Weekday Insomnia

My Late Father, Musing After a Day at Sea

Untitled June 2015

It's something I carry forth
I rage, but when I rage
the light just changes course
Its shine reveals the source
of a deep-down tremble I shun
Life has always just begun

It's a pin-prick vision that
you went, and when you went
your fate became a gleam
in the eyes of all, it seems
I die with you a hundred times a day
The sharp must give way to dull
until I'm allowed through as a result

Our path across the earth
draws lines displacing dust
I won't misplace your displaced dust

Displaced dust

Words Apart

Commonimage

Entangled beyond degree.
Entangled yet we can somehow see.
How does this man here sing?
Is he trying to take or trying to bring?
Does he give us what he doesn't have,
does he give us what he doesn't have?

Is it a gift that gives itself, one that comes to you without a wrap?
Or a gift that's an inverted wish, an empty package on your lap?

Oh, how, how, how...
How do you signal love without lose?
And what do you name a love that has no cost?
And do I pass in silence over that I do not know?
And is that the sort of quiet with you I try to grow?

And do I ever see
(except in mysteries of dreams)
a love of symmetry,
our love as symmetry?

I took a bus
to old Idaho.
The mountains cussed
and stood in storms.
A plaque we passed named them "divine"
Ohh! I could have been that sign,
caught up in the spell of your spine.
I could have been that sign,
humbled just to speak and just to pine;
holding back a name for what expires;
holding back a name for storm and fire.

I came here to talk
to say there is a far that's also near
and ask under what name they both appear.
Every line I draw dissolves it seems.
So what is the place I'm asking you to inhabit with me?

What hides behind
what hides behind
what hides behind beauty's door?
Ohh! It's locked but not meant for any key.
It's just a lock-shaped hole through which to see.
We could have been mysteries
that I never pinched to see if they were dreams.

Oh, we could have been mysteries
that I never pinched to see if they were dreams.

What Is The Place (Draft)

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