we are the chosen ones,
the illegitimate sons,
the incested daughters,
the smudged faces
of orphans,
kicking a dirty soccerball
through dusty, drunken lots.
we hold a secret
deep down in our shirts,
a midnight cry, a city scream,
a heart-hurt,
like an M-80 frozen
halfway through explosion.
we are the ones you dread,
the same ones you put hope in;
for we will find our way,
and in finding ours, we will find the map
for you to
find yours.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
dog -- GOD
dog -- GOD
it is God who is weeping
as that dog,
moaning
for its owner,
a molecule of pure feeling
surrounded by energy fields
woven into energy fields –
that are manifesting the body of a mongrel.
that dog knows a thing or two
about how much
it sucks,
cheeks puffing,
eyes glistening,
yelps minutely escaping jowls,
jowls clenched against
the whole fucking WORLD!
loss and love and longing
and loss and loganberry pie
and licking his feet... licking, sniffing,
and licking, kissing his feet...
he is now licking the feet of the beloved,
who has stepped out of the cafe
to retrieve Him,
the now rejoicing God-dog-doggy-dog.
and in His lowly eyes,
savior and salvation and Self,
are all reflected;
in the eyes of this beagle who watches his life
slip away
and be resurrected
every single night at around 8 o'clock
outside of Caribou coffee,
in those eyes of innocence and Infinite depth,
are the beginning and ending
of everything,
and the beginning and ending
of everything.
it is God who is weeping
as that dog,
moaning
for its owner,
a molecule of pure feeling
surrounded by energy fields
woven into energy fields –
that are manifesting the body of a mongrel.
that dog knows a thing or two
about how much
it sucks,
cheeks puffing,
eyes glistening,
yelps minutely escaping jowls,
jowls clenched against
the whole fucking WORLD!
loss and love and longing
and loss and loganberry pie
and licking his feet... licking, sniffing,
and licking, kissing his feet...
he is now licking the feet of the beloved,
who has stepped out of the cafe
to retrieve Him,
the now rejoicing God-dog-doggy-dog.
and in His lowly eyes,
savior and salvation and Self,
are all reflected;
in the eyes of this beagle who watches his life
slip away
and be resurrected
every single night at around 8 o'clock
outside of Caribou coffee,
in those eyes of innocence and Infinite depth,
are the beginning and ending
of everything,
and the beginning and ending
of everything.
jars of green glowing
jars
of green
glowing silver-blue,
overflowing,
flowing into the sink,
circling down,
counterclockwise
into the disposal
little beings
of sun-stricken grief,
struck to heart by
desire to see
the sun that has
given us energy
and a hand up the puppet's
neck to belief;
the star-blue star wreck
of impossible broken heart healings;
lift color to a new zone --
zone of evolutionary knowing.
of green
glowing silver-blue,
overflowing,
flowing into the sink,
circling down,
counterclockwise
into the disposal
little beings
of sun-stricken grief,
struck to heart by
desire to see
the sun that has
given us energy
and a hand up the puppet's
neck to belief;
the star-blue star wreck
of impossible broken heart healings;
lift color to a new zone --
zone of evolutionary knowing.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
quantum squirrels
squirrelsrun inwavelengthswhich course throughtheir bodies,making them earthyoscillations,furry surges of joy,I imagine,akin andconnected to variationsthat lie in the pocket of the Universe.
I saw a brown squirrelwith a white tail in the park today.a white tail.I don't know the propensity of sucha sighting,but I have never seena squirrelsuch as this one.
perhaps in the hip pocket,the hip,of a Being greater than one maydream to imagine,lies a wonderment that,in wave form,touches us in countless ways – such as when a squirrel with white tailmakes an appearance,when the circus comes to town each spring,or when you touch her shoulderand a line of dominoes falls, somewhere one by one.
I saw a brown squirrelwith a white tail in the park today.a white tail.I don't know the propensity of sucha sighting,but I have never seena squirrelsuch as this one.
perhaps in the hip pocket,the hip,of a Being greater than one maydream to imagine,lies a wonderment that,in wave form,touches us in countless ways – such as when a squirrel with white tailmakes an appearance,when the circus comes to town each spring,or when you touch her shoulderand a line of dominoes falls, somewhere one by one.
Monday, August 31, 2009
shortly after dawn
this one kind of says what it says, then skeedaddles.
grey,
everything grey,
the pavement ---- grey,
the black chairs and black metal tables
on the coffeeshop porch,
dulling grey in the pale grey light of early morning.
only the tall-grass blades by the window
shine with their sheer openness,
green and light-green,
kelly-green and yellow-green and white-green;
the poms on the tips of the burlap-grasses,
a hint of red
and milk-weed white,
shy, blissful rejoinders
to a sound of wind and voices and traffic I cannot hear
behind this window,
here,
sipping sugar-cream coffee and ice-water.
grey,
everything grey,
the pavement ---- grey,
the black chairs and black metal tables
on the coffeeshop porch,
dulling grey in the pale grey light of early morning.
only the tall-grass blades by the window
shine with their sheer openness,
green and light-green,
kelly-green and yellow-green and white-green;
the poms on the tips of the burlap-grasses,
a hint of red
and milk-weed white,
shy, blissful rejoinders
to a sound of wind and voices and traffic I cannot hear
behind this window,
here,
sipping sugar-cream coffee and ice-water.
Friday, August 28, 2009
what I did at work today
the reading material
I brought
is coarse
and luscious,
brimstone, treacle
and transcendence
love the taste
of those
Buddhist heart
murmurings,
love the
songwriters' tales,
the unknowns and
halfblown geniuses
and the Kenneth Rexroth poetry,
Chinese style shorts
and original, leaf-turning
chicken medallions
with honey barbeque
glaze
I could give up this job
and pile books to read
for endless anonymous afternoons,
but I don't think I'd enjoy
them as much
if I weren't sneaking them in,
paragraph by paragraph,
between clients
I brought
is coarse
and luscious,
brimstone, treacle
and transcendence
love the taste
of those
Buddhist heart
murmurings,
love the
songwriters' tales,
the unknowns and
halfblown geniuses
and the Kenneth Rexroth poetry,
Chinese style shorts
and original, leaf-turning
chicken medallions
with honey barbeque
glaze
I could give up this job
and pile books to read
for endless anonymous afternoons,
but I don't think I'd enjoy
them as much
if I weren't sneaking them in,
paragraph by paragraph,
between clients
Sunday, August 16, 2009
my books
had been thinking of the insight meditation books I've been reading when I wrote this, but it applies to Ursula LeGuin and all of the poetry I've been reading (Rilke, Neruda, W.C. Williams, Lorca, et cetera) and other books, of course.
my books
old friends
dead letters
living under
leaf
of dried, browned, bound pages,
lifting life
to new heights,
new levels of light
and each new breath,
each word or phrase,
each mark of punctuation
a new step
into deepest, blackest night,
forevermore...
no return,
no retreat,
no hope
of scaling
a peace that takes
no prisoners,
with not a word,
without a
fight
my books
old friends
dead letters
living under
leaf
of dried, browned, bound pages,
lifting life
to new heights,
new levels of light
and each new breath,
each word or phrase,
each mark of punctuation
a new step
into deepest, blackest night,
forevermore...
no return,
no retreat,
no hope
of scaling
a peace that takes
no prisoners,
with not a word,
without a
fight
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