the moss of beginnings

at the edge of some 
            beginning lies the humanoid lacking requi-
            site evolutionary cogs
            & bits to fully process daytime
            (it’s blinding but so is karma)
            it blushes & 
                 retires -

where water goes to quench its thirst, there
            it is that the
            bumblebees bumble, where herons and 
            heroines speak sky & 
            the courage of humans falters, mixes with
            the rust of 
            trees, the moss of beginnings & the roots
            of poems past & 
                    here -

it would have been a new poem
            had it not been for the oldness
            of knives, the oddity of
            pale, the sunken brevity of the
            odd word, the fondness of 
            being strange &
                      still - 

livid ash

This summer, the nights are woven
        as livid ash – sunken
        tombs are once again
        called to make their faces known

This summer, nothing is moist save
         this livid ash – heathen
         tombs are allowed
         to mingle in open secrecies 

This summer, demythified doors
         wear livid ash – leaven
         tombs are broken in &
         doctored as a single machine -

if you meet the buddha on the road..

I met him on that untrod road &
      he eyed the menace in my eye, said “look!
      behind you, there’s the buddha you were 

looking for.” I looked back, nothing, 
      and the buddha went a-scamper   cursing 
      that oft-quoted license to kill, yearning

for that time under the tree, when
      hunger & fire sat side by side with love
      in them howl eyes    and menace -