Saturday, December 26, 1992



Fishing without hook or line in the subtle stream,
I practice the act of turning stones,
Turning them again to find clarity within.
The walls become an impassable mountain range,
The past, a crowded bed, a pentagram,
The evolution of friendship, an alluvial veil over bedrock.
These words rippling the muddy pond.

Sometimes in dreams I meet strangers .
The veil lifts, images, fragments, pieces of the puzzle.
But the gift of sight muddied our eyes.
The knowing without words. Do you ken this?
A raised cock, burning sage, fortuning desire
Worshipped in the old way, the longest night.

Tell me where friend ends and lover begins.
The verb  wal, stranger; we are strangers.
If we tear down this wall, will another rise? 
With these words we uncovered old patterns,
In that vulnerability we leaned closer
Towards concentric rippling haloes of light.

Nature abhors a vacuum.
The notes of the shofar horn bring
The strange ramparts tumbling into the sea,
Turning them back into stones of the field.
The dark pools, unfathomable—
Once we were inexorably proud mountains.
The river polishes us down to size.

rev. 2002 for Transfer Magazine

Saturday, December 19, 1992

Journal entry, 12/19/1992 WCW

12/19/1992 I went to a party in Rohnert Park with Mimi Albert, she invited me to go without Jan. It turned out to be a boring event, a good thing I came late. However an airline pilot marooned in the atrium said he was from New Jersey, and asked what we did. Like conjoined twins we both blurted out poets. Attempting to find some common ground, he started telling us about his family doctor—who was a poet. Mimi and I both leaned forward and in the same breath, asked, he wasn’t William Carlos Williams, was he? To which the surprised pilot, John, hitched up his trouser leg to display a scar that the good doctor himself had sewed up when John, at the tender age of eight fell out of an apple tree and filleted his shin.