Sand

Sand

No one ever sees one. You only see billions of it.
Trees, rocks, clouds, almost anything stands alone
allowing a naked judgment. That there is a tree.

You go into the forest and hack a Christmas one.
You load rocks into a wheelbarrow, and move them.
You spot an odd fishhook in some wandering cirrus.

But on the beach you lay on uncountable sands.
Not one. There is nothing to say about one sand.
And yet how important many of them can be.

It may be the most socially dependent object known.
And yet it seems insistent on covering what’s under it.
I saw an abandoned doorway, the threshold buried

in what sand does.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Our Daemons

Our Daemons
(dedicated to Philip Pullman)

When we fought, they cringed.
We didn’t always notice, we were busy,
otherwise engaged.
Caught in the jaws of our arguments.

But in the corners, and opposite, shivering,
quivering, pupils darting, our essences,
looking this way and that, the best
things about our Eachness, our Dust --

Oh, how I was adept at conjuring
greater sins than the current. And you.
How you glared, causing me to wonder
at the origin of the moisture in your eyes.

-- committed murder or love.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

My Spiral

My Spiral

Can I tell you the problem I have with concentricity?
No matter how far inward you go, it's still another circle.

When I think of what we are, and have been, and will be
I envision a terminus. A focus. A drain, even.

Where we stop spinning, being separate. Orbiting
endlessly, the other in sight, but no closer.

I guess I just believe in this other thing. My spiral.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Righteousness

Righteousness

Undoubtedly, by definition, if nothing else,
the most righteous are the most right.

If not the greatest problem the world's ever known,
this is arguably that second, and the first remains,

that there is no second,
if the first.

c. Ciprianowords, 2009

Honesty

Honesty

It's one of life's conundrums, like standing outside Carlsbad,
watching the bats fly out.
A scientist, furiously tabulating. Wingbeats per second,
multiplied by square footage of cavern-entrance-hole.
Jesus, no. There cannot possibly be that many in there --

And so you are telling me stuff, and to the very degree my
ears hear, my eyes shut, and I keep saying [to myself]
"It's not possible" and you're not at all finished, while I'm
thinking "You could sell tickets to such an event."

-- And one, honest to God, got tangled on my head.
While I flailed about and screamed, Professor Angstrom
assured me, "These are not rabid or poisonous at all."
But you know what?
I did not care. I just wanted the damn thing out of my hair.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009

The Promised Land

The Promised Land

I did not ask for this. Nor did I question
my role as ladder-holder. But I now fear
my eternal destiny.
If Motive be judge, I am safe.
Innocent as yesterday's sparrow, hatched.
But let Desire hold the gavel.
This wizened vulture did not circle twice
before descending in his spiral,

toward that which was above.

For as you climbed the steps, so did I.
My wayward gaze fell upon that which
should not be seen unless shown.
The land of milk, oh yes, and honey.
My trembling hands upon the rails shook.
And my eyes, longing to weep,
seemed [wickedly] unable to do so.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009

Not In Me

Not In Me

It's not in me to win a bout, my Love.
Your eyebrows, or how you say chocolat
as if you know other words in French.

The little chirping sounds when you're hurt.
Your unique al dente rules for spaghetti.
Your sock-folding ways and love of oral

hygiene. The way you floss, and toss.
The gloss on windows when you're done.
It's not even fair at all you should know

when it comes to anything knock down -
drag out, the referee will be slapping the
mat thrice, and holding your left arm high.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Due

Due

Wind blew in today, a bad one.
Some said twister.
I was playing snooker at Sing-Loo's.
He sells cigarettes to all ages, for 5 cents.
We heard nothing. No ripples in my draft.

Three blocks over, Mrs. Ludder's roof left town.
And the cross on St. Brigid's skewered
Jim Blidwort's Holstein.
Rack 'em up, Eddie.
That cow was due for the abattoir.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009.