the last day i left the store
i looked over my shoulder
at the closed door —
i knew i’d never be back
to browse the books
scan the pages, search
through all the words
for some clue as to what this means.

i mopped the floors, of course
because no one wants an empty store
with filthy floors — i cleaned the toilets well
wiped down all the counters, said
do you need anything else
to no one in particular — i knew
i’d never be back
to sip the coffee or say the words
of encouragement, offer to find some book
or point out some illustration
on some nearly forgotten page
to a stranger who might have someday
become a friend.

the last day, when I left the store
i knew I’d never be that me again
nor would i read those books
thumb through those pages
or say those words to anyone at all.

i would tell you how odd things are odd
if you wanted to know, but no one wants
to know the source of a difference

i would advise you that becoming odd
is even more odd than being even
nothing. don’t take my advice

i would tell you anything if it would help
me find my way back from this asymptotic descent
from near the line across toward near the line along

i would advise you that i’m less than helpful
really, this is me seeming greater than
I am really am. don’t take my advice

I would tell you why odd things are even
less odd than you believe, but no one wants
to know the source of equality

I would advise you that problems multiply
and divide into products no one can sell
to anyone. don’t take my advice.

I would tell you when odd things become facts
it’s best to factor out the lowest common denominator
and leave. but really, please, for the love of God
Don’t take my advice.

Les moineaux ne me chantent pas.
Ils volent. Ils volent. Les moineaux s’envolent
Et laissez-moi prier pour une chanson.

I see the sparrow
perched upon the roof
next door watching me
watch him. Waiting
for the kindness of hello
or the gentle touch of sweet goodbye,

he leaves. The sparrow leaves.

I start to cry,
at the emptiness of branch
and sky — he is gone
and there is no song
no song at all to remember him.

I want to whisper
in your ear  a maybe
so desperate for hearing
you ache.  I crave
the unwhispered maybes
and you crave the craving
too. This is the music
this is the dance
this is the poetry of quietude
and life upon a turtles back.

To be filthy with sex
and dark earth below our feet
is nothing to brag about —
but we should brag. Desire
and passion, even in the darkness
are holy things to the brazen
profaners, blasphemers &
heretics. So wait, wait there
beneath the eagle’s beating wing

in the face of the western wind,
wait there, and wonder
am I the muse from which all creation comes?

there is no face
only arms and legs
a torso — a thought
not of who he is
not of who he could be
but of why he is
here, why he is
who he is

he is sketched
by an artist
i wonder whether
it’s me

the feathers of his neck stand on end
as the starling angrily chitters and whistles
about nothing more than my presence
here where i don’t belong

i ask forgiveness
i back away quietly

his angry song goes on
(and on and on and on)
until I’m far enough away that I can’t tell
if he’s still singing

i see a thousand thousand gods
i see one god
i see they are all the same god
with different faces

i hear a thousand voices
i hear one voice
i hear they are the same song

i dance about the empty room
wearing nothing
but brown denim shorts
— there is nothing but the sound of my feet
on the light oak hardwood floor

i see god laughing at my heaving chest
as I strive for breath
as I start to cry
wishing I were more holy

god is a muskrat with golden eyes
god is a hawk circling
god laughs at god
i feel better

i start to dance again
there is no room
there is no emptiness
there is no floor

i wonder if god is the composer or the musician
and I cackle loudly as I fall the ground

Life is good.

if the turtle is too big for me to observe
it is no different than if I am too small for the turtle to  observe

if neither of us can observe each other
then whether we exist or not is irrelevant
to each other

I look up at the stars,
they exist

I look down at the gound
it exists

no where do I see the turtle
— not below the ground
— not swimming between the stars

three naked bodies
in a boat upon the river
all me — all me, I tell you
they are me
filthy with nakedity

there is a spirit
there vibrating on the edge
where the water seems like heaven
like heaven, i tell you
as i slip off the stony ledge

the memory of a salmon
on the tongues of carp
my story — my story, I tell you
that was me
filthy without history

the skunk is shuffling
beside the back door
unafraid of me, perhaps
because she does not know
i am there on the other side

she climbs the rubbish,
ruffles through full of hunger
for some unknown meal
and leaves wanting

i watch her leave
i watch her leave
and let her go
relieved — but sad for her
and how she wants