the she

I tell people

she comes from my hometown

they think I am delusional

"that doesn't mean

you are meant for each other"

she comes from Mumbai

and I, from Cleveland, Ohio

her heart sings a one-note

symphony, lets me know

I am alive and well, and I am good

her smile

breaks down the wall of every grand 

temple housing a false god

her feet forge a path

to the secret, sacred lamp

of my innermost heart-hovel

the power of confusion

don't underestimate

the power

of confusion

in a field

in the dusky mist

of early autumn

I cannot see

what I cannot imagine

but the horses come

eat apples from my hand

bestow their grace

on my eyes

I see the quivering light, then

of my bewildered heart

the beginning of the end, or, blame is always shared, isn't it?

i

she was kind

to outsiders, always

a defense witness

for anybody living

on the fringe

 

I once asked her "If Jesus came back

and asked you to do one thing

would you do it?"

she smiled

and said nothing

 

later confided in me

she felt Jesus wanted her

to finish college

get a religion degree

become a pastor

 

so she applied for a student loan

went back to school

for two weeks, then

declaring there is no God

dropped out

 

ii

the loan dogged her

she moved out of town

 

a defense witness

for everyone scrapping their way

through an alternative lifestyle

fell in love

with a heroin addict

 

the rest is calculable

simple math, but exponents

must be tacked on

to the grief

spread liberally

amongst us all

from one cup to another

science and religion

which were both there before you

at one time, were indistinguishable

may your hope be manifest

a car was once just a thought

maybe that's how it works

if you are of a scientific mind

open it

maybe God doesn't exist

but maybe does

maybe God is a teacup full of consciousness

in a palace of consciousness

dreaming you dreaming peace

upon a world of wretched Godlings

take your place among the disquieted

and discontent

maybe together we can decide

what to do about this constellation

of conflict

we project onto one another

going home

"I've never been there

But I know the way

I'm going to go

back there some day" --

Gonzo, The Muppet Movie

--

the myth of the orphan

often a boy king

a great woman shaman

a savior of their people

I'd rather just be happy

stop feeling like I was miscast

in a play about someone else's life

a misfit? THAT doesn't even fit

a stranger? even stranger

make no mistake

we are all orphans

from another place

another plane, another world

the real loss

when we are so embroiled

fixated on attaining something here

we don't even care about something

that remotely sounds like peace

windchimes ringing in the breeze

from the front porch

of a home we never knew

poetry that matters

if you're looking to impart meaning

you've kind of missed it

the point that hits home

is the one so close to heart

fed by swoosh of blood

and the reason you put it on paper

is because you must

compelled like frog croaks

from the depths of its belly

it's froggy lust, it's genetic imperative

or maybe you write for no reason at all

the poetry falling out on to page

a baby giraffe from a height

into dusty earth below

a mess of afterbirth following

return of the pale orangutan

  

some 25 years ago they were all of 18 months old

playing on ropes and branches

natural comedians, easy attention addicts

 

a couple of hundred pounds later

they bask in the humid rainforest

a much larger enclosure where

with backs turned to those who crave a glimpse

of their vine-swinging, or face-mugging

even a drool…a long, grotesque strand

would be nice

 

no one gets what they want today

but I am content

 

these are my spirit brothers

I have come to visit

to absorb their dharma transmission

learn a new Zen gag

their higher order humor, these days

is pretending to be sluggish

dumb and depressed

full well knowing they have the upper hand

us two-limb walkers, consumers, gawkers

will get no share of entertainment today