Misunderstood
And disillusioned,
I go on describing this place
And the way it feels to live and die.
The "natural world"
And whatever else it's called
I drive in and out of town
Seeing no edge, breathing sky
And it's hard to describe
Without seeming absurd.
I know there's no other world:
Mountains and websites
Dark smoke fills the air
Some from the fire in my house
Some from me driving around
I could see the lights of town
Through the trees on the ridge
On my way home in the dark.
I meant all my songs
Not as a picture of the woods
But just to remind myself
That I briefly live.
The gleaming stone
The moon in the sky at noon
There is no other world
And there has never been.
I still walk living sleeping
Life in the real world of clouds
Clawing for meaning.
Still when I see branches in the wind
The tumultuous place where I live
Calls out revealing.
"Can you see the river in the branches
And know that it means you will die
And that pieces are churning?"
"Can you find a wildness in your body
And walk through the store after work
Holding it high?"
I've held aloft some delusions.
From now on I will be perfectly clear:
There's no part of the world more meaningful
And raw impermanence echoes in the sky.
There is either no end
Or constant simultaneous end and beginning.
A pile of trash
The fog on the hill
Standing in the parking lot squinting.