the vocation of a water drop

water drip
dropped from
busstop
crossbar,
strikes my back
at my shoulder,
cool,
collecting neurons, united in perception;

fire on pretty babies,
this is the best thing yet this week –

snake-skin alive with visceral sensation,
likens the autumn
to the wind of a little world of
feeling and finding,
a little taste of ecstasy
on the tongue of my shoulder-blade.

Time-Clock Oasis

“One day, you’re gonna realize
who you are.
I never needed you
to tell me I’m a rock star.”



They are sexy, real sexy. Oh, so rock and roll.
Ideally, I would be talking about seeing a girl band, hard rock, punk, or bubble-gum indie. But, unfortunately, this chord-crunching ecstasy is elicited by some middle-aged dudes with convex bellies, who couldn’t turn on a horny light switch. Well, I find them sexy.
Daddies they must be, and day workers. And I guess those are their devoted wives, up front, cheering, snapping photos.
The lead guitar player is shredding some pretty serious sound. A beautiful inlaid instrument graces his sure, steady hands. The drummer is soloing over distorted screeches that do not beget images of the insurance salesman the guitar player probably is.
The singer and the bass player are real classic rockers, the only ones who look the part, with their long, unkempt hair. The bassist jumps on and off a beat-up couch, at intervals.
Tonight for them is like some sonic trip through the 80’s, through days of high school, AC/DC, The Beatles, The Eagles; young, rebel hell-raisers, smoking and toking and beer-bonging their way through the education they didn’t choose, but now, barely, begrudgingly appreciate.
And this waking dream, this weekend avocation, is an oasis at the end of a time-clock week. It will break its momentum only when someone’s hip goes out, or Alzheimer’s makes it too hard for someone to remember the chords.

the same blanket

the air is grainy,
like an old-time
phonograph, scratching away;
a slight tint of blue
pushes through my
seeing of sidewalk and storefronts.

I am in dream time,
riding my lady’s bike
down the sidewalk at noon.

I did a deed today, a good deed;
I volunteered for a couple of hours.
And, riding home,
I realized I am something more than evolved primate,
something less than Mother Theresa;
yet I am under the same God’s blanket,
hiding from the sorrows of selfishness

He Is What You Are

I sing the body conscious,
(I plead with its flaws;
pull up my drawers)

I step out of my skin,
drink the ocean we are drowning in,
drink only that
I may not drown,
as all is drunk,
and I am drunk,
on my every breath.

Jesus gives me
the secret, special handshake.
He winks, twists my hand,
and we both laugh,
laugh, ascending nigh to Antares
and points beyond,
hearts bursting with
pain of breaking,
ecstasy of aching for the surrounding Ocean,
rushing in,
Love,
completing the broken.

But,
how could this ecstasy
of falling into place
be free?

God is not what you think;
He is what you are

If I Get Lucky

This one is based on a dream I had as a child. The people from Scooby Doo and I were hiding under a giant jellyfish's tentacles. When he discovered us, and we floated toward his sharp-toothed mouth, I prayed (I didn't think -- I prayed) "Please, swallow me whole." In my mind, the jellyfish was a God image, or a Life image. Life will chew you to pieces, it really will. In the dream, I decided I would rather be swallowed whole than bitten into.


If I’m Lucky


Please,
swallow me whole;
do not chew me up
into little,
nerve-ended pieces, parts, pickin's
me having to pick
through packages of,
legs, arms,
brains, heart,
and other plump members of me
to put myself back together;

your sharp, Infinite teeth, grope for
gaping wound, open door
to every swoon over shock of pain
I deplore, insane,
your craving heart at no cross-purpose,
slobbering over morsels,
Munch, crunch, munch, *cough*,
spit, +spew+, slaver, *hack*.

So swallow me whole,
please,
the phantasmagoria of life’s
incessant digestion,
a bane to my soft-covering,
self-mothering, human,
hypocritical, selfish, wanting,
self-daunting,
tripping over the shoelaces
I refuse to tie,
identity, self, distinctive me, I.

Because the stomach acid
may just kill me
on contact,
if I’m very, very
lucky.

Someday Will Be Our Time

He’s never at a loss for words, for a smart remark or for an executive decision. But, as we talked about the election, Dan got sheepish.
He said, embarrassed, “I was on my way to the polls, and – I still didn’t have any idea who I wanted. So, I got there, and I looked at the ballot, and I had no idea.”
Jim said, “Well, you’re voting for whoever you think can beat McCain.”
“I know, but I still didn’t know. And when I left there, I was, like, did I make the right choice?”
I had never seen him like that, not even in high school. We’re 40 now, and he’s an executive with one recycling company, and an owner of another.
I just thought he was making a big deal about nothing. You vote for who you want and let it go.
But, deep down, I think he was feeling scared because, maybe for the first time, he had realized an inability to effect the world.

* * *

I was watching the outcomes of the Ohio primary that night. It generally stayed at 60% Clinton , 38% Obama. Dan had voted for Obama.

* * *

Who knows how elections are decided (for the last Presidential election, it seemed like some kind of teeter-totter of fate), how world events develop, or explode into war, fall apart, lead to poverty, etc.
Usually, we apply very rational systems of thought to try to understand how major events occur.
But when I child’s dog is hit by a car, he is looking for deeper answers. And the answer his mother gives him to “Why?” is “Maybe it was his time.”
Could this be how everything happens?
How could we allow George Bush to invade Iraq ? So many of us didn’t want it (and so many of us blame ourselves – somehow we didn’t try hard enough). The world, at large, didn’t want it. Yet it seemed inevitable.
Could we really have stopped it? Could Dan have won Ohio for Barack Obama? Could Obama have? His campaign workers?
Why have so many innocent Iraqis died?
“Maybe it was just their time.”

* * *

When will equity exist in the world for all of its inhabitants? When will violence end, when will hunger end, when will discrimination end?
Maybe, someday, it will be their time.
If enough people want it, if enough people have worked for it, maybe change will be some mysterious cumulative effect.
Maybe it is a matter of the will of the heart, pushing for these things, until critical mass is achieved.

wide open spaces

wide open spaces,
beautiful, placid(ifying),
a rain of warm drops
from a light gray sky on an arid, summer day;

like the endless Midwest fields
(which I have not truly witnessed),
or the fields of grasses, surrounded by stands of trees,
in the SOM Metropark,
or the endless ocean,
seen from the white sands of Sarasota , Florida .

even those places
that aren’t so wide,
yet which are open to the heart’s imagination,
can have this hidden spaciousness;

like the mouth of the Cuyahoga River
as the Red Line pulls out, east,
from the W. 25th rapid station,
into the valley, gulls soaring,
serious for fish, hilarious for play,
the hillside, a quilt of foliage and condominiums.

and, actually,
any little, open space you can find
in this world of crowded developments and hopscotch, commercial zones
can add a bit of breadth to the mind –
the view down the street from the Cedar Hill-bottom station
into the arboreal University Circle ,
or the space of the heart, itself,
expanding upon your seeing a loved one,
or even your seeing a stranger, welcomed with heart ajar.

approaching W. 25th

fallen leaves – neon green;
underbrush – fluorescent brown;
graffiti – acid rainbow;
rapid transit, rushing through town;

approaching W. 25th,
art town, somewhat bigger than myth,
creation of incandescent objects of art,
in industrial town with an underdog heart

city, eating gravy,
waiting for the next big win,
conspicuously not as concerned
with the state we’re in

but art knows no sides,
it’s not set up to win or lose,
just putting it out there, praised or panned,
you’re saved, you’re bruised, you’re healed, you’re true

As He Supports You From Within

I've given away as many copies of my first poetry chapbook as I have sold. And that's fine by me -- as long as people are reading it. "As He Supports You from Within" is wisdom in the form of poetry, from a man who has seen a lot of wisdom in his life, most of it in other people, and birds and squirrels. And cats. Influences include Hindu and mystical storytelling and the pop lyrics of Paul Simon. So, why not enjoy the sweet ache of the blues from a light-hearted, care-worn soul. $3 is the asking price, including shipping, $2 if you catch me in person, and maybe for free if you say something nice about me. You may contact me at jazzcoffeefreak@yahoo.com