Daily Archives: December 4, 2017


Revised. Originally posted 12-19-2016.

I want to stroll right now
through my own stopped life
and look back upon it
as if it were a museum of itself.

All my lost relations and friends are in there
and I want to stop before each
and think about them 
as they stand
absolutely still but still alive.

Do not think for one second
that I consider myself exempt
from such examination.
I want to stare at me

seated there in my diorama on a couch
or in bed where I can ask every
grand question I can think of without
my squirming away.

I have been living
near death for a long time and 
it has never denied me anything,
but living so near has 
always required

a fast ramble with no time
to look at anything for 
very long.
The time to shift has come.
What I want is 
suspended animation,

as it is in movies where time stops,
everyone stops. everything stops,
even me for once, Death hanging over my shoulder
as I examine what I am, how I became

what I am, who was around me for good
and ill, who stayed and who has gone before me
into dust.  I want a museum life
though I’m in fact living in a newsreel,

in crisis seeking stasis. I want, I want,
I want a marker stuck in the ground
I can hang onto. A label on a case with me inside
that fixes me in one place forever 
so I can rest.

The Secret Name Of The World

There is a person somewhere
who lives and breathes only sunlit air
and views any storms that come
to soak or drown or bury them
in snow and ice and isolation
as fickle hiccups in the general
benevolence of our corner of the world. 

There is a person somewhere
who looks at love, justice, and connection,
sees the teeth in their smiles,
and sneers at how obvious the evil is
lurking behind any sweet impact
of the random benevolence
of our corner of the world.

There is a person somewhere
who thinks it all balances out, 
or will at the End. They would take 
the sunny one and the dark one and have them talk
as if it might work to smooth the crags
and spice up the bland plains of this
varied stage set of a world.

Neither joy nor despair seem worthwhile
to some. They grit their teeth and say
it’s a round ball and the only truth
of how it rolls is that it rolls and only luck
shifts its juggernaut beauty away
from crushing any one of us riding
this inconvenient marble of a world.

A fourth way, out there somewhere,
is found perhaps on a lover’s transient face,
the skin of a maple or palm, the fur
of a mouse or the cool of a stone in hand;
found when sinking into storm and sun as One;
found in watching as the complications of ecstasy
and sorrow spell the secret Name of the World.