heart-blind

scene
from my childhood --
laying in bed
nausea and stomach pain
a 4 day's flu
and my mother,
dressed up, pretty
in her make-up
and faux-fur coat,
feels my forehead
before she and Dad
skip out
for a night with friends

Grandma's
solid presence
notwithstanding,
I am in an awful state

heart-blind
for the first time,
I reach for the door of grace
from the inside

haiku -- bold skunks

bold skunks ravishing
tubers in the midnight moon,
shining coats -- black, white

two shorts

winter shine
white teeth
like stolen pearls

***

lady with the funny hat --
I often remember her words
making our sad dough
into happy cookies

like bright candles

fatigue
like bright candles
has a way
of burning to the core

your life
is so precious
why dally
in guesswork?

throw it all
away

it is a far more
engaging pursuit
to leave off
once started

create a new
beginning

never end,
ever wander

of lives I remember three

1) the time I was
so small
It hurt to think
of a life and a largeness
beyond my bed,
me, blinking in the darkness
at the shadows

2) that day I left home
for the hazy corona above
the prairie horizon
from the ephemeral to an apartment
from the gibberish of young man talk
to the seeded and sown
speech grown hearty
with architecture all its own

3) the day I met you
I let it all fall to the streets
my clothes, my undergarments
you ascended the asphalt ladder
and I followed,
leaving behind rules
and the breaking of rules

Little Drummer Boy

Bing and Bowie sing
-- Ba-rump-pa-pum-pum --
holiday glitz,
guileless

for Thay (Thich Naht Hanh)

shining dome
mauled bald by bears of woe
you've crawled so many miles
on so many knees
just to eat
rejection,
once, a thousand
countless times

the victory
is in the trying
it hasn't ceased
even as old age
and political cage
whitewash over
the graffiti
we scrawled, so defiant,
so fearful that our efforts
could not relieve the slipping
of those we sacrificed ourselves
to be

the life and death of birth

And death
Was grail and fallow
With soft shoe corn row
Pleiadean skiff
Coruscating riffs
Plucking tulips from carved gardens
In covered skies days wanderings
Imploring the pebbles their strange sound
Lifting up into
When it is all so out and down
And hands sans hands
Believe what they will
That the last be the first
Incendiary coil

homogenous

Crows lust
For blackage
Power outage puts them
In good company
With the fearful
And other scavengers

A murder of soaring figures
In the sky at sundown
The last bit of dirty blue
And flagrant pink and white

Soon all will be homogenous --
The loss of reason,
the light,
the denial of prejudice

lists

lists of various lengths
of ranging import and export
of meaning
to me and no one else

I compose them in my head
while I break bread
in my notebook
when I dream

I cannot escape it seems
the need, or illusion of need
to repeat and repeat
what it is I do
who it is I am
even when the moment opens
into fields rich with swaying grasses
I take refuge
in the safety
on the inside
of a tin ritual
machine of my mind

lifetimes whir past

tale of three temples

wondering why
is enough;
the answer
is in the asking

when cold comfort
is your only comfort
you will find refuge
in it

I looked around
for many years
and found myself
looking

these three temples
are my points
of reference

my pilgrimage
begins and ends
with laying myself
on their altars
watching myself
second-guessing
my sacrifice
from the comfort
of the rear pew

over frigid seas

pale arches
over frigid seas

melting Arctic
fluttering belly of water
pukes out
a castle made
of discarded waste

from centuries human
and ephemeral

erected of a moment,
this house of horrors
vies to outlast the Earth

the smallest thing

the smallest thing
(though there is always smaller)
the largest predicament
layered upon layers
of difficulty

you lift one layer
at a time
cleanse it
in warm water and honey
cardamom and herbs
massage it
work out the details

love that
which loathes you

and the smallest thing
(there is always smaller)
will one day change you
under falling locks of moonlight
and fragile folds of darkness

the problem with solipsism

the problem with solipsism is,
of course,
the loneliness...
and that resentment
is self-hatred
and that when you say
you don't feel sorry for me,
I hate myself
even more

redemption redux

I was compassionate
once
I told stories,
saved lives
then the stories spread
and I saved a world

but what have I done lately?

I sit on my straight chair
I offer no light
to the world or to the room
I destroyed just one moment,
pissed it away in forgetfulness,
struck at everything in malice

the world I had saved
collapsed in torn ligaments,
its Atlas, trembling, impotent
in space

now the one I gave life to
fancies that she can
return me to grace

good luck, my love
my sweet daughter

I gave up long ago
I hope
you succeed

here we are

I just wanted
to get here
how long does that take?
duh --
like, right away

but it's so long
'til right away,
my patience nil
I used to kill
impediments lesser than this
or have someone
kill them for me

but here we are,
and all of my sins
mouths agape at your grace
with a sweep of your hand
I am no longer a murderer
but -- here --
with everybody else

sugar sugar

the worst song
I can remember
from childhood,
on chimpy mornings
watching cartoons
with militant bully
sister
comes on
in the cafe
in the middle of my profound
breakdown
breakthrough
I laugh
because when it sucks
it really stinks
and I will never have to
live through this particular
prism angle of hell
again

excerpt from Learning Trust (autobiography)

I returned to Ann Arbor with my Dad shortly after school started. My friends were happy to see me, but I quickly distanced myself from them. Even when they helped my Dad and I move all of my stuff into Ed’s and my apartment, I wouldn’t accept their invitation to have dinner at the house next door where seven of them would be staying for the year. This autumn, just as in the hospital, I would keep to myself.
I hid out in our bedroom a lot, studying or meditating, especially when Ed had company over. When he played his stereo in the living room, I listened furtively from my place at the bedroom desk, secretly gleeful to be hearing new music from bands like REM and Talking Heads. This was a treat I wouldn’t allow myself to openly partake of. My emotions around music were just too strong.
Still monitoring my feelings and thoughts, attempting to quash anger, greed, passion and pride, I was seeing a therapist who was working to teach me to let go of this stranglehold on my inner life.
Colin was a wonderful presence, and I developed a strong bond with him. I didn’t understand this at the time, but he was “re-parenting” me, validating and re-educating those parts of me that had been abandoned, neglected or squelched in my childhood. His exhortations to “let it flow”, to jump into the stream of my life and inhabit it with a light heart were wearing down my rigidity and resistance. I was beginning to let down my guard and allow the thoughts and feelings that naturally arose to be as they were.
His gentle, playful yet firm way was like a salve to my aching soul. I felt great after I left his office, and the “buzz” would last throughout the week.
Still, I was having a hard time with the depression. Despite my progress, it was going in slow motion so that I had to watch myself thaw out, witnessing the initial feelings of longing to change that had to precede an actual change.
I remember that Thanksgiving, I bought a vegetarian sandwich in a pita from the corner store. I ate it while I sat on the carpet in our bedroom. Ed and my other friends ate a full Thanksgiving dinner out in our living room. I wrestled with the desire to take my sandwich out of the room and eat with them. But I stayed. I felt alone, depressed and frustrated while solace and friendship were just a room away.

playing dead

playing dead
playing glass
invisible
but catching birds
as they fly in,
too wary, too awake
with their fleshfeather warmth
to realize they might
be making a mistake

sun sprout

the dead leaves know
the white square
of balcony metalwork hums
the answer
to the agitated accountants
in my head this morning

the book I put down
last night
the Buddhist nun I accused
of drinking too much,
of melancholy and mania,
the author --
I did not have an ear for her

and though I filed her book
back on my shelf,
she had fed my tears
to the soil of sleep
and the sun sprouted
from the ground this morning,
once day
was here

in defense of myself as a performer

too quiet
to be a performer
too starched white
to spit it out,
move my hands
punch your hearts

but quiet, uptight and white
are no excuse
for not making a point
for not making love

maybe I am just too impotent
or baseline depressed
or lazy
to put my passion into it

the titanic tension
I put on my head
the price and the self-pity
for having acted without courage,
uncountable, the times I've tried
to right myself,
too busy with these feats
too in need of entertainment
to care enough
about being entertaining

malarkey crumbcake

digging a little darker,
a little floating
into the sumptuous chocolate
into the vault of ocelots

creating a thumb of pillars
a cradle of simplicity
crying inexorably
into the face
of the future

one two four seven
hexes like hand-grenades
cravings and corporates
plentiful parapets
political junkies
hysterical monkeys
eating out of your hand
nibbling a little too much
finger

the end of easy things

I was always curious
about the beginning of things
-- did it happen
all at once?
did it happen
at all?

and once I heard you laugh
I knew
I would never
laugh again
not with all of that
solid competition

that was the end
the end of easy things
of walks by brooks
by moon
by memory

and I felt the beginning
had indeed begun,
and that I would never
ask those foolish
questions again

the exact Yiddish word

my mother would know
the exact Yiddish word
for how I am feeling right now

the clock ticking
is a torture device
the voices reverberating,
shaking the tables and walls,
are wrenches to tear me
from my Earth-sense,
the feel of ground
beneath feet and mind

"Tsamished",
I think the word
would be

she used it
when I looked confused
or when the SNAFU
was all fucked up

leave it to Mom
to know me so well
as to linguistically devise
a new reality for me
out of fragments
handed down in shards
and torn bits
of lost conversation

nothing you could name

Love,
like nothing
you could name,
like everything
felt and unfolded

a life grown down
from heaven
earthward,
feet sprouting
somewhere at the level
of traitor skyscrapers

sand knows itself
uncovers its own grave
wind finds shelter
in its nowhere-ness

and you are the Earth
and you are the ache

and never forget
or disbelieve
you are, likewise,
of them

rite

when fracked fragments
of America
did their deal
unloaded their colons

totalities of geese
with visions words spinning
wildly to an unkempt music
implored the dirt
for a more philharmonic
Earth

and we reached for our staffs,
propped and abandoned,
and un-relinquished our magic
for another go-round,
a chance to put things
rite

the passion of Michael Stipe

"we want to cover over the pain, in one way or another, identifying with victory or victimhood..."
-- Pema Chodron, from When Things Fall Apart

when the shit went down
I was already down
so I wasn't surprised
to see those buildings fall,
saddened, terrified,
but not surprised
it made sense
in a way
your own death does
when you see it
in the mirror

years later,
I am listening to REM on my Mp3 player

through their wet, weepy
watermelon center ode to 9/11,
I feel the birds
the secret flutter of wings
as they adjust their butts
on branches for a night's rest

it is cool in Lakewood
the walk to the library
always pleasant at this time of year

"you find it in your heart
it's pulling me apart..."
Michael Stipe croons
"you find it in your heart
.....CHANGE..."

and I am gyrating inside
to the music,
like Zorba the Greek,
to the bass-line,
which throws up its hands,
letting go, falling

and suddenly this too makes sense,
that all of our violence
is bullshit
our victimhood,
unfortunate,
even while it is
an illusion

alchemy 2 or 3

callous as a hawk
gentle as a pigeon
lusting like a salmon
swimming upstream

resolving differences
within myself
is a cold, stone groove

alchemy, the all- seeing
the nitty gritty
and the shitty mood swings

contemplating nothing
seeing into the distance
the kick into the belly
working its sweet, old magic

creation poem

mooncatcher
waterdreamer
fountains of color,
drawn by the sunset
asleep --

I see into the matter
the horizon skips a beat
every other measure
our ancestors met
confirmed our love,
our lips touched
and the world awoke

prodigal

pulse
faint
breathing
shallow
he does not stand a chance
beyond this night

one opportunity
he has
to make it all
right

lifts his hand
the saline drip
taped and piercing
his bruised
rice-paper flesh

holds out frail fingers
reaches out
to the steady hand
that's been waiting
half a lifetime
to come home

the last war

plodding along
this stretch of razor
teetering on the edge
of knowing
falling, inevitably
into knowing not

coming back
returning Earth
to its path of revolution

I tried better than my best
then let everything fall

and the harmony of warfare,
the worst of us all
its sonic weapons and sordid betrayals

yet the dissolution dissolved
and we were left
with ourselves

helpless

you're soiled
and neither science nor religion
can change that

there is a process for this
the shame
the self-hatred
the smell
the eyes watching
the stale passage of time
until you are redeemed
not by your own initiative
or intellect

sometimes we are helpless
and the best we can do is sit in it
sometimes it takes a mother
to make us ourselves again
to wipe us clean
and show the wide-eyed loveable
that we all can be

single thread

I guess I don't
have thoughts
so integrated and whole
that I can write a poem
any longer than a single
thread,
strung out a bit
with explication
and word association,
but a small chunk
of idea
nonetheless

our archaeology

you can be
whoever you want to be
I can be myself

for when our fear
is folded
under and over
and placed in its coffin

I sing with a bit of bread
tumbling off of my beard
sloppy eater
my lust for food
masks the anxiety
deep inside

and right here on the surface
working my heart to flutters
the terror is cleansed
in waters of mindfulness
flowing over and through

and that fear we hid
the coffin is opened
and the miracle,
horrible within,
is revealed --
rot-toothed
and benevolent

Borges' story

it has a certain rightness about it...
he comes to their island to share his tale
of a man who saved the world
by offering himself up
to death

and once he is aloft,
a seabird, with arms spread,
shouting like the devil to be let down,
they beg the crucified missionary,
"Save us, please, save us."

Borges nailed it --

for the one who fails us
is neither savior
nor storyteller

but ourselves

believing the lie
that happiness is to be found
in some ancient strangers' Stoic sacrifice
in our lovers' holy ocean-green eyes
in our own heroic efforts

layer after layer/my heart broke -- double poem

dropping
through layer
after layer
through lonesome levels
of learning, aching
laying down
on sunlit night
dark sky
ablaze,
broadcasting
our love
through stars, moon,
telecommunication satellites

***

my heart broke
when I broke hers,
my learning left me

no learning follows
into the space of loving

I fumbled;
my coat got caught
up on the hook

I hung, suspended
looking down
at the door
quietly closing
after her

Ellie

“Hallelujah!”
she caws
at this Starbuck’s
in downtown White Plains

on her wrist
a bracelet
with the word “hope”
engraved

“Lion of Judah!”

she shows her ring
to the young army officer
who is fixing his coffee
at the counter

“What is this?” she demands of him

“It’s a peace sign,” the soldier smiles
no one can resist
the coyote spirit
of an old Christian woman

“I saw him in person!”
she confides to me

“Who?” I ask
somehow knowing
full well

“Yeshua!”

and I,
a spare part
in the day
to which Ellie
is the main fixture,
believe her

When the healing comes -- a poem or song lyrics

A Band-aid
for your bleeding soul
Issues?
Have a tissue
A splint
on your broken spine
(-- the healing
must come
from inside --)

I’ve seen you drink
Just like a whale
When beached and dry
Your failsafe failed
The crack from which
The sacrament leaked
The broken cup
The staring freaks

Surgical tape
Cloth gauze
Around your wounded
Faux pas
The sink in hole
The run aground
The shift and lift
At sun’s first sound

Your last meal
A Clementine,
Sweet patchwork girl
Sweet Frankenstein
I said it first
You’re last, not worst
Not her, not me
Nor Jesus, Jew
When the healing comes
It will come
From you

Joe Buddha

the knot
in his back
formed
from his labor
37 years
doing construction
pushing wheelbarrows
of bricks
lifting stacks
of 2X4's
holding down
the muddle
of workers --
frustrated and simple
(appalled gossips)

carried home bacon
and hugs
sufficient
at times
to fill the lives
of his dear dears
and the woman he loved
like a rock
loves the ocean
that wears it down

the spasms
in his back
started small
ended
miniscule
focus in
hone to sharp
dagger point
digging into
base of spine

and one day
critical mass
flipped
his lid
a laser sun
of energy
coursed up
and through the top
of his skull

and in a moment
of agony
so intense
the Earth screamed
to be released as witness
to his crucifixion
he was awakened

crust of bread

will you fly
for me?

in all of the least
impressive faux pas
of your over-long life
we see a pattern

leaves yearning
to return
to their trees

you take a triumphant step
upward
on the road
to wherever you think
you need
to be going

the next step
is the final, irreversible
end

the next,
your redemption

we cannot count
the number of times
we have fallen

cannot measure
the desire for falling
the regret,
the redressing

and in the midnight
crumbling,
we crawl on shattered knees
toward something resembling
a true need

will you fly
for me?

pretty bird
you always return
always see it through

don't be hard on yourself
like all the rest
you were always
her favorite

dear friend

it's okay
to not make your bed
or brush your teeth

your lack of motivation
doesn't offend any sense of propriety in me

your stomach
is at the bottom of an empty pool
having done a swoon
off the high dive

you, my dear
could wander the world
in a haze, nose leaking,
looking for a handkerchief
or a handmaiden
to wipe your face

let the sheets
stink with sweat

go ahead

don't worry about
getting up
to use the toilet
-- you've been through a lot
and shouldn't worry about
having to call in sick

for today,
the dam broke
and flooded
your lonesome valley
with dread

I've been there

let anyone who hasn't
reserve judgment
and just
consider themselves lucky

third way

John Lennon
Paul MacCartney
radical activism
vs. passive romanticism
change the world
--or seek to win its affection

there is a third way
a third key to the Universe
an acquiescence
a peace and a leveling
a dark horse
a quiet one
love you, too
within,
and without you
a gentle voice crooning,
here comes the sun
for all the innumerable beings
for the cowherd savior
for you, Hari
for you, blue

old monk

gentle, old monk
reads Lao Tsu
and Winnie the Pooh
listens
to Paul Simon
and Van Morrison,
songs tuned
to tautness
then released
into rhythm

he collects poems
from locals
and other notables
cuts them out of chapbooks
places and pastes them
into scrapbook

draws flowers
and other birds
aloft
on the ceiling
of his solitude

decorates the day
with sweetness
and secret charity --
the strings of yarn
he ties to his fingers
to remember to pray
for all beings

mining accident

once the explosions consume
every last breath of oxygen
we blow past
this tenuous existence,
wait the interminable wait
at the final stoplight

and we are holy now
along with the cosmic glue
and the impossible numerals

we are elements
in heaven

we settle in for one endless night
at the local tavern
the seven thousand rooms furnished
with benches and tables
crafted of incandescent wood
covered with star-lace
and candles with still flames

the corners and crevices
are immaculate,
conspicuously free
of any trace
of black soot

I'd buy a round for you, old friend,
but both of our tabs are fathomless

and it could not mean as much
as the bond between two souls
who, in the last moment
each held their breath
to spare oxygen
for the other

double matinee

the term "aliens"
belongs to sci-fi features
you pay a nickel
and for the length of a double matinee
you leave the strain of time
the whine of boredom
behind you eat the feast
of green-headed,
google-eyed,
antenna-bearing
illegal immigrants
from across the ozone

while those nickels
and those starry eyes of yours
plink into jars
collected by seven-fingered hands
beyond the seam of the Universe
in a place where they will add up
collect interest
and pay off
your soul's journey
by teleportation
to an oasis of ecstasy
on a Sunday afternoon
in the dead heat
of forgotten summers
with your best buddy
and his ugly sister

shadow puppets

having eaten
a spoonful
of suture
eclipse
the future
with shadow puppets

-- the hand dog
hides the New Renaissance

the chicken,
the Apocalypse

the dragon
covers the Redemption
and the Great Peace
with utter darkness

but the light
of the triumphant blue waves
burns on through

suffering
clears the path
for laughter

the lithium club

we need to live through this
live over this
live under this
live because of this
enough of this addiction
to swinging from heaven to Cleveland
hosannas to the salt salvation!!!

these mauve capsules
as cute as bugs without legs
dissolve in our reflux, their contents
seep into our stomach lining
are picked up by the blood industry
are carried to our craniums
persuade our brain biochemistry

and after all, they simply mimic
what is already hidden in our hearts,
what lies suffocating beneath mounds
of congealed rage, shame and grief

translate new hope
into neural transmissions
simultaneously electronic and organic

and psychic blips of bliss
sweep over the airwaves
to be picked up by the animals
by the sensitive, the innocent
by aliens and the ozone
reversing what the normals have done
to the world
the normals, with their petroleum
their pollution, their sanity

suchless

such a suchless
day
and waiting
for boredom
to reach its
fever pitch
I counsel young men
like you
to embrace
the faceless
monotony
eat the grief
that grows there
like mold
reach
reach out
can you see it there?
through the gaze of dull
gloss-over
and through that moist sheen
you will feel
the contours
of the impossible

cradle

she cradles
your hope
in her two hands,
two hands
for peace
and unbreakable dreams

two tentative nests
for protection

she blows on them
and lets fly
your secret dove

you should have no fear,
love would have you know

everything happens
for the best
despite the evidence
to the contrary

favorite chair, balcony window

the reversal of a city
in a mirror
all it takes
is one sheet of glass
to show the world
to itself

a life unshielded
skin, raw from worry
to look inside
to the dark matter
takes a little insanity
and balls of silver

the corner of the lip of the milky way
hovers above the Cleveland skyline
I don't take anything
for granted these days

blue skies
high clouds
subsidized housing
government funds

I look inside
I am grateful for all that I have
still, what I’ve been given
is too much
to make good on

the title of this poem

the title of this poem
is "backwards and forwards"

back, because we are never
prepared for this

forward,
because we must be

for even on flowering tree days
we have not seen all,
have not tasted the leper
or conjured a suitable image
of a Divine we can
intimately rely on

...not so far
...not as of yet

we move
back and forth
to reclaim then to retain
to release then on an eve
of starlight falling down on us
(a light snow in the stillness)
we stumble on our lovers' remains,
to fall apart
to fertilize the soil
with our remains as well

of not knowing

all of this dry science
all of this medicine and research
this technology
that seeks to map
every instance
of our spontaneity

there is no place
for silence
for not giving
answer

for question
hanging over
precipice

what of not knowing?
what of fear
with no abatement
until the soft song
of complacency
dies down
and we are left alone
staring undying space
in the face

praying backwards

praying
backwards
gives me
serenity
I ride the stream
back to the source
-- original heart

Dude L

curlicues
dashes and dots
jotted down
in patterns, imprecise
in pictures precocious

these things matter
more
to a boy
in a dull room
trying to keep out
of all of that
bad education

reading braille at night (sort of after Rumi)

courage my loved one
fearful days have arrived
but only because
you have summoned them

it is an open-casket funeral
behold your beautiful face

come,
drink from the faucet
like you did when you were young

you are free
like the light that consumes your fear
as you take your own hand
and laugh
for all the things you never wanted
in the first place

hinge

door spinning
in deep space
no predicate
just a lacquered wood door
turning on its hinge
among the stars
and meteors
and cosmic catastrophe
and dolphins
swim through this door
or wait for it to open
before slipping in

how do they tell
if it's closed or open
when they can just
go around it?

you asked me

you asked me
to write
you a poem
here it is
enjoy it
while it
lasts

atman is brahman

Breathe, in and out
Moving pictures
You and I
And them
And us
And the artist known as God

Atman
Is Brahman
No one, nothing else

It is a far poorer paradigm –
We feel we are separate

A newer idea –
We press into each other
Even at a distance
Feel the breeze
Connect us at a molecular level
Deeper
No deeper
We schism to rejoin
Again and again
It hurts
And then
Brilliance

fresh cut lotus

Fresh cut
Lotus, bamboo
In water
Peace
Over
Peace
Prayer banners
Discreet footfall
In snow
I am climbing
With these flowers and stems
In hand
To place
At your feet
At the top
At mountain’s peak
We still share
Silence
The true
Blood of Christ
Silence
The wingfall
Of a dove
At rest
In a maelstrom

hope undressed

we wander like ghosts
roaming fields
cerebral streets
neural pathways
school buildings

the clocks tick
we cannot concentrate
it is the ghosts that tick
we cannot comprehend
a word of this

and our minds
are as windows onto the rain
our thoughts
when least entertained
subside like
ripples on water
when the wind dies

we are multitudes
suppressed
but our hope
when undressed
is an education
with no words
a sacredness
with no religion