Choke

maybe what I saw

was the earth’s shadow rise

up a cloud

turning it toward the top pink

then fading that back

to gray      then night.

then maybe I think I see.

too much.

the tiniest gradation      of  detail

squeezed from attention

by the choke hold

on thin air     for the sublime     a blessing.

when life stinks

and your eyes have to take it in      to live.

and your eyes have to take it in to live

the exact instant you need      to jump

out of  the way.     to safety

or see danger’s vulnerable spot and hit it.

your eyes have to think

through what they are seeing     to see

how measure measures itself

when you are in it      against you to match or dis-

entangle that nascent not null of  difference.     maybe what I see

is down to the continuum     where what it is

is what it is     one thing

undifferentiated all

except as     the surface of one perfect sphere

its paris and buenos aires the same     place.

What it is     is what is seen without observer.

it is     that said   what it is.

exo-existent

thought.     without outside.

there are lines     as of  poetry

of  information between us     though.

resonant.     structure.

what is     asleep when we turn the lawn mower on

if  only the pieces we think

something has caught it for—

the turning of  attention to.

the turning of  the earth.      the earth is what is     turning.

there is no setting

of  the sun          down.

of  the sun down

some inclination to impact

at our feet as fact we stand to have

written by being here—

the rocks have source saying the same.

except they translate silent.

the word of  the wind itself      spoken everywhere

has the version of  it all as well as of  not happening ...

the sun doesn’t move.      its designation.

what it is pushes forward the appearance.

and behind—

the eastern shadow rising of  the sun’s soft down down.

its paris and buenos aires a same place.

what it is is what is seen without observer.

not the thing itself

the quality of  the hold      on things

the choke   hold on the neck of the calling     bird

may be the goddamn

of  jacob’s ladder     what it is

could be the hands in the air     air

time of  the better roller coasters

pulled out     all stops     the no hold bar & café take

out.     item name

on the menu—

the ladder being an upward

clearer approach to step.

the life     the breath.

of an answer.     the questioning.

I     eye     iamb     I am

watching the sky     read

the line below it     the landscape

get shaken by storm.

a ring iamb married into

bone dance     stone crazy.

claws of  geese shadow

scratching wild song across the sky.

chicago’s potemkin waking

gun we’re off on.     the morning

fred hampton the bobbing flock of the 1919 boy

in the inner tube float up on the 100th anniversary of  the race riot

along lake shore drive     the commuters

no idea what it is.     they say it is what it is.

anger     joy     disgust    sadness     fear

are all mountains raising in the sky

an aire     jump up shout

sound shape song response as

not if  but is

one body.

even among themselves at some distance.

all one sphere     one point

a sense of  time can be that distance’s familiar

but the mind can empathize itself  that size the dreadlocks

of  black holes                where the anger digests itself

the joy carries its brother sadness also over

and fear realizes it’s ok

and the rains come     the forests     the  jungles     the birds!