When the line is pulled in
taking the hook back to the fisher of men,
the salmon I am learns
that the pool is filled
with the dryest water
the charge has stopped traveling,
and the fish that I am stupidly
opens his mouth and closes it around
what could be a stone
or a nameless beetle –
there is no pleasure
in swallowing
the water drawn in
is empty of life.


DE PROGRAM doing not doing
doing not not doing

DE purpose not doing doing not
DE Stroy


When the mouse that I am
falls from the owl’s claws (an owl
lets go only rarely) –
falling, the ground seems less
and less graspable,
boundary walls lose their shape,
and, landing, the tedium
of the land asserts itself.

I would thank the owl
for my life only
if I could keep it
alongside his speed,
underneath his wings –
if he meant to kill me,
I was not saved by his release.


What have I been allowed
to keep, how can the urn
fill himself with wine
or ashes
when he is nothing but
the void he surrounds?

How to attract
a suitable nomad
who has a use for me,
and how can his use
become my purpose?

To be inert, and still
to remember desire
is the curse
which Fate (impossible!)
removes the stain of.


What does it mean,
for you,
that I am unable to fear death?

Does my infirmity hold your interest
as a display of the bizzare
or sorrowful?

When I say that the world has lost
something essential,
do you count yourself
in what has been lost
or in what remains?

After all, we are both still
here, held in place by
peanut butter and jelly
or the spongelike hands
of The Crone on our faces.