Will Be But Corpses Dressed

The Mercy Of The West Has Been Social Revolution; The Mercy Of The East Has Been Individual Insight Into The Basic Self/void.

When Making An Axe Handle The Pattern Is Not Far Off.

My Grandmother Standing Wordless Fifteen Minutes Between Rows Of Loganberries, Clippers Poised In Her Hand.

The Other Side Of The "sacred" Is The Sight Of Your Beloved In The Underworld, Dripping With Maggots.

Lay Down These Words Before Your Mind Like Rocks. Placed Solid, By Hands In Choice Of Place, Set Before The Body Of The Mind In Space And Time: Solidity Of Bark, Leaf, Or Wall Riprap Of Things: Cobble Of Milky Way. Straying Planets, These Poems, People, Lost Ponies With Dragging Saddles -- And Rocky Sure-foot Trails. The Worlds Like An Endless Four-dimensional Game Of Go. Ants And Pebbles In The Thin Loam, Each Rock A Word A Creek-washed Stone Granite: Ingrained With Torment Of Fire And Weight Crystal And Sediment Linked Hot All Change, In Thoughts, As Well As Things.