Thursday, July 13, 2017

too sweet

some things
are too sweet
to be overlooked
a paragraph, crafted in crystal
a night where hope lies low
and storefronts, painted white
sacrifice their daily profits
to propitiate the coming darkness
a filling of the nostrils
a breath that strikes its mark
your life, like no other
not better than any other
at last, you are a drop in the ocean
you see with vague eyes
the shores of Spain
as well as the Arctic devastation
as well as the very bottom
with its iniquity matched only
by its lack of movement
its lack of sound

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

tiny handfuls

a beautiful couple
unshowered, in dirty clothes
gently usurp this street corner
he plays guitar, she sings
soul, blues, folk
fresh, like fruit ripe off the vine
donations accepted

"It's hard to starve in America,"
I overhear her saying,
"People stop by with food,
good food, restaurant food"

I imagine it's not a romantic life at all
that you have to make your own romance
living with nothing
living off the land
which is this pavement
winding through small towns and big cities
tramping, catching buses
sleeping outside
or bumming a couch here and there
grateful for the tiny handfuls
of mercy

illuminated

particles suspended
or slowly descending
illuminated dust

Saturday, July 1, 2017

$5 insults

:From a Hindu teaching story


for reasons
we don't have time
to explain here
he had to pay
each detractor
five bucks
each time
he got a pie in the face

fast forward a year

he is insulted
by the king of put-downs
laughs uncontrollably
because, his sentence ended
this million dollar jibe
is free

persist

a bouquet of diamond rings
regales your mistakes
a fragrant, flowering forest
homage to your numerous faults

you stun all who behold you
tripping down the red carpet
again and again
our breath stolen
as you keep
getting back up

Saturday, June 24, 2017

what started well

What started well
Ended better
Where once we loved
One another
Now we love the world
Where once was difficulty
Difficulty endures
But our minds have changed
We see our reflections
In every stumbling stone
Every river to cross
Is our avenue
To the ocean

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

lady in pink top and white culottes

pretty like the underbelly
of a dog -- hairs stray
unkempt yet uncommonly soft
out of place in a just-so way

like the profane secrets the Hasidim hide
or the tawdry confessions of a Zen monk
-- her beauty is predictable, reliable

one might number the steps
to heaven
by it

or sail a moon ship
into the ocean
blinded
by her sensible pumps