Fit And Counterfeit

I am my own true fit and counterfeit,

true gold and fool’s gold, their opposition

not surviving this life’s intricacy,

neither driving out each other’s other


What am I to make of myself but ceaseless

forming of unresolvable formlessness,

sometimes shameless in its heated heaving

sometimes weighted with patient blind waiting?


In possessing myself, I dispossess

myself of myself, pass into passing,

leaving behind trinkets that mark a path

beyond my own way of remembrances


“Am I or am I not?” becomes the sea

of “was” or “was not,”,  time’s own shoreless “be”




Slant is how best it goes when it knows not

wither or why it goes, truth or not ruth,

entertainment or catastrophe, yet

slant’s elusive as firmament’s first fire


was there a first photon or were all and awe

then self-entangled, then, as now , caught in

the net of nothing stretched impossibly

to bear being beyond themselves, ah, light


yes light, this light, slant, makes sight and shadow

the worrisome wisdom of our delight,

the fierce fervor of our burgeoning fright

as climate changes, so our climax, too


my self, illusion, to itself is slight

and slant as well, star, lost in its own night

In Brazilian Portuguese

In Brazilian Portuguese the samba

is the sonnet, lovely lazy lively

lilt slipping through shoulders, hips, lips, toes, hands

to be breath and so smooth how time flowers


Before there were any words, Jobim made

sun, sand, sea, saudade, me, and the girl

who was completely sound without need of  flesh,

she of the slightest  stirrings  of our air


No knowing now, ever,  how samba means

outside itself, except it lilts us  let

go grip of grasping selves, dance with shadows

sculpted from blocking light of this, this… life


ah, sway, syncopated, counting deeper

sweeter than any beat,  more…less regular




A baby rabbit

flushed from the liriope,

still, stares, slips back in


The baby rabbit

was the Buddha whom I flushed

from liriope


All encompassing

baby Buddha rabbit gaze

summoned me awake


This is everything

and nothing, baby rabbit

as still as a stone


The Morning Dew

In pride my bare feet crushed the dew

of the morning field, before life taught me


I was as the dew, nothing more than mist

that had cooled into a tiny reflective globe


I apologize for who I used to be, fleeting

marauder of what I failed to understand


Remorse is not the end of wisdom, but yet

it seems a beginning, as I walk mornings


That I never imagined, my feet more worn

and yet more tender as I’m beside the point

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