Leonard visited my hut this evening.
I said, Leonard how much longer?
He smiled, shrugged.
I made him tea.
I gave him almonds and an orange.
He ate the orange, left the almonds untouched.
-- It's nice here.
-- Do you like the crickets? --They’re Zen crickets.
Much good laughter.
Then it was time for Leonard to leave Cold Mountain.
I helped him with his coat, then gave him a feathered shield for the trip home.
A Zen master: one-eyed, vertiginous, in love with gorgeous ass, food -- even the memory of food -- wine -- even the memory of wine -- cigarettes, his dogs, the ghosts of various cats, women, Russian poets, the Upper Peninsula, defiant road-kill, the play of two immature eagles going south, and a while later a mother eagle, also heading south.
Are you saying my poetry is dark? because it feels light to me in its shedding there a goodness in the ear and slackness in the jaw with 7 miles to go before we lay our bodies down worked up into a stupid, I meant stupor
A LITTLE SONG TO COOL THE SPIRITS
Mine delight. Sing this night. Carry, carry low The torches from below.
Mine delight. Ignore the slight Dampness of the fist. You're pissed.
In 1953 Herta Muller was born.
In 1955 I was born at home.
My older brother came in to look at me.
He said, "Get that thing out of the house."
I was told he ran outside onto a street
Of the English village where we lived.
Enraged at the sight of my dry-leaved stalk.
I thought it a good idea to trim the sycamore branches back from the porch then changed my mind and thought it better to sit within all those arms made from bark and leaves fluttering like green eyelashes. At times laziness is its own reward. This is what passes for thought these days as I worry about all manner of strange things, not least of which is a possible internet scam I may have fallen prey to. Cold Mountain is good for one reason that is obvious: creditors and scam artists find it hard to reach me and once they get here they quickly see it's a lost cause. My shack is an awful prize to waste sweat on. Besides, hawks soaring above a lake's edge and owls outside your paneless window at dawn is more than enough to make you laugh like a newborn. Words measure only what is empty, nothing else.
THE SHIPS SHALL SINK WHERE THEY MAY WHERE THEY FALL
Okay what is the nature of this thing. What is the nature of this thing. What is the nature. Of this thing. What. The nature of. This. Thing. Okay. What is the nature. The nature of this thing. What is the nature of this. Of this. Of this thing.