Quiet. Dampening.

so this is how you swim inward,

so this is how you flow outward,

so this is how you pray

Mary Oliver, Five A.M. Pinewoods

Rain, snow,

damper pedal.



so that sound


rise –

Arise quiet sound –

its feel –

tonight, now,


a melancholy birth,

nostalgia and utopia

again, combined.



Cabin Letter, cloud fragment, Colorado, July

Dear – (names of loves, Colorado cloud formations)…

to follow scent and slope toward where words are to be tasted. Summer. Diction. Pronunciations of a walk, a caress, of noticing and discovery


Aspen, pine, columbine.

Grasses, marsh, and pebbles.

Sand and water.

Bodies in the world. Of.

Earthy heavens.


To lose reason and perception in being.

A sense of that. Sky. Fluid. Water flowing and founding, above and below.

I can still imagine desire,

after all.


Clouds never ceased converging and changing,

even when they weren’t.

Berry referred to this as “the space between the leaves”

“I,” for instance, mind or body both.

Clouding forms.


Smoke and drink still, even in absence of.


A carriage of conversation accompanying – in the form of silence, – inscriptions, all that is nonhuman, waiting for or presenting any of its forms.

Written language or music recordings, for instance: grasses and bushes, streamsongs and trees along with birds and stealthy deer.

All bodies of the world, in and with it, too.



Making presence like a meal. A party. A walk, a hike, a bath, asleep.

If I named you to bring you near – what would you be? Who?

(shuffling the cards of names)

(faces all worn off)

A tiny pine responds, fake empire.

Eyes are everywhere, like leaves, like air molecules.

The spaces between.


I go out.


Nights are maps, are dreams.


Cloud formations. Always.

“Russian blue.” Vodka. Confusion-in-fusion. Withness.

-to cease the spirit

Nothing beyond.

The mosquito, intravenous. To “draw” blood.

Spirits. (extraction versus infusion)

Extrusion. No medicine.

Aspen quiver, laboring breath. Alone. All becoming one.

What? Who?

(so much any named “you” as an “I”)

Caught in the trees, slipped in the stream. Thirsty.

Asleep again. Watching clouds.

Dear –

– you. fire. rain. bodies with and in and of the world. Here, not-here.

Results this letter. Address. Silently.

Solitude as a freedom to be alone, to become (how slowly?) all-one.

Alone there’s nothing there. Cloud fragments.

Sky rains its portions. With, in, of. Neither for nor against.

Perhaps awake now.

Air in, air out.


Is all I’ve learned to suffer.


Cloud formations

Storms. There is a darkness, a swelling uprising (not grand!) in me translating the transformation of Alone/All-one, a kind of grit and pollution I add.


Bones. Rock. Stones




the fluids

they conjoin.

Dear –

it began.

(it was left for the voices) – with/in/of.

Dear Marguerite, Helene, Clarice…

Hello, I am (not) alone. With/in/of the world. Neither for nor against.

Yet imagination and desire

cloud formations, I was expressing in

such great heights

Thank you reader…

Again, that uncanny occurs. Someone stumbles upon some old composition or effort. Someone comments insightfully, provocatively, and I come into a new relation to what I had let into the world a decade ago. Thank you. Today, reviewing, I was struck by this piece from some other me some time past, and it felt resonant again, much later, as continuing me…

From my longer work, 2012, I, For Instants, (https://manoftheword.com/experimenctes/i-for-instants/), the brief section “I the Question”https://manoftheword.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/i-the-question.pdf

Again, thank you readers for bringing new readings…

Cabin Scribbles (July 2022)

so language is an architecture for open?

they make their way to the mountain.


up there you make your way too,



i’m a man of too many words

but silent ones, written noise

i’m no good with others,

i always say too much

Cabin Reflections (July 2022)


(sky and birds), between

(enclosed and contained),

between the not existing and the sleepless

there are no obstacles.

Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, Xenia

it’s hard to make sense

outside of the world

or in a larger world

things don’t register

in expected ways


the pace is all different

and nothing is counting

time, space, and motion

do their thing as one

the human happenings


don’t make sense

or seem separate, divorced,

a frantic scale

the earth holds quietly


even words dissolve

and transform

like breezes

and bird-calls,

not meaning the same


passing, passing, held

passing, passage, hold

i imagine at Heidegger’s hut

he was murmuring

these things, being


hard to make sense of it

with reason or belief

a stance

but easy sense



Where do you listen?

What are you listening

with and for?

How do you listen?

Silently, with wing-beats


water moves


i move

out of my head

into the rest

of me, my skin

an open passage

my organs trudging

patiently, waiting

blood moves


accordion chest

filling my limbs

hands holding

feet touching



lay back

all in

an other

with / in / of

this world,


Today. Again. Almost.

[or, grass in pavement; beyond black holes?; “boundaries are made to pound against” (Hejinian); after Celan, after Knausgaard) “you have to dream new ways of thinking”]


We praise the dead (remember?)

and the Mother holds them,

in catacombs,

the earth…

…beyond the black hole,

again and again and again…


The world is radiant!

Feel that?!

Continuous fomentations out

of undifferentiable chaos –

muddy unsolvables


Look! Look again!

Quit speaking.

It is here. (mysteriously)



…beyond the black holes,

again and again, not yet…

Where are you, real-ly,

becoming and formative,

nearly gone. To where?


Look! Look again!

Call it listening,

attention. The smallest detail

comes infinite.

You are there, also!

But where? you ask –

and can’t be found…


…just there, now,

which is – where? –

No longer. Linger.

It occurs, what might

be else.


Cheers to the wonder,

unknown! – what

is. Like being

before there’s a there.

It happens…


…beyond the strange darkness –

horizon-event, that complains,

and becomes as it passes

in strife, in the Mother,

the dying, remembering


“The Dream’s Navel”: an adaptation

Was a kindly algorithmic suggestion toward a remembering, almost a gift, perhaps… once I wrote this…

…yet another example of negotiating tools and context.  The previous post it seemed natural, as if I reached into the surround in order to work …

“The Dream’s Navel”: an adaptation

November the 24th


The summer

almost always,

so hard to endure –

warmth, light –

no solace

no protection –

only so much


is possible

in light…



The autumn:

a young child



dear demise,


something almost true

to fact


The spring –

its delusion,


as if there were

a coming-to-be,

or fascist utopia –


all the bells

and whistles


Our winter:


and good –


of presence,

sweet ache

of living,



in place


I love.

Maundy Monday, or “No One’s Ways” – thoughts on Monday

Obviously shame and guilt AFFIRM us… as organisms that CARE

(at the least about ‘how we are perceived or incorporated’)

or, it tires me out to be around ‘people’ but ‘people’ are what we get

or, “Hello, Adam” (Thalia Field, Personhood)

or, “I” am constructed by/in/with a context

or, what do “I” (does I’s) know?

or… and so on…

What does “care” stand for? Or represent? “Mean”?

~ a fine form of self-determination-destruction

indenting “i”-dentities

Behold: “I” cares. “I” is ashamed and guilty. “I” loss, lose, be-wilder. (Can you?)

– Care as apparatus and negotiation. A “feeling-for” securing a sense. Places and times.


How does this fit? Be-long? Where when how what.

And so on.

NOW.HERE. (always – for humans, etc…?=ETCETERA – or beyond outpast = ellipses).

Sing again. Breath. Sound.

“Care” as negotiation.

– somewhere somethings laughing