One In Two

Dan McCann


All this flowing into nowhere. Believing
The universe into being and the Nature of it
Springing forth from the same cold unity.

Nothing more mysterious than that.

And running
through the same pulse.

A distance with a rim
A microthinline
Folding up eternity into every cell of itself

And every point thatís really a plane

The geometry of the soul
The distant world beyond the dreaming.

Believe what you will
And Will everything and nothing.
If you could stop talking to yourself
For a mere thirty minutes
You could talk to God.

Or so the mystic says.

The odd thing is the truth
Another unity built of two

Another time built of space.
On a sea of motion.

A gulf of reason.

This happiness
A face in a window.


One Slim Volume

The psychological possibilities of ink.
Baudelaire whoring and writing poetry.
Forests, like cathedrals, terrified him.
He was a man in the labyrinth
of sense and heresy
crying divinely.

The ink and stain of letters
angels and paper
dreams and print . . .

A man in the gutter was a man still,
drunk or not. Flesh
a poem as well.


The Dreaming

We were told, and they were spoken of,
Dreams as nothing more

Random than fits of nerves
Lost in their own undoing.

Then what is it that finds itself alive,
Inventing landscapes and others,

Nameless, without speech,
But informing you in the meaning of that word,

From the inside out Reaching below
Patterns you couldnít see

When eyes were lifted
Toward a summer, one of many

Languid days that turn like small tides
Over a landscape you were assured was real.

Not like this one where the hours
Have no seam of evening and

Everything becomes together, moving,
Rapid eye throughout the night

Holding its own thoughts
Which come back, a secular download

Of something you lived, a life
With no width.


Still Life With Fence

Cross-hatched in a winter sun
and showing through
long overdue coat of paint,

processed, milled, purchased,
nailed, and rotting, they all have shadows,
every board, warped,

casting one, no two alike.
Jade plants, leathered
old womanís thumbs

for leaves, stand in front.
Bottlebrush where the sparrows go.
A euclidean fir that can hide nothing

in its symmetry, hovers above
two chaise lounges
napping in a slow rust,

from sleeping
too close to the ocean.

© 2004 Dan McCann

Dan McCann grew up in Southern California and now lives in Northern California where he works in web site design. He has had stories and poems published in Pangolin Magazine, Elk River Review, and Magic Realism. In addition to fiction and poetry, he has also done some screen writing including an adaptation of Dante's Inferno.