gianorama

the tabla beats among towers of books
spilt in the open hallway between us.
drops a pipe in the glass
which breaks at the ice line, a sad half
drink down the drain.

listen, they tell us,
the north pole's not a damn lake
it's just a layer of water on the ice sheet.

feel this rain, it's
 cold, like refrigerated
 do you remember
when it used to rain
on a summer
afternoon for like, ten minutes
then move on  amd   steam rose
thick as graveyard ghosts at midnite
 from  roads baked
all day in the sun?



and i can't help you with that
since maine moved south
for summers, fronts roll in
full of thunderous thick flocks
make a bayou of tampa's streets
every day at quittin time.
we navigate the waters grateful
derecho's love the midwest
more. i dreamt this morning
of a child trapped in a situation
i should be able to help. i woke
understanding the nature of should.
she wasn't mine in the dream either.








i fear a lot of things:
waterspouts on the skyway
eviction notices on the farm
burial at the hoarder's den
channeling demons that wished they were saints
to name a few. mostly though i'm too
tired to be fearful. trying to remember the last
adrenaline rush i'd say it was a fight with y ou
about the car. and a loan. when we found out
it was all due to miscommunication  both
breathed a sigh/. slight smile. /mostly doh
let's not do that again. you may not
be doing anything but i am letting
you grow into that and own it
like the message in the bubble
six minutes to eight this morning
or the way jets land on the runway
with gear engaged, windshears zipped,
guided by fully awake, attentive air traffic controllers.





  i blogged travel hugged
lights to keep me alive.
  still do it on a picoscale. and it seems
like a zas dubbed with viola
fading into you as we fade into a sidestream
sidereal tramp broken sucker for time.
like how did we lose track of it
when it was not there ..


but here. moving,






here you caught it again,
in your fork made of water
  sort-of. post-engraved

 random access memory

 image-filters.

 sample grids. discontinuity 

as metaphor. disconstruity 

continued in concatenationlaments

 of the Route 10 of the Hong Kong

  inner forgotten temples 

name it ½zen these monstruous

 stateformatted highwayzones in the neocity 

of ams -rot don; phil  york- ston rio-sao plo

 measureless stretches of urbanity

  meaning got lost

once upon a time you said
you said things and i whispered them
back at you. once 
when time did not 

 we were together with

 in the cocoon 

what we had was a respite from zen. 
we could desire all we pleased
we could work and desire and 

 this doesn't mean i do my work

 without love but after

 nearly fourty years it is 

now destroying

 me slowly. and i think 

i can tell you i know 

where time's been hiding.