Paths and Approaches
Michael Maiello
List Price: $9.95
ISBN 978-0-9833402-4-9

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Amen Again

We have Navajo death (beer)
and Apache death (scotch and beer).
we have dead seas, rights and reckonings.
we have the smell of leaf bonfires
and the bourbon smell of men
(and all the ice we need).
we have the inheritance to which
weíll all return.
There are birds that circle overhead
from beyond when we remember.
And still it seems the saddest thing
is lacking.


The wind speaks
to itself, exulting
in the company
it keeps.
Iím playing air
guitar on FM

Big Bang, Small Beach

Given a universe emerging
from cold quiet, submerging
Into quiet cold,
itís easy to befriend
this sand,
embrace this heat
and dream the sounds
of sleep.


I donít believe in fate
but certainly there is chance,
so lets recuperate from being born,
lets stay alive, lets make it possible
to possibly be lucky,
for a while.

Cold War

Wake from a dream
in which promises
are broken:
Black capped chickadees
in new night snow
by the shocked
and frozen


The frost and coming snow
will lock the earth.
Beside this hearthfire,
sea-pale visions, garnet
tales and plans.
The luxury of food.
The gem of warmth that generates
an unmolested sleep.

Find a drop of the ocean
in the drops of frozen,
falling rain.

Carry it safely home.

Valentineís Night

The distances between galaxies
and between each of us,
pronounced by being perceived.
Again, we realize lovers
are strangers too.
I retire to count the spare
change Iíve saved.

The Price of Exploration

They say itís cold from coast to coast
but colder in the heartland.
Itís not the permanent permafrost
promised by nuclear winter,
but bitter enough to make
meditating memorable.
No great insights tonight, no satori
experiences, but a realization
of all Iíve lost and all
thatís lost to me.
At dawn, I consider abiding mysteries:
arctic isolation and empathy
for the setting moon.
Perhaps things were better
before both of us were landed on.

Zen Flyby

Walking alone, autumn evenings, Iím tempted to recall all thatís lost to me.
A nighthawk strafes the footpath home,
uncaptured, purely mine.

This Morning

Itís not that I didnít know all things must pass.
Itís just that Iíve remembered Iím just passing.
This morning, I need a cup of black coffee
and no conversation to go with it.
A toast to old existentialists who took time
to take time seriously and consider
the mysteries that have befallen us.
A toast to anyone who wonders whatís happened
to Bob Dylan?

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