Think about the shadow of work
All our lives we were there
Just as in love
We were under someone’s shadow
Long dark scroll of hair
On the nape of a neck
When we visited the ocean we stared at it
From long rows of metal chairs
We were an army of the paralyzed
It was okay to be obliterated by wincing blue light
Is the hawk passive as it flies
Looking for blood to become hunger
Our dreams wonder to themselves
While we are asleep and paralyzed
In between asking themselves
If we are the real ones
If we are the real thieves


From a Parking Lot

The stone is independent of the mirror it says
It says
The grit under the stone is aware of music
The cloud surveying this scene is bitter
The human running for its little car
The cherry tree relocated from a war
stands in a parking lot next to a Staples
a poem


Zen is not your irony.
Board. Raindrop on eye glass,
singular pigeon. I roll
my pencil toward you,
the pencil runs back
across a desk top.
There’s a constant
earthquake bridge
making this motion,
human communication.
Score another one
for ancient supercomputer
Buddha. Ingrained
ways of being quiet,
useful. The flower
is held by a stem
but appears to hover.
It’s this effect
we see, and
not the thing
It lifts us
by trick
of yellow bloom,