noJab V’s the cdc

the leaves returned, and left,
without my noticing. in summer
they hide the mountains.
passion-noticed once I thought
would be my leafage, being hollywood
-diminutive, fond of the mirror’s two
-page definitive

guide—a leave-her-gasping kind
of looter. afterwards, maturer,
I wanted…always wanted—a
thing of Zenful actualness…
but what a painful task!
is easier

to amplify the flame,
the burn, of self, called ‘Me’
than extinguish this! the glass,
the Image, mercury—
and where, in this, am I
the Am? tree

is not without
the earth, nor Earth the
other properties.

when I’m on the forklift
I view the actors
in the branches, in their bit parts
bare and free. I watch them
from the press
as I’m waiting the retraction of the ram,

and on the floor, where the grey winter
mud, from the large machinery, cakes
the concrete pad—the hardest ask
of anything I sought, the baring of
the ego to the root, the paring of the trunk
flesh back to sap, and what the leaf
thereof…the trees are not
natives so they shed their foliage.

they grow large leaves easily
vibrated in the slightest currents.
I love that …middle road, some Self,
a silent ego, balanced, nonsense,
when necessary; areas of seriousness
when the nonsense catches fire,
and philosophies, aflame, have parents
injecting flame retarders into the narrow
veins of narrow newborn arms.