when what goes off stays off
reaching for a switch, check the breaker
so many ways to fuse, fusion, expansion
Avalokiteshvara’s thousand arms aren’t all for compassion
some ward off, some circulate, radiation its own currents
without intention what circles back
or just goes around the corner waiting for a reaction, a whistle
where could that have gone
threads of rain or grains of snow
moments I see decades of passage
what was that before, I ask
seeing an unfamiliar building on a corner
I haven’t passed for a while
speed of construction, incremental scent pf settling
graffiti questioning a wall’s existence
off kilter, into it, on a roll, about town
around tomorrow, my circle can’t get back there
when I went to re-read the book it started on page 31
my place at the table of contents
crumbs at the bottoms of bags haven’t been used since when
another person ago, some fashions refuse to return
a long abandoned street unsure what to grow towards
how an early morning blink
makes the clock jump an hour
it’s time to stop being so naïve about time
time’s exhaust, time’s worn bits
who orders the new parts, installs them
stubborn time, time with agendas
I was born with an organic metronome
not worrying who set the tempo
choreographed pressure fronts
30% chance of memory precipitation
as lightning precedes thunder
limited ability to heat or chill
when the moment slows and I speed up
friction between my pace and my location’s
scars from being habitually early—
we don’t have time, time has us
the world could hold still for minutes
and we wouldn’t have the time to notice
slow poison or all of a sudden
the still point in every wave
each heart more silent then beating
all the pumps, bumps, draws and releases
how far from here to the outdoors
shutters like a vest. no trousers in nature
a wrinkle in every blackness for sun to be seen
this warm odour, patient wind
paper unfolding into a fleeing bird
blue dust, red smoke, yellow clouds
too bright to blend, all fabrics in short batches
testing every plant for metal, for cutting
one finger learning to print
one hand to hold the sun open
how can my stomach sing without ears
between a chimney and a sewer
bread scattered in a wheatfield
neither circle nor spiral, bed spring with 30% erased
feel time’s subtle discrepancies
walls breathing twice a day
takes more than a swollen foot, a 30 pound wristwatch
transparent recognition, door getting out of the way
a throat tree with the bark on the inside
the vibrato of spring, percussion ignoring the moon
carpet thick enough to sculpt, blank paper
to dig in and amend for seeding
rain through the east wall, random bars
of molten sunlight from who knows when
cloud like a coiled spring
I didn’t sleep but 90 miles like that
music from the turned-off radio
a jacket with antennas in the sleeves
two hands at the end of each wrist
a puff of cloud conceals the moon’s southern edge
when I can’t tell if the temperature’s Fahrenheit or Celsius
my aura’s battery’s running low
as the sun’s quartet puts down their instruments
and go their separate ways
could I have walked this far
as the tracks go where no road does
as the internal compasses of long extinct mammals still guide me
running more for exhilaration than escape
smelling smoke before I see its source
before the horizon falls away as if deflated
listening to the only tree until my ear itches
my feet want to dig down but never developed that skill—
shoes for the earth’s protection, hats to keep the satellites calm
do I want the bread or what would have gone between it
a condiment for healthy hair, salt for a future storm
when the lights go out and my exhales crackle with static power
walls beyond compromise, refusing to have their heads covered
my go bag seems to wiggle, a mix of recipes and left-overs
clothes inside the same as I’m wearing
since I can’t get much thinner and still walk against the wind
as after rain I look for reflections, for a pond deep enough to wish in
What Will we Eat When we Get There
when we saw from the ground not the air
when you could only use the openings the body came with,
buildings no taller than the straightest trees,
everything else we could patch and piece,
rolling instead of folding--circular cloaks, dervish skirts
the city pig-tails from some center uncertain
cause the pig is still walking, lost in truffle dreams,
restaurants below dirigibles confuse the hunting dog
when the only fox served is faux, the young beauties
whose only solid meal is lunch, like we’re back in dormitories
flashing our food cards racing to be the last one in
the harder it rains the emptier the fridge the more widespread our hungers,
dream food steams thickly in our hands like a sauna powered by cauldrons
of corned beef and cabbage, I wake to my lover licking the flavours
from my back, dreaming of summer and that camping spot
in the ginger tomato forest
here where the street used to end, when we had several paths over the hill
like folding a map of the world into an umbrella—
how many countries can I remove and stay dry.
if all the continents were once huddled together
what was on the other side & where did it go
like a lake where downtown used to be
cause the oceans rose a foot, maintaining the highways
so the stubborn can drown, learning to taste bad
coz there’s too many mosquitoes to kill.
why make your own blood when the synthetic is much more efficient
and adds a compulsive glow—blood shot, blood sausage, blood hound,
drain the kill but save the pudding,
by eating the liver we eat the creatures past, all that went through it,
drinking from kidneys, lungs could be a bagpipe or bong
before my stomach’s full it’s started making room for more.
Dan Raphael’s chapbook How’d This Tree Get In? will be published in spring of 2025 by Ravenna Press. His full-length book, In the Wordshed, came out from Last Word Press in ’22. More recent poems appear in Umbrella Factory, Concision, Brief Wilderness, Disturb the Universe and Unlikely Stories. Most Wednesdays dan writes and records a current events poem for The KBOO Evening News.
