well used dollar bill


(long sentence comprising background to “main” action begins unobtrusively—see note at end)


Something familiar occurred today in the most unexpected way. A man I recognize from the neighborhood

        [ called me by name ]

and handed me

        [ a well-used dollar bill. ]


(multiplicity—dialog—suddenly many)

Poetry is as distinct from our language (English) as English is from Chinese.

« An image in a mirror cannot be captured without considerable distortion of mind.

[ Which is the original face? ] »


Observe self-generated theater. Gesture is our written language.

[ When ]

        [ hands are  placed on hips. ]

    [ When ]

        [ fists beat the cosmos. ]

Truth must be said in complete sentences. Poetry does not fit into sentences.

[ A sentence in nature ]


« « [ a flash of lightning. ] »

(Nested Awakenings)

Poetry is not.

… [ A cloud, ] …

the initial capitalization.

… [ Earth, ] »

(The Story of Being Invisible)

the period.

[ In between ]


[ subject and predicate— ]


Poetry is not Nature. The natural order considers cause and effect. Poetry does not.



So for instance, the passing of a dollar bill

[ from one hand to another ]

acts similarly to a sentence. Everything surrounding a sentence, everything that is not truth, is poetry

[ or Providence. ]


(Nested within this story, one long sentence acts as quiet background to the main story, sometimes merging with the foreground at specified/unspecified points, occurring simultaneously with the main action.)

I was planning on walking to work this morning when I noticed the aqua sky defined by one periwinkle cumulous cloud in the shape of an ideogram that was describing the day as it is written (in time and space) and I realized that today is not a day for delay--no, not an office day--but one in which recognition, hope, and joy, should be offered to strangers on the street, brothers and sisters who might be wobbling off balance and are unaware that before the fall of night they’ll be tossed out into the cosmos, leaving a trace of themselves behind like a dollar bill (with its “eye of Providence”) left on a counter, individuals gathering numbers, gathering dollars, collecting well-used bills handed to them from neighborhood characters who break bread which is bought hourly at the bodega, our Duomo, and I understood that my walk would be--in part--responsible for the formation of the cornflower cloud/ideogram/story line that is endlessly emerging by my/your/our action, a movie camera outside the frame capturing a migrating illusion, the migrating geese cawing, passing squall, the thunderous cloud with its magic-lantern shadows watering seeds of joy, and a deep, penetrating peace, a rush of calm.