Monday, April 29, 2013

Poem from Microscope Man

 
It could also be a return to something simple,
a world of closed loops
where kinks and corners weren't invented,
where animals mixed and organelles
slipped through each other,
eating inside each other
within impossible rooms of gelatin.

Out here, we hold the line
cold and fast. We lock and crimp sharp.
The circle is only an ideal we can't match.
The thought comes up
from the tube of body and brain.

And I want to make vows.
Promises give bones to my ameboid nature,
freeze me into a shape. Keep time from
spreading me.

I can imagine leaning back
into someone I can trust,
someone loyal. I would vow first,
pledge allegiance, then
assume it would forever be
the same and equal, a stasis.

Days would pass and pass,
morning first judgements,
afternoon fulfillments,
evening muddled driftings
and slow, graceful nights.


Sunday, April 28, 2013

The Digital Magnifier: A Photoshow

To watch this PhotoShow, visit this URL: http://www.photoshow.com/watch/CB5JP5Tr

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Microscope Dreaming


The microscope is a
way of stopping time,
The world inside that tube
is time irrelevant,
and time doesn't
bother with things that small.


When you travel there,
you slip away from time
into a new inventory of
mysteries that situates
calmly for your eyes.


There is no sound,
no impact, no danger,
just your mind,
your small inward-turned smile.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Insect Baby

 
 
 
 
 

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Walking in Huntington

To watch this PhotoShow, visit this URL: http://www.photoshow.com/watch/QP9HY8zq

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Metaphysics of Fame



The information
comes from the stones
bits are born in
bumps. Impact is creation.
I come into existence
with a cry and quickly fade,
muffled in smoothness.

In the globe
faces are like a vague
curtain of mist
with shiny particles
of disruption. Only
the prominences are real.
The globe measures
reality by impact.

It's really an information
universe. I travel
an assembly distance, not space,
put together gas to solid,
confusion to crystal.
In the globe,
I vanish with silence.
My particles wash away.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

MIlton's Neighbor

Milton got up in the morning wanting to do something that would just knock 'em dead. Underneath was a shiver in his chest because he could be left abandoned and die alone.

“My neighbor has a theory,” Milton told me. “It  involves doom. I have a headache,” Milton said. “Whenever I see him I have to listen to his theories. Why do I feel bound to listen? Is it some kind of perverse courtesy turned against itself? Have I become too civilized to escape.” Milton collapsed in his chair as we spoke, and covered his face with his hands, trying to shut out vision. “The worst part is, he, my neighbor, uneducated that he is, imagines himself to be the only one alive that knows the secret. He knows how those we trust are really conspiring to kill us.

He is the only one smart enough to get beyond the news bureaus and the regulators and the world community. I have heard the lecture more times than I care to say. My rage mounts, my futility mounts. His joy is in the creation of monsters. No one can argue with him. What binds me to that?”

“I suppose it's good that my neighbor speaks his mind. If he was not destroying everything I hold dear, if I was not tempted to accept his logic, if the world of doom was not so logical and the nightmare of secrets was not so undeniable, I wouldn't be so angry.”

Milton knew that his neighbor in all in his 36 years had never suffered a moment of deprivation, never walked cold streets, knew real peril and nearness of death. Milton knew that for people  like his neighbor and himself doom was a romantic dream. In a way both of them wished it. How would it feel?  Doom would invite excess that Milton would not permit himself. Nightmares, after all, were just dreams. His neighbor took the liberty of recounting his dreams.

Suddenly Milton knew the need to supplicate. He no longer prayed. But he did fall into a plea posture, with knees bent as if he couldn't hold himself erect. He stood against the wall, finding a private  subdued corner and pronounced a non-prayer, stated as fact.

He pronounced these words:
What binds me
to the hearing of nightmares?
Nightmares, after all,
are just romantic dreams
inviting excess that nobody
would permit himself.
When your joy is in the creation of monsters,
no one can argue with you.

“I know what those conspiracy theories are for,” Milton finally replied to his neighbor. “They are not things of fact and debate. They are not probes into the truth. They are tools to break the confidence of those around you. They are instruments of interpersonal drive. They are efforts to project your superiority against the gullibility and weakness of others. That's why you don't permit discussion. There is never a quiet conversation about doom.”

“You are not my friend,” Milton said. “You are not a man of good will. You wish me evil.”

Milton left.

Friday, April 12, 2013

"Four Stories and Their Poems" now available

 
or call 301-228-3853

Thursday, April 11, 2013

The Storm


What binds me
to the hearing of nightmares?
Nightmares, after all,
are just romantic dreams
inviting excess that nobody
would permit himself.
When your joy is in the creation of monsters,
no one can argue with you.

Monday, April 08, 2013

Beginning of a Story


Milton got up in the morning wanting to do something that would just knock 'em dead. Underneath was a shiver in his chest because he could be left abandoned and die alone.

“My neighbor has a theory,” Milton told me. “It involves doom. I have a headache,” Milton said. “Whenever I see him I have to listen to his theories. Why do I feel bound to listen? Is it some kind of perverse courtesy turned against itself? Have I become too civilized to escape.” Milton collapsed in his chair as we spoke, and covered his face with his hands, trying to shut out vision. “The worst part is, he, my neighbor, uneducated that he is, imagines himself to be the only one alive that knows the secret. He knows how those we trust are really conspiring to kill us. He is the only one smart enough to get beyond the news bureaus and the regulators and the world community. I have heard the lecture more times than I care to say. My rage mounts, my futility mounts. His joy is in the creation of monsters. No one can argue with him. What binds me to that?”

“I suppose it's good that my neighbor speaks his mind. If he was not destroying everything I hold dear, if I was not tempted to accept his logic, if the world of doom was not so logical and the nightmare of secrets was not so undeniable, I wouldn't be so angry.”

Friday, April 05, 2013

The Guest



Joseph surprised his hostess by announcing he was going to spend the day walking. But she did not suggest she go with him.

Along the shore, the beach provided a least a pathway. It was linear—back or forward. Joseph knew there would be landmarks along the water, places where people would gather or even places where people spent their lives. Joseph himself was only a visitor to this ribbon land by the ocean.

The ocean, empty of people, was a blankness. The true earth was crowded with the familiar facial form: cartoon, real, sketched on concrete with chalk, carefully circled in crayon by children, scrolled on birthday cakes, captured by camera with teeth all whitened, portraited, imitated, formulated. We don't wake up until we see it. We even plaster it on birds or cats or pigs and laugh and laugh. How much these creatures imitate us, want to be us, replace us, take part with us. We don't put it on fishes, except maybe the friendliest kind. We resent the arthropod, the lobster, the spider, the insect that appear to spite us.

A neighborhood like other neighborhoods it was. Many citizens spent their lives here. It was worthy of never leaving. The citizens met in public places and found each other, chatted about shared memories, old times, talked shop, shared new data about common acquaintences. Joseph would see them. He would look like a human being, appropriate, polite. His exchanges were never received with joy. His presence always required an investment beyond what citizens were willing to make.

Sometimes Joseph just needed a little gift. Life in the sea of faces passed like a trip through mayonaisse. He got tired of it sometimes, the bits of effort, seeing the same outlines, profiles, configurations without relief. He needed something new. Joseph often found it on E-Bay. He still had remnants of hunger for particular manipulanda that he needed to toy with. He knew he could find them in the E-Bay open marketplace.

And it occurred to Joseph that he could sit by himself anywhere and let thoughts slip and slide through him. He could sit face to face anywhere with someone in silence. He could let manners and conformance decide for him what to say. He could cast casual glances across any table without piercing his silence. He could speak without breaking holes in his solitude, anywhere. He could float in the sea anywhere, watching for storms but not really caring.

He was here. It was a long day in Summer. Joseph decided to leave the beach and head out into the forest which surrounded the beach. The forest was broad and dark. But Long Island was a civilized place. And it was an Island, only so big and bound by the sea and the sound. If he walked through the woods he knew it would eventually end and he would emerge into a less camouflaged region.

Joseph was opposed to a belief in hell. He was one of those who entered the fray and drew the line there. But he was still afraid that God would hate him. It was very unpleasant to imagine this Old Man, Uncle Figure, Kindly Archetype hating you, turning His back, wanting to leave your house, sniffing at the impurities. The question is, could Joseph still avoid this. Was it too late?

He passed through the dense boundary region of the woods, pushing some vines and thorns aside. Then the trees made air space between them, columns in a medieval church. Like the sea, the forest lost its boundaries. He walked, with the sun blinking on and off over his head.

Just look how Joseph lives, the judges would say when Joseph is judged sitting in a restaurant. He never touches. Conversation is abbreviated. One never gets into his soul although he thinks all the time about souls. No one near him feels they know him, scoffed and not admired, solitude and light praises, acts of presumption and expectations about invisible ghosts with bodies of distance and dream.

Then, suddenly, the land got complicated. A bank of rock and grass bordered a creek. The forest like a dream grew larger inside than it was outside. The land challenged and dared him.

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

Age of Majority


One of those who enters the fray
draws the line at 
opposition to belief in hell
still afraid
that God would hate him,
thought how very unpleasant to imagine
this Old Man, Uncle Figure,
Kindly Archetype
hating you, turning His back,
wanting to leave your house,
sniffing at the impurities.
The question is, too late?

Monday, April 01, 2013

Dessert


Just look how he lives,
the judges would say
as they see him sitting
in a restaurant.
He never touches;
conversation abbreviated;
thinks all the time about souls
but no one feels him;
solitude and light praises,
acts of presumption and
expectations about invisible ghosts
with bodies of distance and dream.