for Tom Dybek
1
Haven't heard of, from you.
Are you OK or mighty fine?
Perhaps in love merely which
is why one escapes mortal time,
friends, especially such as I?
Or is it me?
No matter the matter.
Wondering how, where.
And how fare you, farther flung.
Or me, the further sending these
unasked, unsought.
Few to send
to who might care or
at least be bothered
yet not required
just a basket to catch
my froth enough
at this stage.
Sired upon rock and thus
know stones for suck, I am
more that one, not to inflate,
in parable, who sows seed
upon rock. Some roots may
come but come high wind
or burning heat, well, one
gathers what can, what's
left, sees if something be
woven from strands
perhaps become the
better farmer more
patient the more resigned
by far for attempts and
fated reaping life's own rock.
But, not complaining.
Gonna, rather,
go hog wild,
burst open,
try make sense
of messes/mezzes,
pinky raised effetely to offend.
2
One can arrive at such a place
where one's no longer 'scaped
all this - those who consent -
who becomes arrives but
willing participant in inexorable
awake which as yet
does not totality ken;
always the upended flames
are rushing, vortices (are)
assumed progress
an assumption
only a wish but
sweetness,
but tenderness
for some few beloved
things may steer,
may guide some,
stir us, even me,
oink oink
forward, ahead.
One cannot be
sweet toward all
except in mind
alone
Alone
the hog loves
lowly
loves slowly
but it loves
thing by
thing
which
something
is a beginning
I am for something
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem