I don’t dream of tsunamis…

I don’t dream of tsunamis, or

Giant storm waves crashing against a shore.


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Being, Not Becoming

Waves cresting sharply against a driving west wind.

Green drab, opaque brown, rising like a wall, curling,
sending a mane of spray, shiny with rainbows, up and
back as they collapse in a smother of foam.

Next wave rising up behind, ready to take its turn.

Quiet lull as water rushes out.

Big ones rise, begin to curl far out, rushing inwards in a
building crescendo, before spilling in a flurry, spending
force with abandon, creaming the surface, its visible
breath wreathed in prismatic color, hangs in air before
dissipating in a relaxation as it succumbs to gravity in a
falling sigh.

Place transforms before our eyes, low, confused in roiling
arrays of wash that hold their shape, their form, as they
walk inwards towards the shore.

Walls of water, like horses, vaulting themselves over barr-
iers – they take shape for a lingering instant before crash-

They present a moment of clarity. Being, not becoming.

A moment returning, repeating, inexhaustible, never
twice the same.

We try to capture them, to hold them in memory.

An impossible complexity, too rich, too fleeting to be

This phase itself passing – calm will return, darkness, a
change of tide, of wind….

This phase demands attention.

Edges, surfaces, lines of force, each movement there in its
predecessor holding its following moment in an incessant

Curling breakers inspire, wind hard against their faces,
exhaling in great gouts of spray, leaving rainbows lunging,
refracting golden light into all its parts, colors scattered
over sea and sky share, feeding off the sun now setting,
source of wind, source of waves, of all that make up this

Rainbows arching, and falling, expire.



Greek for eye
the word the root for medical and
scientific terminology.

Eye has a range of meanings,
ways of looking into
or out of
the orbs of sight.

the word forms itself around
these soft, slightly oblate,
gelatinous spheres.

It treats the eye as a thing,
in all its vulnerability.

Saying opthalmos,
we can almost taste it?

We feel a goat’s eye, or
a fish eye,
something sitting on a plate
or rolling on the tongue.

We feel the wonder of something so
and tenuous
cradled in its bony orbit,
but open to the air,
to all kinds of dangers,
physical, emotional.

the eye in Buñuel,
laid open by a straight

the imagined feel of an empty socket,
dry or moist?
behind a patch?
or holding a glass eye?
cold, rattling, and blind
– dumb to sight–
everything a real eye is not.

όρχις, Orkhis,
another fragile,
delicate organ on the
between inside and out.

Language calls one forth
in relation to the other.

works across distance
at the speed of light,
speed of sight.

works across time
not space.

One takes in to see out,
capturing the past as presence.

The other replicates the past
to create a myriad of possible futures.

Both are profligate,
both precious to us.

the word cradled in age.

reflects history
and evolution.

Organs standing in for our entire
so fragile
– wet ware– it’s now called, yet
so tenacious.

In my mind’s eye
I see myself looking
into your
eyes, filling mine.

does not carry this vocabulary.


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Narragansett Pier: An incongruous
tow crosses from North to South. A
too small seeming tug – sure they’re
powerful – a derrick-crane barge,
low to the water, covered with stuff,
stepping on waves, follows close
behind. Close behind it a long –
three hundred foot – four hundred
foot – reef-like barge, just clear
of awash. The first barge’s cargo;
drums, boxes, cylinders, and
squares, in rust red or pale yellow,
dirty white in the angled light; fill-
in beneath the horizontal linked-Xs
of the crane at rest. The second
barge looks made of brown stone
with horizontal stretches piled
sedimentary. Impossible to tell
what they’re made of, rusty metal,
wood? Stone? Close behind, a
small, red-housed tug steering the
assemblage by holding it back. The
whole procession takes ten minutes
to traverse its own length.

Action! The after-tug has gone free
and is ranging up the side, overtak-
ing the larger barge, reaching level
with the derrick barge in the time it
took to write this line. It’s form
blends into the shapes on the barge
as it ties-up amidships. The proces-
sion continues its glacial pace, a
living lesson in inertia.

It’s hard to imagine why they are
here, so close-in along a rocky
shore, on a course with little sea-
room for miles ahead until Point
Judith is rounded. Its movement
can only be measured over time.
Each instant shows little change
from the last. Its course precarious,
its speed ponderous, their purpose
imponderable, their ultimate end

Have they stopped? Lights begin to
show against the dusk. White lights
on the white sides of the lead tug,
pale pinpricks. They appear sta-
tionary now, only moving against
the waves; low, flat, tired swells
that trip in shallow water to crest emer-
ald green and white.

Each of the three remaining silhou-
ettes seem ranged not in a line, but
in echelon. The lead tug appears to
be heading more towards the land
than the other two. An out-of-
kilter air presides over the entire
assemblage; old, ill-equipped,
poorly placed, and off-course.
These concerns written in the
scrawl of their profiles, in the angles
and vectors of their passing.

They haven’t progressed in all these
lines. The reason for such a stop
here at this time another mystery.
Beach-walkers, traffic, fire trucks,
yapping dogs; no one pays the tow
the least attention. It’s uncanny
their blindness. Perhaps a million
tons of bristling equipment mere
hundreds of yards away, where sea-
borne traffic is normally crawling
across the horizon, the gigantism of
ships disguised by distance.…
Would an invasion fleet be as easily
overlooked? Tojo’s carriers steaming
right into Pearl Harbor? An alien
spaceship pressing down its im-
mense, yet weightless bulk on the
White House? Perhaps, if their
coming were not beat into us,
broad-cast by so many electronic
repeaters. Any true import washed
away by the superficiality of manu-
factured interest and isolated detail.

I look, I always have, to seaward,
puzzling at the signs, however
much the land turns its back on
them. As the lights begin to distin-
guish themselves from the growing
gloom – in an hour their electrified
twinkle may attract the shoreline’s
attentions. Twinkling lights de-
tached from corporeality, the trail-
ing mass and tangle lost in deep

They still haven’t moved in all these
lines. Sirens, blinking lights, rush
past behind me. Walking with their
eyes on their personal electronics,
muses and mediators combined,
clutched in their young paws; a
group of teenage boys walk by out-
of-place, out of time.

The spectacle engrosses from every
angle. Silent portents on the sea, no
way to know what it all means.
Attention drawn to dreads and
fears during this hyped-up season
of the dead, Halloween and the
Mid-term election. One lone surfer
dressed in black walks a white
board in the shallows, turns to face
the next wave, rides it quickly to its
dissolution, walks back out. Neo-
prene figure astride his white
mount in frigid waters in growing
darkness. Lost? Or merely awaiting
his three companions? Dark riders,
pale horses….

The spectacle looms over us all. Its
demands unceasing, its concerns;
draining, depressing, frightening,
and demoralizing; are inescapable.
No one controls it, though many
want to ride it to riches, to power,
to fame. There is the ultimate sign
of its proportions, when the great-
est ambition is not money or
power, but to be fed to the spect-
acle, to shine in its glow, to burn
with its fire, to be consumed; but
not forgotten, at least until the next
sacrifice reaches the front of the

The Aztec seems cruel in hindsight,
his victims writhing as he plucks
out their hearts, watched by the
fervent multitudes framed in leery
fire-light. I can now understand
they may have been willing, as will-
ing as we are to pay the full price
for feeding the spectacle. The cost
blithely undertaken, accepted
without complaint by those wor-
shiping spectacle above all else. The
cost, hidden in plain sight, in all its
improvised contingency, out of
place, ill-conceived, its future, our
future, precarious…. The whole
implausible, incongruous thing,
looming in growing darkness, ig-


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Within the Tribe

Within the tribe

there are no commodities.

Within the tribe

no one is replaceable.

Within the tribe

effort is contextual.

Within the tribe

results are not quantifiable.

Within the tribe

value is intrinsic.

Within the tribe

meaning is clear.

Within the tribe

all that can go wrong does go wrong.

Within the tribe

there is error, abuse, tragedy.

Within the tribe

there is ignorance and stupidity.

Within the tribe

there is violence and cupidity.

Within the tribe

there is hope of belonging.

Within the tribe

there can be no worldwide hegemony.

Between the tribes

there can be war or peace.

Between the tribes

there is room for variation.

Between the tribes

monks and travelers intermingle.

Between the tribes

each place can be called a home.

Without the tribes

the world is devastated.

Without the tribes

we are all adrift.

Without the tribes

the people have no home.

Without the tribes

creatures, places, people are ground to pieces.

Without the tribes

everything costs and nothing has value.

Within the tribe
there are no commodities…


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Over Drawn

“It came home to me this week that the background level of unease I have treated as normal isn’t – and that I can do something about this.”

“Personal unease, I guess. Partly it’s constantly living with a sense of endless things needing doing.”

Dougald Hine on Twitter

Over Drawn
Over                    Drawn
Over                                         Drawn
Over                                                                      Delineated
Above                                                                   Pulled Out
Too Much                                                                 Drafted
On Top                                                            Distinguished
Über                                                                         Profiled
Dominating                                                           Sketched
Controlling                                                            Designed
Demanding                                                                 Lined
Hyper-trophic                                                          Limned
More Than Desired                                          Determined
Beyond                                                                      Beaten
Beyond                                                                      Forged
Beyond                                                                   Wrought
Beyond                                                                        Made
Beyond                                                                 Tensioned
Over Drawn:                                    
Time Enough
Time to Spare
Time Wasted
Time Gone
In Time
Out of Time
Outside Time
Time Out
Broken Desire
Desire to Fix
Make Whole
Too Much
Not Enough
Never Enough
Over Wrought
Made Too Much of


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Sea Horizon

Why is it when I look to the sea horizon I always see the
past? My own past, deep past, when I was growing up in
sight of a daily sea horizon. The earth’s past, when the sea
meant bounty, an infinity spread out before us, enormity
spelled out in waves, in depths, in breadth, in fish, and in
vistas of an infinite world, an immeasurable globe where
each horizon rolled away ahead and filled in behind with
the promise of yet another, then another, world without
end, ad infinitum.

Every sea horizon held portent framed in the mind’s eye
by the Pillars of Hercules, portals to the unknown, an
unknown of possibility and immeasurable abundance.
Second only to the sky as added attribute to rocky
ground. Sea horizons stretching back in time till our
minds are met by waves crashing in steaming gouts
against crusting lavas cooling from earth’s first coalescing.

Sea horizons perhaps one of the first reflections of rising
consciousness as self-awareness pushed outwards against
immensity. Sea horizons that held our deepest fears,
home to monsters, doubts, embodiments of the alien, the
other to our insignificance.

In the sea horizon I catch glimmers of a far-off future
fullness, a restored abundance, the sea has survived and
replenished after comparable disasters before. What’s lost
to me is a present, a sea horizon that is anything but a
barrier, distance made meaningless by squandered power,
a sea exhausted, treated not as kin of our blood, mother
to us all, a mere pit.

The monsters of imagination made all too plain, our roles
as witnesses twisted into that of executioners. The un-
countable reduced to the last, to the lost, an abundance of
scarcity, a multitude of forms of barrenness. The weight
of our insubstantiality compounded by our replication to
give us the unbearable responsibility for such complete
destruction, in a race to see if we can take down all that’s
left as we cement our own conclusion.

All that is on the sea horizon. Too long did we fear exter-
nal immensity, praying for its overthrow by our own un-
limited dominion. As we near the dreadful day when our
wish becomes reality I look back to the sea horizon, hop-
ing someday it regains the power of immensity no longer
shadowed by our delusion. There is no bargain to be
made that takes us out of life’s contingency without de-
stroying all that life might promise. All this I see, or yearn
for, looking out upon a sea horizon.


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Enough millions
Enough billions
Enough weapons
Enough gallons

Enough money
Enough candy
Enough shiny
Enough security

Enough cheese
Enough channels
Enough chips

Enough steak
Enough sexy
Enough sizzle
Enough safety

Enough troops
Enough cup-holders

Enough fun
Enough hate
Enough fear
Enough pain

Enough pancakes
Enough pie
Enough cake
Enough donuts

Enough everything.
Not enough balance
Not enough Proportion
Not enough humility
Not enough perspective



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Ai, O Meu Bacalhau!

Não á nada mais belo do que o meu bacalhau.
Grande y tão jeitoso, gemer na minha tábua.

Com tua barriga cheia, como uma grávida.
A pele dourada, coberta em escalas de prata.

As barbatanas macias, as espinhas afiadas.
Os olhos redondos, grandes, límpidos, cansados.

O rabo redondo, como a minha mão, grande.
As guelras vermelhas, cheias de sangue, forte.

Tão fria, mas cheia de beleza.
Passo mais tempo contigo do que com a minha esposa.

Abra-te a minha faca, cheia de ovas cor de rosa.
As peles da tua barriga lustrosas como madrepérola.

Cuandu acabo contigo, a mais outra, y outra atras de ela.
Seu cheiro, limpo, fundo, no meu nariz a toda hora.

Cinto o teu peso nos meus braços a noite, quando durmo.
Ai! Não a nada, mais belo do que o meu bacalhau, tão maravilhoso.

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