Who can say what we are not

Deep, deeply buried, below seeing or knowing,
lie our secret selves. Thin filaments
of cognition and will alone connect us.
Who’s to say you are not the same as I?

Who can say what we are not?

When you strip meaning of language
what is left but volition?
What mute railing narratives strain
to form themselves?

I’ll be seeing you

Opportunity will no longer knock.
Opportunity will no longer
Respond to our knocks.
Nobody home. Go away please.

For 15 years, without a whimper,
She spoke when spoken to
And went where she was told,
Sat up straight and minded her business.

Dusted, frozen, gimpy,
Still she plodded along
The Martian ridges,
Our spy in the sky

One final dust storm,
And she’s had enough.
Want to see what’s
Beyond the next hill?

Come on up here your damn self.

Red, red rain

There was a June when it rained
As it rained every June
Anyone could remember
All day, every day, every night

A rain so fine you could breathe it
So swollen you could drown
In the tall grass never knowing
Why, eyes wide and mouth agape

That June as wet inside as out
The earth heaved upward
As the rain kept falling
The sky without warning red as blood

I remember now, a voice was calling
“Come back through the long grass,
Come back through the red, red rain.”
But the red rain was you.

Oh, Earth, these blemishes

Oh, Earth, these blemishes
Can be scrubbed dead clean,
This unseemly infection stopped,
But to no avail, all the evidence

Points to the scabs bursting open,
Life pouring out again and again
In all its musty bigness,
The anti-entropic urge

Of the womb is doomed
To eternal resurgence

It’s not rebellion – nothing so seemly,
So ordained by high principle –
Just a thing impossible to stop,
A thing in a crack,

A seam in an ocean of atoms,
An imperceptible pause
In the continuous instant,
A suddenness within chaos,

How ice forms from steam
How fire struts across the built and unbuilt alike

How two disparate things join
Into a whole, unbegotten, unbidden.

Down at the deepest level, they say,
Things pop in and pop out
On less than a whim.