Some Notes on the Day

I missed my street
but found the great bazaar everywhere.
The mathematics of the mind
builds a civilization.
Philosophy covers it with moss.
Jesus was a performance artist.
Mankind need not understand
its love of art.
The cracked vase has its place,
the trimmed bush,
the rippled sand. All these
are contained in a glance.
Burning rubber
drives the herd elsewhere.
The cathedral ceiling leaks
into golden buckets, wishing wells
for the young, who toss their coins.
Alcohol drags you under,
turns the dank into crimson,
drives the mind of antiquity
to perceived brilliance,
washes the too-bright sun
upon the morning surf.
We dreamt we had walked
out of ourselves, into the garden.
The hell of the intellect
brings us back to ourselves,
places the treadmill under our feet
and describes the intimacy
of terminal illness. Excuse me,
did you say love? When time
disappears, cupid has struck bone
with a razor-edged broad-head.
The world is a giddy island.
Treasures at the newsstand.
Tips grow large for the single waitress.
Winter starts its inevitable campaign.