the secret tantras -- 1 through 3

I

I wanted you then

to heal me through tantric sex

you did.  you said No.

II

walking her home

bullshitting, laughing

better than sex

III

one step

beyond enlightenment

bananas with peanut butter

Mustafa/more enter -- two more from Starbucks

 

Mustafa, my one-time neighbor

tall, thin, acutely handsome

I used to apologize to him

for screaming in my apartment

 

I ran into him and his wife

one Thanksgiving at Starbucks

greeted them, both nurses, I think

she, wearing hijab, silent but smiling

he nodding, a little hesitantly

to this fat little man

alone on an American holiday

who yells at God

 

--

 

yellow leaves, cigarette butts

on the inside edge of the flower beds

a tree, chockful of bitter red berries

four dirty, beige columns, 

                       holding up the patio roof

a line of dead mosquitos stuck to/ climbing

                                each pillar

Starbucks Rocky River

a single bee in early evening

perusing the flowers

 

anonymous alcoholics, high school kids

troupe through this outdoor stage

Eastern European buddies

friends sitting to chat

at this sober, pale tavern 

this three-story corporate behemoth

where more people enter

than arrive

plagiarize the gods

plagiarize the gods

their gestures, their words 

                                  enter from within

spittle becomes thought

then literature

reading Jhumpa Lahiri at Starbucks

"Expired. A word used for library cards, for magazine subscriptions."

                                                       -- Ashima, from The Namesake

 

 

the world goes on

life proceeds

why?

 

we die. we expire, folks. 

can't you understand?

 

sweet Ashima's husband

the dull and extraordinary Ashoke Ganguli

has passed on, in a hospital

in CLEVELAND of all places

 

stop making your Frappuccino’s

stop dancing to that inane music

stop! stop the world!

we will all someday

know what this life was

what it truly meant

in retrospect

 

oh, how we will weep

for what we will have lost

what we never gave its due

what we sped through pick-up windows

to gloss over, to rush toward its end

this precious existence

as plain as the gift of Earth’s support

under our feet

 

how do you tell Steve about Bill Frisell?

he is not your twin

he is you

looks a little like you

will            once your hair

goes grey

         but I am talking about his sound, his art

his guitar, music that speaks volumes

with little blips and jerks

quirky, looped notes

sparse tones that would lead 

an amateur to believe

he is an amateur

but, of course

he is brilliant

a song is not a song

like a poem is not a string of words

but each, a series of breaths

a full 4 minutes of breathing

inventing life

in moments of reverie

deep humor, jokes one shares 

with oneself

and again, with those they love

in coy smile, pump of step

they craft the world

as the world crafts them

spoonsful of weird guitar or lines of poetry

woven into all that proceeds

from the open hearts

of these sonic scientists, mad

with love

nobody

there is no

autonomous Self

only a puking

of thoughts, feelings

sensations, visions

arising within a field

of watchfulness

why did no one 

ever tell me this?

not my father

nor a teacher in grade school

in college, no lovers

or friends, or enemies

not a stranger

or hapless walk-in

ever even hinted

instead, nodded 

when I said, "I'm Marc"

answered their questions

about "me"

colluded to reinforce

this notion

that I exist

as the secret

to all happiness lies

in being 

no one

boy, is this nobody

pissed

I wanted to write a pome

"I wanted to write a pome..." he began

and listed nearly 50 things

he would like to accomplish

with said “pome”

 

I’d never heard a line poem before

around the 10th line, didn't know

what to make of it

 

at the same time

was aware of a hush in the Red Star Cafe

gravity drawing jaws to fall open

shut, nevertheless, to appear cool and aloof

 

this led me to feel

something vital was going on

 

the man, no more than 25, had

as I see it now, done all the wonder he wished

with his lengthy pome

a fortress built against the decay of the world

a flower, trampled by life's elephant fiend

smelling sweetly

when crushed