“There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?” William Shakespeare (Hamlet, 5.2.214)
To live as Brazilian Pirahã
is to be wholly in the present
where mists of past and future
are intangibles of time.
To live with Pirahã worldview
is to have no word for worry.
Dreamtime is the same as waketime…
seamless experience.
To live on the Meici River
is to flow one with the moment
where death is observation
eyes close…breath stops…
and readiness is all.
milky news pods pendulous drip from data clouds to clamshell i-Things discarded pre-metamorphic memory erased on a waveless beach where tongues twitter whisper and facemask photo shards disperse to glitter litter across infinite sand
come to the feast…
and drink clear water
seeped through stone
from cliffside springs
onto your tongue…
taste eras there…sip
country pheasant broth
strained enough to hint
of flight within its essence…
bite through the flesh
of warm-ed figs
to taste the green first
sprung through earthy loam
upon a rocky hill…
gnaw wild deer ribs
fire pit turned, spine cracked
to portions of hot muscle…
we throw the bones to darkness
in the corners of the room
and know…
it’s a mead hall time of year for me
with cravings for smoked shadows
salt crystalled cod and clove mulled wine
crisp partridge and roast deer
the heart strong wild of bear…
for I must taste strong flavors
touch sweat from sharp stone walls
smooth splinters roughed in pine
drip tallow on my palm
watch dust motes drift in shafts of light
hear sighs of sea-born rain
gnaw shreds of happiness
from bones of memory.
and…
I shall feed you flowers…
not as Oberon…tactician
strategist of magical intent;
I’ll find no tinctured potion
of Love-in-idleness to wake
you to a baseless passion
I need no Puck to gather
marigolds… petals I would
scatter on a dark green bed
of watercress to be garnish
peppery…for your wakening
of desire
I shall gather orange nasturtium
in the morning when chill night
has dew filled its tiny cups with
drops of sweet clear nectar I
shall offer to the wakening
of your sleep parched lips
and I shall place carnation petals
on your tongue for cinnamon and
nutmeg…and one violet for cleansing
to prepare you for my kisses
Her madding…is words cratered,
embedded deep in strata of her brain,
tremored there to avalanche the sticks
and stones of the other’s enmity.
Her madding…is cumulus resent circling
counter clockwise…building distaff
preliminary for tornadic downdraft
of erratic striking…devastating path.
Her madding…is continents of drift
on tension plates that tectonic slide
beneath composure rifts…and slip
abrupt to swift accommodate her
emotion’s shift.
Her madding…is kindling set to blaze
on smolder coals of grievance…old fires
banked sequentially on the hearth
of her stricken heart.
Proem... 
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