"The Challenge Is to Write Relevant Poems"

Your writing reveals your personality. Maybe

there is nothing to say. You are an empty glass, no halves until

you realize your body is neither an object nor a map. Pointing.

Until you realize your body is neither you nor separate

from your mind. Your body reveals nothing. Maybe

this is what you have to say.

Pointing reveals direction. Your personality reveals nothing

about your body. Your body reveals the point. Apparently

“death” is not a four letter word. I think we already knew this.

Four letter words we already know include "east" "date" "doth" "head" and "hart."

“This” is also a four letter word. The challenge is to write nothing

that reveals your personality.

Direction reveals your body over time. Time is something we would like

to pursue. We would like parallel instances and we would like to meet

each other. We would like to get to the point. At least

we would like to get going. Maybe

this is the direction we would like to go.

The challenge is to observe your body from within your body without

becoming separate. The point is over there. Where I’m pointing.

The direction is a distraction from the map, which is neither your body

nor an object. The map is an idea of your personality,

an idea of an empty glass over time. The glass fills with dirt. The glass

is full of air. Space is everywhere. “Dirt” is a four letter word. “Glass”

is not. Maybe this is the direction we would like to have gone.

Accidentally OK

As reality got more popular, we were accidentally OK.

I couldn't very well say I wanted his money; I was overly confident, I questioned my decision.

As reality got more popular, we were acting as if we weren't lost.

I couldn't very well say I do not like the word aroma without invoking my duplicitous smile.

As reality got more popular, the soundtrack in my head was what I remembered of a magpie wake.

I couldn't very well say this is an automatic transmission.

As reality got more popular, a great horned owl was taunted by jay birds.

I couldn't very well say whom I should feel sorry for though I questioned the assumption.

As reality got more popular, I still believed it immoral to say that the "universe" has a "plan."

There should be some meaning in bindweed wrapped 'round a thistle. Instead there are whoops and applause from the children's ball game across the highway and there is the cellular structure of chlorophyll.  There are the shrill cries of the robin whose baby my dog has killed. There are clouds stacked on clouds and rays of "god light." There are phone calls not made and forgotten grief that, nonetheless, persists. There should be some meaning in the way the ocean is permission to sit and do nothing. There are waves in the grass as the wind pushes through. The bird's call, as I try to sing it back, changes.

I couldn't very well say we were accidentally OK.