In this dream I had J.L. Borges was pitching and I was up. My bat was made up of a series of convex mirrors. I knew Borges had a wicked fork ball and I was ready for it. But when he released it it just kept coming. I wailed away at it striking out over and over on the same pitch. As the innings went by I began to realize the catcher had stepped out and was trying to intentionally walk me because runners were on second and third with first base open. After the game I sat in the dugout looking at my reflection in my bat. Instead of a ball cap I had on a little cone shaped party hat. On the bench next to me was one of those little kazoo-like things you blew in and they uncurled like a snake. I heard a voice say, "shake it off, tomorrow's another game."

The loggerheads left for deeper waters-
Not so this fellow by the side of the road.
He lives in his head here,  at rest in roadside salad,
A monument I can stand over.  I study the
Mustard and tar glyphs in each panel along his back.
There I see his landing, what was conferred, and
His decision to stay.  But I worry he may change his
Mind and try to cross the road. Maybe not in time.
But there is something final about his withdrawal:
The seamless hatch, the archeology of his helmet.

Later in the barbershop I ask the barber to shave my head.
I close my eyes, purse my lips and pinch my nose. The
hair fails like clumps of snow and I hear myself say,
"This is the new world."  Later still my phrenologist 
Runs his fingers across the braille of my bald head.
"There is nowhere to go," he says. "You are already there."

I know it's arbitrary  when I face you,
But just the idea that you are there
And I am here sends the left into words
And my right into color and smile.
My mind is in my head like that note
In my wallet, a reminder to get juice.
When my mind is made up it is the only
Instruction there is. That that point is listening
Is the only point. That that point sees is
The only point. That that point knows is
The only point. One at a time I stand there.
Not in the east, not in the west, but just north
Of south, and south of north...

My education lies there
on the table, a cooked
ham. I will eat it slowly.
Maybe over the course
of several days. Then
it will be gone. "Now
what?", I say to me.
The landscape I will
remember included a
ham and then it didn't.
Out there on the empty
plate lies the loss. But
then I feel sleighted
enough that I think
that memory belongs in
here. Where? In this pup
tent with my flashlight,
pop, and comic books.
Where? In this card
board box that once
held a refrigerator. Now
I have cut a window
into the blue green rest.
But all around me in the
dark I breathe my
memories, scooping and
packing them onto me-
Wet mud. When they dry
I will come out through the
side flap into the bright
colored world, squinting,
wearing the earth.

Here's a little poem by Les Murray  I like that I found in a book called Upside Down Zen by Susan Murphy.

The Young Fox

I drove up to a fox
on the disused highway.
It didn"t scare, but watched me
roll up to it along the asphalt.
I got out.  Any poultry it would kill
wouldn't now be mine, no feud between us.

It watched quizzically then bounded
away with an unmistakable headshake
that said "Play with me!"
and stopped, waiting. I remember
how sharply perfumed the leaves were
that lay on the pavement in that world.

The body of Jesus, broken on the cross, offers an image of the primal matter.  It is the body of a criminal abandoned by his intimates, tortured and given a slow, shameful death.  Since the situation is beyond human repair, the corpse is taken down and given to the rock of the tomb where eternity may do what it will.  And women come to bathe and anoint the body: their care for the broken corpse softens the dark a little, and after three days of inert death, a door opens.  When the new time appears, we find that the dark does not disappear all at once and forever.  Compassion wakes us to our labors.  Like Dante with his guide, we leave Hell to enter Purgatory, the place where burdens are taken on for the sake of love.
                                                                                 -John Tarrant
                                                                                 The Light Inside the Dark

During the descent we also lose the way others see us.This is not always a bad thing in the long run, but it is humiliating and painful.  The mask that we present to the world slips off and the face behind it becomes visible, with its expression of terror, greed, despair, dishonesty-whatever is usually kept in the cellar.  The moment of surrendering the old image -of life, of the self-is most painful.  At such a time we know that we must strike out on our own, but in our new solitude and shame sometimes we go under,  for a while, or forever. Nonetheless, the stripping away of the mask that links us to all that we are known to be and do is a necessary part of descent, one that eventually allows a fresh start.
                                                    -John Tarrant, excerpted from The Light Inside the Dark
                                                                                                
                                                                             

Every object speaks when touched.
Every object shouts when struck.
The stag beetle hears the air
Caress the leaves.The chickadee
Notices the heat drop down onto
its black head. A scent collides
Somewhere in a horse's nose.
Only this pen can hear the nudge
As it slides into my shirt pocket.
Every object has its way of remembering.
Out of each form comes the memory,
Like a bee moving from one brushing to
Another, leaving something as it gathers
Itself. Finally the memory is gone.
And the object rests in that knowing.
Every object has its own silence.

"Lifting a brush, a burin, a pen, or a stylus is like releasing a bite or lifting a claw."
                                                                                                                  -Gary Snyder
Cereal

down through a long line of shamans
All the words spilled out, dark leaves
on the forest floor. This place is like
A bowl of comprehension: a little milk,
A few buttons of banana, a spit
of strawberry, and I'm full.

At first it smelled like salami, no, pastrami.
I knew it belonged between two pieces of bread.
Or two hands sandwiched at attention, at least.
The offering tasted like cole slaw,
 the pickle on the wall was still moist.
How hungry are these people I thought.
Appetite lay there like an undisturbed napkin.
No one chewed, no one burped.
Lunch was free.
Was I the only one who realized
A free lunch is a naked lunch.
The crumbs lay in my lap.
I tipped the wax paper, rolled
It around my comb, and
Hummed the doxology.