These are largely improvisational poems, not lingered upon for too long in the making,
from both speech and writing, and jotted down one way or another.
They are responses, naturally, to-with a given moment, moments, preoccupations.

BIVOUAC _ Poetry

13 July 2018

Here you are, twenty-four years

Could be: the asshole next door!

This is anybody's dream,
their floating world,

——   ————

That I am
anybody and I am

(and that's what I look like)
(and that's what I concern myself with)

(For lovers:

That I am
anybody and you love

[Who are you, you ask?]
You are
you Only

and that all that's a miracle)

13 July 2018 (Finland)

--- These little movements,

The things themselves, yes
Not to "capture this moment" or
translate it—coldly—into symbols,
shapes, an odd metal box . . .
the grass grows in this hillside,
just as it does, some wildflowers . .

and you
notice it,
that is all

14 April 2018

This is where I'm home



The confluence

that makes this place, now,

is not




All these changes,


31 March 2018

To begin: a failure

In the expenditures towards "creative Output," they find:
      Stagnancy, sterility, is:
          an answer, desired,
          before you have even begun.

You see, there's no ROOM here

To begin: a query

       of who? about what? with what WORDS?

To begin: moment

As yet

You will never succeed in telling everybody everything
You will never succeed in telling everybody anything
You will never succeed in telling anybody everything
You will never succeed in telling anybody any thing

The pursuit (joy, magic, strange mathematics)
        is just

. . . Here and now,
          within me and I,
             and you, them, theirs

9 July 2017


in tension

1 July 2017

A music to save the world by
is not  ——  (this)
is not  ——  (that).

It is (here).
       Can we be beyond possession anyway?
       Beyond (this) sacred place, and
       (that)   ?

This is music for here, for now. It is
enough, for one only to lean in a little.
A sympathetic listener. VALUE is only
in the perceived; what does it take for (art)
to be worth sympathy?

A poem I thought would change the world
closes; closed upon.

(Time in the tropics, after winter)
29 June 2017

To live without distraction (lived-in, as tentacles, reaching)
—  ah! as in the movies, flirting with the waitress,
     love in bunches! — to live,
     Live, alive in you, or
     me, and me alone. Ah!
.     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .
Having thought that winter (snow, bitter), was
necessary to the "proper" experience of time,
Passage, I find amidst the blooms:
            Ha! Keep telling yourself THAT!
           .       .       .       .       .       .       .
Where would you ever find yourself, any-way?
Cactus flowers in the Mid-West? Northern Europe?
Mad wish, cactus flower, lost, amidst snowfall

They brown in the cold, wither, expire,
and green in spring — what a way to live!
                              (tell yourself THAT!)
           .       .       .       .       .       .       .
Cactus flower,
sweet company amidst corkage
(if I recall the terminology —)
you, here, or not,
whither and thither (wither, with-her!)
Whether, or ——

Fair weather indeed:
Bring on the snow!

20 February 2017

All relics are sacred
and all relics are imperfect.
They are all vestiges
of something by-gone and

They are, also, vessels and
means, for attempting to feel closer to that
original something.

It is a lock, or the hair of Christ;
a great obsidian square or the Kaaba
But they don't let you know they thoughts
and love of Christ, or -