Starting at Zero

By: Dan Dorman


I write love poems that are both pragmatic and dull.

Welcome to the now ever fading present.

Words =

Words say as much as Zero, where possibly means more than even a body.

The kinetic, creative force of the world (#Krishna) sometimes produces the illusion of coming into sync (#Michael) with the material world (#Madonna).

Concentrate on living & dying as a single unit of time…like a Ray of Light

It really is whether you fall for love or fall in love.

There are these inheritors of privileges created by human fish, i.e. themselves. These human fish swim about the sky not breathing stardust. They consume themselves as they orbit the fall.

Carry a big stick so you don’t have to speak, they say through conglomerates.

Did the prophet carry oak, or was it ash?

Many people go through death with no harmony. They never find a resonant frequency.

A belief doesn’t stand next to you in the cold, a ghost does.

To mostpeople, it is a werewolf with no moon-light.

The new system fights the old system but asks for the same thing as the future system.

Ad Reinhardt said, “Perhaps it’s inevitable.conformity.” 

You come to the implication that your neighbor’s testimony is just as important as yours, after which you begin to read the Qu’ran, the Torah, the Tao, the Dhammapada, Black Elk, etc.

The transience of time-based analogues exposes a unifying force, or Act.

I had no part in making what happened happen. I watched as it happened in front of me. I was my most sacrosanct. A moment resulted,
                                                                                    not the books, not the verses,

formingly a square, it was everything they had talked

There was a study, at least an abstract, which asked if consciousness is a state of matter: solid, liquid, gas, and consciousness. This is something they talked about.

“Sometimes the blues are just a passing storm”

The whole rumbling frequency of the world.

There could be nothing after this.

                                                                                                                                                                     This could be

the nothing.

A bug on my kitchen counter paused its skitter as I looked at it. I felt as though it was only me living thing in the light, as if it came from somewhere else, someplace made of darkness. Some might scream, I thought, others would smash the bug. I remembered the haiku by Issa in which a house fly rubs a prayer between its hands, and I watched as it walked toward water.

From Zero all things are possible.

Neither here nor there. Life isn’t perfect. It hurts for no reason. It hurts endlessly. It hurts when the hurt is held up like it will be the end of things. 

 No moon tonight and it fucking hurts. 


Dan Dorman is not a human fish. Dan Dorman breathes high atmosphere air and star stuff. Dan Dorman writes poems that look how they feel. Dan Dorman enjoys poetry and birds who sing.