Updated: Jan 1
51) petrichor: fragrance of rain on sunbaked soil
From the small river in the mouth of May it had poured into a big river,
from the river into the sea, then it evaporated, turned into rain,
and maybe that same water was now flowing before Ryabovich’s eyes.
waves: all the infinities swept under the rug
I am fabricated from a bundle of discrete mental phenomena.
Electron-positron pairs twinkle on and off in infinite swarms.
Under the flatland of I, me, mine, there is only pure geometry.
waves: tiny shards of space, made of nothing like everything else
All this of Pot and Potter — Tell me then,
Who is Potter, pray, and who is folding a little napkin
under a little fork?
waves: sleeves of shattered sentience
The loud harsh voices of invisible men
who utter profane and vain bubblings.
The shadows below the cots in which the invisible hounds sleep.
waves: tongue-and-groove planking in verdigris
Maybe one cold watchman walks a lonely beat.
The Mary Celeste drifts off the Azores.
A motion without progress, senseless treadmill, no escape.
i flutter, rustle and pit-pat on the blue ceiling
52) yet I have in me something dangerous
Hanuman, assemble the monkey warriors.
We shall cross the sea to Lanka and rescue Sita.
The breeze shall salt our lips.
caretaker! take care, for we run in straits
Waves: Turquoise-veined undersides of arms.
Pottering and hopeless futility.
The ceaseless groaning of the water pump below.
the curtains hang without motion
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
the moon in a silver bag.
Thrust a sword blindly through the arras.
(from behind the tapestry) oh, i’ve been killed
53) waves: the paths intended for rockets through space
The Perfect Way knows no difficulties.
It refuses to make preferences.
Water always finds its level.
and anyway, any place is good enough to die in
When you strive to gain quiescence by stopping motion,
the quiescence so gained is ever in motion.
In the wind’s eye I have sailed. And sail.
waves: a dance emptying itself of meaning
Waves: Here are the empty places; meditate.
Golden cherubs dance as a gilt clock ticks on a mantelpiece.
The chowkidar watches impassively from his stool.
so much cosmic houghmagandy
54) the sovereign of transitory things
Waves: Handrails of a narrow bridge.
Spirals of tenement staircases.
Frayed banners, pebbled strands of time.
i’m a long gone daddy in the u.s.a.
Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying
and the place in the wood, now I’ve told everything?
Raise a finger, Willie, if you are still conscious.
dave, this conversation can serve no purpose anymore
All the streets long and red and freely articulated with assignations and railway arches.
Waves weave with two sweet ladies out of The Ritz
till human voices wake us, and we drown.
i do not think that they will sing to me
55) someone downtown, looking for a cheap mattress
A wave walks about, tries his own room:
a few sardines’ yawn of mud.
Dreams of testing the shrubbery.
in a singularity, all places and times are the same place and the same time
A wave nods in the chair where the Big Bang happened.
Nods and is awakened by the glassy music of the milkman arriving.
Rodgers and Hammerstein in 3/4 time.
just listen to the music of the traffic in the city
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
lie awake forever in a sweet unrest.
beyond the shadow of the ship, I watch the water-snakes
We sit together, the ocean and me,
until only the ocean remains.
Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of?
oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud
56) waves ride six blocks to get off at elysian fields
They pant for life.
Now marry in an instant, now divorce.
Free artists of themselves.
in the dark the mud upwards born upwards floating up like the drowned
Waves wander thro’ each charter’d street and saddest city lane.
Sidle and slide, meet solid bodies and glissade right through.
Have their interval only and then the place knows them no more.
pass by the watchman on his beat and drop their eyes
The green and garnet flounces of water along shoreline.
Expiation and atonement, terza rima rhyme schemes from gravity and God.
A salt doll lying prone on a dim bed,
a blur in your dissolving head
57) exuberance is beauty
Waves: Leah gathering flowers for a garland.
Iseult of the White Froth.
Rachel fain to see her own mad eyes in the mirror.
only a go-go girl in love with someone who didn’t care
The old, the mad, the blind have fairest daughters.
Wrapping their dreams in a silken cloth where long will cling the lips of the moth.
Waves: The splay of their hair on pillows and sheets.
all the lonely ginks and mopers standing about on shore
Waves: Ladders of selves, the creaking of blocks,
collapse into dis-aura and the measured working of oars
rowed by brown men whose language is unknown to all but themselves.
you pim pause you pim in the furrows here
There is a garden in the back, I think.
Through the sacristy.
ring and no one comes
Waves in the sun’s track of the unpeopled world.
Past the crypts and the dolmens and the temples of dead cities.
In this so brief vigil of the senses that remains to us
look, my lord, it comes
58) only god has repose without movement
With folded newspapers, cold ashes, a slip of paper
with a jotted note, feet up, knees clasped,
on a stone balustrade, the wave arrives.
headlights in the fog
Waves: A grey web woven by a thousand parachuting spiderlings.
A grand illusion spun on the loom of invisible lines of force arrayed in space,
danced to bloody stubs by the red shoes in the dim light and large circle of shade.
waves dancing like the night moth on a lit window
Subatomic oscillations anonymized, pseudonymized, checkpointed, barricaded, barb-wired, bollardized, encrypted, enigmatically ciphered, locked, scrambled, intransigently blanked and exfoliated into wiggling wavicles of gnomic nonentity.
immanent privation and infinite regression
Waves: Sum it all up and with gravity pulling one way
and everything else in the opposite direction,
the net energy of the universe is zero.
just when I thought I was out … they pull me back in
Waves: the dark spaces between street lamps.
Talking like us the voice of us all quaqua on all sides.
Enter a thousand lears with a thousand cordelias dead in their arms.
fatuous sunbeams and the infinite still discourse of the night
59) waves: knower, known and knowledge made one
The image of life as a pilgrimage.
This identity out of the One into the One and with the One
is the source and fountainhead and breaking forth of flowing Love.
a skirling, jubilant seesaw
Waves: Casement ledges where the moss has grown.
Quotidian drawings in the margins of momentous manuscripts.
Glass cases full of rags and bones and magical mittens.
and yet god is the native of these bleak rocks
The ringers in the tower
have appointed for the hymen of the soul
a passing bell.
waves: saint theresa in her wild lament
60) morning glories woven into her hair
Waves: Traffic policemen in black cotton gloves.
Melancholy clowns in ruffs.
Drowned suns that glimmer there through cloud-dishevelled air.
condensations and precipitations, birth and death, changes of state
Orderly processions of waves like towels piled on a prison rack
by Murder Incorporated’s
when he died, i was hoping it wasn’t contagious
Waves: A palette with the dregs of infinite sunsets.
Interlaced figures tumbling and tossing, ripping and rapping,
shattering the commandments like Katharine Hepburn in a skin of galaxies.
roving hands before, behind, between, above, below nymphs and nenuphars
O my America! my new-found-land.
I can see by your outfit that you are a cowboy.
The moon’s an arrant thief
and her pale fire she snatches from the sun