My body is a loco-motion machine
I sit still
and feel its urge for going
I move,
and miles are my meditation
Coyote is my mind-boggler,
smart and clumsy,
unpredictable
I can take it much easier,
enter Marcel Proust's search,
let the hours rock slowly
on the swell of night and day
I see Time pulling down its hat,
drawing the trenchcoat tighter;
the ceremonial drum still audible
deep in the meat totem
Cosmos is the Shaman,
the skeleton a sketch
and a bird of prey
I imagine myself
in a few pencil strokes
across acid-free notebook paper, plain,
my soft parts climbed-up,
the bird winging away, always,
through dusk and dawn
Time is a meat-grinder and a funeral pyre,
my consciousness the echo of a cough;
a sudden awareness
of something that almost hasn't happened
I grapple with something
that others seem to take for granted;
that echo
that I though I almost heard
I get out of bed,
my feet negotiating the cold December floor,
head up here like a satellite,
skeleton wiggly below me
on bony mechanics,
barely balancing its act;
a cartoon figure
out to feed the horses,
feed the wood burner:
observations - no matter how insignificant -
queuing to become poems
for posterity