The stairs winded there quietly in dust
Of  ancient sap from forests of memory
Whose skies have survived in our dreams
Whose earths now belong to underbrush.

Their  darkness survived with old rope,
A rope greasy with hundreds of hands.
Some hands have not survived  bodies.
Rope's grease shines like a black snake
Running down from its higher darkness.

You and I look into each others light
On the higher darkness you are a light
On the lower,I am your light by the rope.
Add your hands to the grease of history.

In the night, while it was getting lighter,
The letter R appeared from somewhere
A poem possibility, in curtained window
Of  just -write, inside  to a dark thinning,
Thinking that is, a mind is filled slowly
With letter combinations of flesh, fresh
And spirit inclined to it from strong flesh.

A possibility yet not ripe, like the fruit
Waiting in the rice jar, for the right heat
To mature its limbs and make it softer
And riper, succulent to eat, throw rind
Into an organic bin waiting in the dark,
A fruit that  will mature brownly  to  gold
Softer to touch , smell before it wrinkles
Of  too much heat, in a warm rice house.

Now  I look down and see below my chair
A live R of not fresh and spirit  but a roach
That has somehow managed to keep alive
In the deadly fumes of a herbal pesticide
Stuffed in the house crevices a year ago,
A roach matured as golden brown poem.

I  had to open the window in a hurry
Afraid  that the night would go  away
Yesterday I had held  to it for a while
Only to see it melt away with the crow.
The dog is  barking in a low of throat
At  car-phantoms he sees in darkness
With echoes of its barks for company.
My pictures worked better with night
When men could do their strange acts
In the backstage, hurling their arms
In  air for nothing into a space of trees.

In the morning the bare-armed man
Would again flutter limbs into the air
And drink from his bottle triangularly.
Yesterday ,when the park grass in dew
Tingled underfoot ,by the green bench
I saw a black shirt  run as if chasing fear.
I  am wondering if it  has since caught it.
My images worked better with the night
When men walked about as visual files
Captured in the park's tender sunlight .

And then when we had finally returned we found 
A new dispensation , new clouds in shreds floated
And a soft breeze was blowing on the fallen leaves.
Our eyes having failed ,our mind froze in its tracks.

As we were going ,the sea was calm, lightly  blown
With not a single rocking boat  seen on the  far-line
As if nothing needed to be more perfect at the time.
A lone crow sat on a statue ,watching the city-line.

Now all our stories have totally altered in our recall.
We should not have looked back from the high seas.
Our return  should have left its hind quarters there.

Waking up in the morning we catch a mere fragment
From a whole, clinging to tatters, to threads come off
As we had dreamed it in the night, when their whole 
Came to be known, in the  distinct sky  of those trees
That sway from their inside to their outside of  the air.

Having already got a red eye I now have a yellow stomach
Where there is  an overflowing milk ocean  for churning 
A churning it does like a professional  mountain churner 
In the ocean with a snake-rope embracing it for churning.

thinking about men and materials
an image comes of a new red rose
turning blue in the light of the zero
night bulb flicked in a raw morning.
I add the hum of the computer fan
and the crisp new air biting into skin
just beside a window of opportunity.

still life has accumulated in the ears
some drums vibrate, some in  holes
with wind passing in them as sound,
a vertigo of the ears, a dizzy thought.
a world passes through glassy opacity
of  window, fingers dance on keyboard
birds notably missing in all their notes,
men noticeably missing on the bicycles.

still life goes back to a beach of sounds
when the sea pretends nightly silence
while all the time talking high in trees.
still life remembers men in their eyes
remembering moms in their stillness
as  if moms are  materials lying about
like wood logs waiting to turn houses
as moms turn fire in essential timber
their stillness gone with  August wind.

It was the word go in the ears, a pulsating
Drum, with variable sounds and thoughts,
Inability to hear one's own words at volume .
A touch of vertigo , as J.L.Borges would say
When you confront the eternity of cloisters.
This vertigo is one's head when turns to side
On pillow's heights, while  in sleep's depths.

Mere drum beats, from holes of dark caves,
An old man becoming stone deaf  in  an ear
That hangs its boots, or mind turns upwards?
Or standing on tenth floor balcony on level
With the swirling eagle you look down below
And become dazed by  a dizzying eternity
 As blood  flows up against endless gravity?
A touch of vertigo , as J.L.Borges would say
When  not used to a breath-taking eternity.

We do not dispute a  thinly veiled existence ,
His dying at early age , a tongue sticking out
After a previous night's stars of many finger
Pointings towards a sky-dome of  ancient stars
By a little finger spanning millennia of space
 Light years of endless time as vacant space
 Measured out in parcels of tiny square feet
Like the little boy-god under  a palm umbrella
 Whose smiling feet stretched to the infinity
 On a softly egotistical underworld king-head.

 He had lived  here on loosely strung nights.
 Who are we that will  some day cease to be, 
To assert his existence under the flickering
Stars he had pinpointed next to his own wall
And who are we to pity him for an early death
With some blue years yet left to his balance?
We do not even know if the gods loved him.

A stanza with all things small ,a bird's cry
For comma, machine whir for a full stop
Tears on  girl's cheeks of crying child, a sigh
Machine whir drowned in street noise, a drop.

 Rice cooker hisses sessions in colons
Girl's cold flows in shiny tears as pearl beads,
Summer brings its lucky water melons;
Melons open  red laughter in black seeds.

The sonnet is more sentence than a song
No imagery,  no poetry stuff , just rhyme
And no reason, no  feeling, it is wrong
Iambs of pentameter are  dozen a dime.