Defunkt.

So: I've decided to retire this "blog," if it can be considered that. I'm going to start a new one that's more streamlined, more focused, more...something. Not so random. Yeah. Probably.

So, in finale, this poem, because who doesn't like e.e. cummings? (And because it was the only one that came up when I searched "defunct poem.")


Buffalo Bill's
defunct
                 who used to
                 ride a watersmooth-silver
                                                  stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
                                                                                                            Jesus
he was a handsome man
                                                   and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death

__________________________________________________________________________________

g'bye 

It's Friday,

but it feels like Sunday. The day is soft. There is no wind; the leaves are meditating. In my neighborhood people are napping or thinking of napping. Big white clouds with grey bellies sit in the sky. Even the dogs are quiet.

& you are gone, & I wonder--when you return, will you be different?

Quiet now,

quiet. the sun
is setting,
the shadows are getting long.

Quiet now,
quiet. the trees sway gently,
the breeze is soft & warm.

& in the next room
your son lies sleeping,
as he dreams of the simplest things--
quiet now,
quiet.

It's time to let go & stop striving.

To sit down with your belly in the sun.
Don't worry--
there is absolutely nothing
need be done.
The answer to your seeking's
all around you--
you are the only One.

This morning the sky is white
& I'm rain listening.
No wind. Black branches.

In the window a candle burns
in the paper thin
white lotus