patterned chaos

with a hand turned inwards,
pressing hard on skin
until it’s red,
forcing a mark to be read-
does it matter if it’s accompanied
by a banjo?
can’t banjos be mournful
or is it just bagpipes?
the hand presses slowly,
as if turning
a screw.
I imagine a screw being fitted
to my heart
and I think it would be special
to feel a clockwork ticking
without wondering 
when
it will skip a second,
taking breath from the throat
where the right words have been lost.
I have been lost.
but all is well – so well –
with so much sky above
and all its patterned chaos.

I can be carbon-dated 

Halved over and over,
I can’t be obliterated
as my atoms keep splitting
and reproducing-
which I almost understand
(even while it gives me a headache,
I can picture my body’s renewal).I’m not sure where
memories are carried
or how spirit can be explained
with blood terminology
or atmospheric equilibrium.

Would you take half of me tomorrow?

I can’t vouch 
for three dimensions
when I feel I’m spilling over
into a fourth or fifth.

can you read me, Major Tom?

the jarring feeling of waking yourself
just as you’re beginning to slip
into a beautiful sleep…
your hand relaxes its grip
as the book you’re reading
makes a loud thudding sound
as it drops to the floor
you dream of floating…
and a book with endless pages
being turned by monkeys
and twelve astronauts trying to spell
‘dilettante’
on their ham radios
laughter doesn’t weigh anything
but it causes atmospheric disturbance
you can balance a book
on a nipple in space
but you’d rather eat the pages
than risk a paper cut
and reading naked in space
is not for everyone

Madras

These few days have been madras
with a twist of peated scotch.
I wonder at the cool breeze
chasing me from the mountains
and find I crave warm bread
and you.Would the leaves hold secrets 
or do they shed their storied colors
with abandon like veiled dancers?
With an upright stance
and a kick toward a spiraling tomorrow,
we flow the way of late summer creeks,
swift and ahead of the sun.