your eyes, is not exactly what we think it is.  At least, its not only what we think it is.  It's postulated that our universe is one of many or one of an infinitude, and that each subatomic substance we know of, and will one day know of, travels through those infinite universes on every path possible.  In short, the smallest pieces of us, and so also 'us' as the sum of those pieces, have infinite histories, having traveled infinite paths, in order to arrive in the now.


the worst thing we can accomplish
is the thorough banishing of our passions
to the condescended islands of naive youth

adopt me

some nights
the lakeside
truly merciless
calls unendingly.