The world is folded in to every object And each thing or idea is the folding And unfolding of space, time and history. And the atom is...

Tool-Use If the hammer is a symbol of the power of the hand,  the hand is the product of the need for a hammer.

Adam is a dry rib but sinews are stretched, tissue and flesh fashioned. Man of Spirit, embodied. Descending the mountain with Moses, he...

Fichte / Picture There is nothing real anywhere, neither outside of us nor in us. I know of no being at all. Not even myself. Images...

On the other side of the optic glass, Ishmael's albino whale of the sky Leprously blemished, ghastly white.

Uncommitted You can hardly say that I abide by the rules of political commitment or that I affect the diction of the dispossessed. ...

A tool for imitating movement, For the small things that penetrate, For the breath's expulsion ...

objects are luminous: their light appears on the intellect’s horizontal plane (the boundary between knower and known).

Coldly satanic is the phantom moon whose hollow shell is the alien body of a god who hatched and died too early.

Bergson Memory is a cloud wherever my body is; A fog of the virtual enveloping the actual. The past contracts to the present at the...

There is (if you care to know), a flower of folly growing On my brain, on the surface of the matter’s deep. Fit for the Fire, its fate is...

In my mind a series of irrational numbers, of non-repeatable fractions without end. Something doesn’t add up. I am divided,...

The Moses Tree From the tangle of its roots, To the nests in its hair The tree blazed white and blue. And the tree sang the Lord’s name...

[ Disguised .] Yes, it is I. In I come, out I go. Yes, I am it. It writes. I will write a supplication. Here. Now. As follows. And in...

Cryptic The scent of a foreign newspaper in the morning: New ink on old investments and trades. While down in Berlin, the autobus...

Having material weight, a poem can be shaped, sculptured and refined; erected as units, structures, factories, bridges, outhouses and...

Descartes' Dream I was a lonely cripple Seeking shelter; I heard thunder, saw fire. Sleeping too much, Snow on the rise. My bones warm...

Irked Like a sacred text folded in on itself, a page half torn away, stains in the margins, a footnote wrongly numbered, the letter ‘i’...

Shaddai A plant grows from the Nile, the שׁ, primordial cause, rooted in the water, breathing in the air, the commencement of births,...

Discourse in the Garden: A Short Drama An olive grove. Night. The sound of approaching footsteps. SOCRATES: ‘Swounds! A dark day for strong flowers and cool breezes. Can you deny it? PLATO: Are you spreching to me, sir? SOCRATES: I am, almost certainly. [Sits beside PLATO.] Call me I am. PLATO: Ha! Welcome. Call me anything you like. I’ll deny it later. SOCRATES: Ho! I’ve only lived the one life. Where next? Should I go on? PLATO: Always going on. Even when you’re half dead.