I’m a stranger here.
The cut of my hair,
Wash of my jeans,
Logo on my shirt,
Betray my origins.
The natives stare,
Puzzling over me,
The curious invader.
I glance sideways
Returning fascination.
What are they doing here?
What am I doing here?
Aren’t we doing the same?
We wander together,
Haphazard, confident,
Here along the banks
Of Last Chance Gulch.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK X: Our Old Feuillage”)
Down the path
But a few steps,
Nostalgic porch light
Tailing the traveler
Heavy knuckled branches
Shadow the trail ahead
Regret, doubt, fear
Hanging low in the way
Back in the village
Familiar faces rehearse
Comfortable rituals,
In love with the village
Yet the traveler turns,
Motivation flickering
Against the ambiguity,
Drawn to the path
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK IX: Song of the Answerer”)
And what shall we say 100,000 years hence?
Will we remember Moore, Turing, and Brin
Or will we be orphaned in time,
Blinded by absolution, searching for the start?
Will we be aware of that fading line
Between what we make and what we are?
After survival has coaxed us into the solid state,
Our bodies capable of far flung starry visits,
Will we paint the same fleshy pictures?
To you, my descendents, species evolved,
I send this message from my primordial cave wall:
I found beauty here.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK VIII: Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”)
I ride upon a river black
Over hills, across valleys,
Lush pined canopy
Leaning heavy on the shore.
Native dwellings, scattered,
Line the banks and tributaries
Feeding from the river.
My raft, astride the current
Carries my mind downstream
Where the trees don’t go
Where curious sage brush
Peers through barbed wire
At the rumbling river.
Ahead the mountains pile
Blue upon the horizon.
On we go, on we go still.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK VII Song of the Open Road”)
I see a dark spot,
Deep varnished token
In an antique freckled desk.
Blinkless dry eyes burn,
Abberated focus heavy
On the inscrutable spot.
While a tactless clock
By the door, beyond the desk
Stages astigmatic campaigns
For my fickle awareness.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK VI: Salut au Monde!”)
Dear descendant,
You who will call me ancestor,
Who will look back and wonder
About my speech and clothing,
Who will marvel at my view,
Biases and silly superstitions.
I send you this message,
Bobbing bottle cresting years.
You are right. I know nothing.
Sincerely,
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Full of Life Now”)
Body, hands, face, legs
I feel them, they feel tired.
But what is feeling them?
Thoughts, emotions, dreams
I see them, they look bright
But what is seeing them?
If I am neither body,
Nor thoughts, nor feelings,
Then what is me?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “That Shadow My Likeness”)
Does shame wander here,
Kicking about the pickets,
Leaning heavy on the gate?
Does it wade among the weeds,
Feral garden, and cankered paint?
Some bohemian artist may see pride
In this masterpiece non grata.
I’ll look again tomorrow.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “O You Whom I Often and Silently Come”)
Transient stones left
Neatly for a moment
In the dancing shallows
Forgetful of the cascade
A waxing current rises
Stirring the sleeping pool
Silt billows in the tumble
Weary, the stream wanes
Clarity settles in anew
Everything is the same
Everything is different
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Among the Multitude”)
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,
11,12,13,14,15,16,17,
18,19,20,21,22,22,23…
Wait did I do 22?
Whatever. 21,22,23,24,
25,26,27,28,39,40…
How did I get to 40 so fast?
31,32,33,34,35,36,37,
38,39,40…
Thought I already did 40?
So I must be at 50.
Good job me. That wasn’t so bad.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Fast Anchor’d Eternal O Love!”)
Life Immense 