Author: William Cowan

The substance was the doing, the process of moving out
into the day.
Transposing the objects and dilemmas with an action
That led you beyond meaning, siren call of distraction
To the roots here in the quiet under the tree of life.

The reality of plumbing pulls me back into the rooms I left.
It clunks away. I have not been inspired nor turned
Inward enough to you, who is always standing
There in the back of my mind.
I am not going to put the trees in though they stand
breathing softly,
Attentive as dawn in the famous calligrapher’s picture.

This part of the arena is being closed.
I am left here with only words.
They flare briefly on the bare floor and go out.
The scenery is rolled on to the next plateau.
The parts, (buildings, animals, destructions, lusts,
cars, etc…)
Are going to be still and become a homogeneous us.
My dreams I will to that other you I have chosen
Hoping to tame a contrariness which is the other side
of the coin of submission.

Now the lights are on, have been for awhile
And, in this feeling at twilight
The forest and trees become one.

don’t ask
for change

when my heart
is empty

I will give you
only money

Could be the enclosed garden
Just before the humming birds arrive.

The pause when the raised voices
Have said all & drained the air of peace.

The restraint & halt as Monk’s hands
Briefly stop above the keys.

The edge reached as one foot
Holds above the precipice.

Cage’s 4.33
And hearing the aftermath.

The physical walk that overrides
The walk out of your head.

The pen above the page
As the mind empties, lets go.

The t.v. with the sound off
As we entertain each other on the floor.

The just before.

along the lines
the grace notes

come on
in light rain

shimmering window
too ragged the beat

repeats strong
amongst chords held

in falling versions
finding home

in fragments
assembled into song

When we mull over the way things are
There are distortions, faulty memories.
Things that don’t add up,
Some blame on the calculator.

All those on the road to here,
Didn’t make it, playing by rules
They never wrote. Under the freeway
Out in the great openness we all strive

To explore in youth’s inquisitive grasping
Are more cardboard houses traveling
Lightly away from order and routine
And the horizon we never reach.

Calling out in the dark,
Away from mall neon and saccharine song
Are the refuges of bad math.
They clutch remnants of a life

Now emptied of excessive essentials.
Sleeping on the streets builds character
Say talking heads who never did.
In the vast green park we all love

You must keep moving. Do not linger
In despair’s alcove or look for
Straight answers to bent questions
We no longer share with each other.

Can we not wean ourselves
Of these avenues of trivial pursuit?
Measuring the miles to work
With occasional variations, stops
Along the way on different days.
The parking lot to the building
Is five minutes. Minutia to keep
The mind in its rat maze.

The workmen building the addition
To a house I pass each morning never
Look up, so locked in their details
As the squirrel races away from us
Helter-skelter in no discernible pattern whatsoever.

What of
forgetfulness have
you chosen to
forget
to lose yourself in
the ever ensuing
present
tense
of
silence
sewing
your
thoughts
in
fleeting
ambience
as
night
approaches
finally
quieting
the mini-mall
& its lights,
candy
with no value
to
you
or anyone breathing
air

We long to hear the pastel touches hidden
In vernacular black that
Crest upon our changing shore.

Our relationship has peaked and no bombast,
Cymbal-riding discourse will alleviate
This disquieting soundscape.

The storm outside gusts in torrents that
Color the shadings of tea cup and saucer.
Lights swing with celestial rhythm.

The sighs and creaks in the timbered beams
Grey the atmosphere with mottled scorn.
Tossed pejoratives will never hold

As the whiteness calms the afterwards back,
Closes down the shivering glazed glen
To bristle wetness carved in stilted dusk.

Porcupines do not huddle together
When it is cold. Common sense &
Rejection are symbiotic in this
Reality that sets in the later years,
And have allowed way too much
Reflection as a toxic mix trying
To resolve what costs, rewards,
Plain empty enjoyment might be
Left to endure along the way
To “Sweet Perdition,” the bar on
Lower 9th that listens to our silences
And grunts a noncommital understanding
Beyond all words & absolution.

I am going to meditate
On meditation as everything
Is calm around this night
As all are asleep. I am
In the stillness, but not of it.
As restless as the nonexistent wind,
I palpitate, regurgitate.
The purposeless as meaning
Does not cling to silence.
Hear outside. The total
Picture reaches this very
Paper and never stops or forgives
The forgetting forever.