Plum Village (for Thay and his community)

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 Zen graffiti
you scrawled, so defiant,
so fearful that your efforts
would not relieve the slipping
of those you sacrificed
yourselves
to be

drizzle into puddle

drizzle into puddle
shaken surface reflecting
trees, sky
black bramble
and grey tumult

topple

when I no longer cling
want
depend
I will be lost
no longer blue
no longer seek
validation from you

and the feeling will arise
only to give
and bereft
I will no longer be
a being only for myself
but for others
here
where we all
have toppled

dictators
dethroned
unmasked
unknown

third snow

it does snow
oh, yes
it does
-- it was!
and will
and here we are
hive and honey warm
fires in furnaces
brandish our purchases
coffees
and pens
and notebooks
and lovers we've won
with sloppy smiles
and whimpering hearts

trying not is trying, too

Trying not
Is trying, too
If not it be
I stand by you

Your efforts wasted
Not or so
Yet something got
From aiming low

If joy not then
At least then grief
So terrible
And yet so deep

When once desire
To rise at all
So high aspire
From break, from fall

sitting in the booth behind the sweet lady who smells of mothballs

sausage omelet
yummy, indeed
waiting
between bites
naming
the things in my mind
in my heart
places
where I call myself out
hold myself accountable
pleading
with my mind
to quiet
to leave off
the anguish
however
costing far less
than all the waiting
and patience
will pay forward

early onset

my mental retention
getting so bad
anymore

images like bubbles
from the mouth
of a cosmic fish

I miss so much that rises
from the depths

immense
immense the possibilities
when I can let go the nitty details,
allow the essentials
to surface

hold only those
that strike the tinder
set my wires afire
resonate with those places
where I grow
so weary
so alive

blank page blank stare

blank page
blank stare
writer's block
clock running out

page fills
somehow
unfills, empty
once more

I have fallen
into a reverie
fallen off
the page

of preconception
of selfishness
of all the extorting
of dreams
from starving people

a third solution (for Thay)

Thich Nhat Hanh has been ill. This is something I wrote for him a while ago, and am reposting. His "Third Solution" is the balance point between fighting and fleeing.


some push, some pull
some empty, some full
some rich, some poor
some block the way
some open the door
one fist strikes in hate
many, angered, retaliate
an answer, a reaction
expansion, then contraction
a new day dawning
the eve brings an end
the morning delivers
the birth of a friend
a world comes together
to search in unison
billions of hearts whisper
a third solution

the purge #2

colliding
with myself
on a Sunday afternoon
waste management
and antique preservation
both needed
for the purge

I Want You

to wake up
in a coffee shop
to Bob Dylan's
"I Want You"
all I want
and all I need
here
in the not having
oh, that child-like
harmonica
oh, that exuberant
awful
voice

2 Alaskan past-life regressions/dreams

bear, elk, several variety of fish
I am in the Alaskan wilderness
animal after animal rise
before my dream-eye
I feel their energy
primal, agitated
I am a greedy hunter, killer
I am reviled
given no honor

***
I am in the village
of Ketchikan
I wander the empty streets
the houses, in long straight rows
on the water
-- all empty
I am a spirit
somewhat malevolent, raw
and aggressive
I haunt
I am honored
I am feared

New chapbook -- The Silver Mean

Hey Hey. My latest chapbook, The Silver Mean, is on sale at maverickduckpress.com.
It concerns itself with death and madness, wholeness and recovery...and the center that joins us all.
Check it out -- it is enjoyable and, dare I say, moving.

Richard

the way he says
cha-kras
the way he said
my mother had other lovers
when I was conceived
the way he said,
"Read Samuel Menashe;
he uses as few words
as necessary."
the way he drove to Cleveland
to visit me by way of the Adirondack's
the way I refused to see him
when he showed up
at the psychiatric hospital
the way we weave
our lives around
our stories around
our fractured
understanding
the way his e-mails
leave a dent in me
now that mine
are no longer
returned

refugees, citizens

the story
translates
itself

from silence
to German
to working Spanish

the fly
on the wall
of their apartment
in Caracas

he brings home
the deep stink
of cheese
from their factory

his silence
like the first
dysentery,
endless

this drinking water
is a language
that is a disease
freedom
the elixir of life
mixed with a mini-galaxy
of microbes
and debilitating fever
and the smell of cheese
and the fly on the wall
in the circulating heat
of their small apartment
in Caracas

all the stuff you find in a jar of peanut butter

all the stuff
you find in a jar of peanut butter
in tap water
in McDonald's pink goo
rat hairs and worms
fluoride and germs
and chemicals to kill germs
and cyanide and sperm

all of that alien substance
how would I get along
without it
must write a poem
about it
go to the vacant lot
and shout it

makes me a better man
a human doing in a flesh can
a dandy in a pile of sand
a mudpie with two eyes
and two hands
a strange man
in an increasingly
toxic
land

jerk

It's alright
to be a jerk
just don't let it show
don't let anybody know
bite it back
keep it down
the disapproving frown
the invalidating
glance

love's loves lost

forget about loves lost
loves never ventured, indentured
or star-crossed
forgive the apple that came
in the night
to carry you to full responsibility
for the world you created

your knees give
your stomach folds its claim
to pleasure

you have not missed much
you have not
missed much

I will tell you
what you have not missed

-- the blame of 1,000,000 burning stands
of grasses, the masses of dolphins
clicking at you in
thick Oceanic accents
the flies’ ointment applied
to bare bone
the notice they put on your door
saying you are not welcome back
in this dimension

you see, you have not missed much
I'll wager you cannot remember a time
when the blood was so thick
as it rose to your face
clots dissolving like pride

and understanding, a brilliant blue nova
explodes into the moment
-- a moment too late
for you are gone,
gone with your shares of petroleum
and other regrettable choices

when the news is new

a funny man
kills himself

a cop kills an innocent kid

a developmentally disabled
McDonald's worker
foils a robbery –
taking a bullet
that takes his life

politicians on trial
Gaza on fire with ceasefire
a break in the bombing
in peace we trust
the whole world hopes
perhaps to no avail

a protester at the Gay Games
wouldn’t you know

but count your blessings

a 99-year-old woman there
will run the 100-yard dash
with a cane, with no competition
and we all can cry into our coffees
cuz, wouldn’t you know

she means to win

no-home

not being able
to complete sentences
complete ideas, thoughts
poems
the ground shifts
we are not
in Cleveland anymore
the world
is ephemeral
no-self
translates as
psychosis
my body improvises
its own structure
there is no bone
there is no home
there never was

the Big Empty

leaving my Dad
after entwining
our breaths
our schedules
for one and one half
weekends

I open
into a sphere
of sky
that is void
of any touch point
or ease of stairs

I climb
unaware
of my feet
my knees
my identity

I am
what I see
-- empty

and I am
after the discomfort
of sugar, love
vinegar
after a weekend
and a half's lapse
I am
-- free

the cooling

opulence on every side
the diamonds that light
my way appear
increasingly lackluster

hurt drives wanting
wanting proves to be
its own engine
fulfillment
does itself in,
a burning that consumes
itself but never
can be extinguished

I contemplate
a way out
"Extend your hand,"
my grandmother
always used to say
I never did understand

I take wing
land on your branch
blow out
your conflagration

my own immolation
becomes all the more
clear to me

branch by branch
flame by flame
afire and desperate
we must
cool each other

napping lucid

the big hand
is on the 12
the little hand
clasps a seashell
to his chest

he dreams of
searching out holy grails,
of dragon quests
and fine dining affairs
with hobbits

he dreams of a God
in tweed suit
with waistcoat and timepiece

not a rotten, grueling God
not a hate-filled, hurtful God
not a dry God of rote and thinking,
obsessing into sleepless corridors
and calling it prayer

but a magical one
the God of Jung
the kind balance
of the Tao of Lao Tzu
the touchstone of alchemy
turning all of the dark,
shrouded places to come
into fertilizer,
fuel for the flames of the sun
on afternoons spent
with little brother,
more ingenious than the Marvel comics
that litter the attic floor
where they lie
with heads touching
hair entangled

their shadow is our light (song lyrics)

"what's so small to you
is so large to me"
-- Suzanne Vega from Song of David


I am inwardly equipped
to resist my own despair
I hope to pass this along
so I can keep it

I am not a wealthy man
not a poor one
not middle class
I am nothing
I grow my life
only to reap it

I have little experience at this
and that counts for something
I have no fear of failure
just of effort

our light
is a stand of trees
the green they need to plow under
to fill their quotas

our light
is the shadow they cast
we sweep to the curb
we eat of its nerve

we’re not playing their game
we’re not even playing our own
we’ll not give them notice
we’ll not ignore them
we’re not against them
but we’ll not support them

when the rain comes exploding
in the belly of night
the darkness is beautiful
in its own right

and they've lost control of their hunger
they'd like to see us cave under
but we're too engaged in witnessing our wonder

when the rain comes exploding
in the soft womb of night
they’ll find us consuming their shadow
it gives us sight
when the rain comes exploding
on the open plains at night
their suffocating shadow
is the crux of our light

let it flow

"let it flow"
Colin used to say
-- father-mother
therapist-swami

he of British accent
South African, having beaten tail
out of that torn place
never mentioning why
(though one might venture
to guess)

he was my surrogate guru
my healer
tried to shift my mind
from recursive pools
recessive river blocked
in backwater swirls
moldy, reeking

my real guru
indisposed in New York
spreading light
through therapists
and moments of relief
3 decades later
when letting it flow
had been mastered
as much as any stream
can master the sea

Dylan

Dylan Thomas -- wow
a thorn grown omnipotent
piercing heart, blood rose

Missourit misery

burly bullies with teargas, fear
Missouri misery, we stand in faith
1,000 miles away
arms raised

circuit

life fragments
fall into place
the sun
splintered and hurting
comes gathering its pieces
into one spectacular orb
my soul, shut down
shut up
shut out and in
completes its circuit

I load the truck
with all of my dear belongings
watch you drive away
I cannot count
another day
as unimportant

I have so much work to do
I step out into space
and it is already done

document 6

trying not
is trying too
if not it be
I stand by you
your efforts wasted
not or so
yet something got
from aiming low

if joy not then
at least then grief
so terrible
and yet so deep
when once desire
then rise you may
yet never must
expect to stay

the same question

practically every
street person I've encountered
has asked the same question
-- can you see
my soul? --
Yes, I say
but No
I can't see
my own

like leaking ceiling

it *p o i k s*
like leaking ceiling
or rusted, busted pipes

drip drops
need to be mopped
constantly and honestly,
drive me up
the friggin' wall

and when the puddles
have all been dried
and the floods have finished
savaging the fields
the wet glimmers on tall blades
will reflect each and every
other jewel of dew

Waiting

"Table for one?" she asks.
She grabs a menu
and walks so very slowly, painfully it seems.
She must be in her mid-40's.
I do not understand.

When she sets my place,
I see her hands,
fingers bent the way my mother's were,
impossible angles -- arthritic.

The food, when it comes, is delicious.
With a relaxed, uncomplaining face
she sits and watches customers,
awaiting a finished plate
or a half-empty water glass.

She must be here
because she very much wants to be.
She wouldn't think of leaving,
of not working for a living,
I tell myself.

When she comes to clear my plate,
I am ready to tell her to stop,
to go home,
to carry my own selfish mess
to the dish-room.

distracted

the Jews retaliate
when the jihadists
make jihad
both of them seeking
the elusive will of God
both missing the point
the real prize to win
distracted by each other
from the God within

on neural highway

mind -- not well
crinkled fissures
fold and fizzle
blood course, brain goop
sugar shock, shutting down
stutter stop, starter stuck
and all the blazing neurons
crash tip-deep into the backs
of the next in the chain
pile-up
on neural highway
fucked up
from too much too much
grounded
in hospital once again
gowns have wings
to fly into neon skies
psychotropic paradise

agony of apathy

didn't get this way
from years of caring

proud,
so proud
of being able to say "no"

like it was the next big
jazz

just because it could say
"screw you"

with carte blanche

under cover of sleep

French kissing her
under cover of sleep
in mystery of dream
a coming home
to the electric heart
this is what I've wanted
to be
this is what I've been
longing for
without knowing
every moment
in the years
since we last met

calling all sainted flowers -- #4

calling all
sainted flowers,
brushing the epitome
of epiphanies
gorging on honey
and sea air
growing like
life itself,
packed infinite
in each
cubic inch
of space

like loving not -- #3

Love
like loving not
the absence of absence
the filling of that which has
no more space to receive
remark - refund - retrieve
re-circle the situation
you felt to be a difficulty
while it was not
it was a question, rather
with no answer
hands extending outward
to embrace the All of us

Greyhound -- A2 #2

I didn't find the Greyhound station
godforsaken -- it was downtown quaint,
gritty-great -- Greyhound is good!
throwing out an un-thawed chicken
salad sandwich before boarding
sleeping while passing cornfields
a trip to my young adulthood
the university town that has haunted
my dreams, my psyche -- I can not
move on with my life until I face you,
Ann Arbor, you were my destroyer,
you were Shiva, my transformer

only these rolling wheels, these reaching
souls, quiet companions on a journey, 28
years in the making -- only these can carry
my heart to its destination

magnet -- A2 #1

the dense Earth, a magnet
pulling me toward the crash site
rounding it, rounding it
not able to
stop falling into
the devastation
pin prick
finger lick
pull all ties
to this,
divest from
catastrophe
I am soaring
in-to, out-from

I am traveling

at last

trip to Ann Arbor -- intro

What follows are four poems I wrote en route to, and in Ann Arbor on a trip there recently. It had been 28 years since I left the University of Michigan on a sour note -- hospitalized in a psychiatric ward and sent home to Cleveland where my parents welcomed me, and I spent the next 2+ decades in remission, relapse and remission from poor mental health. Currently doing pretty well, I thought a trip back to A-squared was in order, to reclaim my soul from both awful and ecstatic memories and to take some time out of time to experience the city once again.

yes, but how

"...there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people."
-- Vincent Van Gogh

to love -- yes, but how to love?
we all love differently, some
with yellow, some with blue
some by carrying others
on their shoulders, others
by haunting them after leaving

and how do I love?
not with open arms and a radiant smile
but through reading my own soul
through consuming a volume
of uncompromising fullness
with a hand under my pillow
that holds a stone,
my truth, ever-turned
as I dream, seeking out
its hard, sweet secrets

parameia

I feel watched
even while she faces
the other way

I look down
realize
with certainty
that it is I
who am doing
the watching

sitting at Koffie Cafe

open air
open square
this is so nice
when I
am so nice

boo D

pecking at the tabletop
sipping up the spill
hopping on the tabletop
smacking tiny bill
pops onto the pavement
spring turned into sun
off on grand adventure
ignoring everyone

places of entanglement

places of entanglement

acidic juices

that eat at muscle

these admonishments

at the very place

where our hands

meet our dreams




could we pull back

to view the crash site

knit together

with so much wonderment

those spots that are

stuck




could we get our minds

down where the dirt is




repair our disagreements

making them liquid

again

worse and worse

The poetry gets



Worse and worse



Down the hole



Down with sarcasm



When it’s 100% snark,



There is only bile left,



Only the sound of



My impotent raging



Against all the things that



Hold me



Back



That I refuse



To own



That I put there



In the first place

telling a tale

telling a tale
on others
it all comes back
for in your slacks
is a pocket
with a secret
don't let it
spill out
don't let it
slip
don't dare
tell your dearest
ally,
for flapping
loose lips
is as addictive
as eating
potato chips

no more Judas kiss

of all the promises I've made
the most important ones
are the ones
I've broken

every few moments,
a new breath
every breath
a new life and death
on the precipice
of a deeper world

strokes of pen
wars of men
a baby cries
lives collide

a breath comes in
goes out
I return to my resolution
I will not betray you
this lifetime

advertisement for life on Earth

the beginning of the life
we want
will come
through acceptance
of the life we have
have not
the meanings
been misconstrued
and meters of melancholy
wormed through
auto lots
and promo spots
like rotting vegetables
handfuls of mouthfuls
seedfuls
of empty
we will wait until
there is no more
wait
in us
and then leap
out of our skins
gosh, we will say,
aren't you glad
that's over with?

on perfection

perfect eyes
perfect hair
perfect kiss
ask me
if I care
perfection is in the eye
of the heart
is in the Socratic method
is in the Pilates body
is in the lotus posture
is in the bent back
of the gentle yenta
who picks through yams
at the market

on waking up

"the mind of love
awakens itself" -- Therese Jacobs-Stewart

my
fist
unfolds
having fallen
asleep
under my head
while I slept
the ache
of weakness
as blood flows
through and through
my eyes open
to pain
what did I do
to deserve this
great good
fortune?

tall mania

bright morning
exuberance
tall mania
reach the clouds
the feet of the clouds
the tips of the mountains
do not reach as high
as my afternoon high
without drug or drink
with naught but coffee
and freedom
and grandiose delusions
I am up above the clouds now
looking down at the future
where my body
lay on the ground
broken by the fall
that will surely come

pretty

Poems
That look so pretty
Prit tee prit tee prit tee
All writ
In a row
And piled high
Like sublime
sandwiches

lessons I learned from rock stars

The one time
I smashed an acoustic guitar
I was alone
In my hospital room
On the eating disorder ward

The room felt like
My stomach did,
A flimsy sheath
Barricading a furious
Black hole
Of craving

Or like my body felt,
Entombing an empty heart

I heard the voices of nurses
And mental health technicians
As they ran
To catch sight
Of me,
Too late

My soul
Temporarily
Set free

from a broken bell

a perfect sound
from a broken bell
when inside
is inside
and outside
as well

the money won't buy
the body won't sell
when inside
is so inside
it is outside
as well

the living is easy
the dying so sweet
we run to the river
to lose our feet

in the water in the wetness
the stones, fish and swell
when inside
and outside
no difference
can tell

your house is on fire

please
leave
the burning house
get the hell
out of the burning
house
get your ass out
now
I'm gonna
mess you up
if you don't get out
of the burning house
I will steal
your wallet
your identity
your heart
your beer
GET OUT OF THE FREAKING HOUSE!!!
please, pretty please
okay, burn yourself to hell
okay, I've got some Swiss-ass chocolate
and those donuts
with vanilla cream busting out of the middle
I'll be your best friend
if you just....leave....
come on come on come on come on

alright,
I’ll come out
with you

resolution to "suppressed"

pennies from heaven
pennies for thoughts
think better of yourself
allow yourself to breathe

suppressed 1

packs of smokes
fall from heaven above
for scrappers, picking
change out of gutters

I never lit that end
but the other

I filtered every thought
every feeling and action
including sex and food
all the essentials

primary process
the drive to survive
anger, hunger, desire
gone by my hand

where did they go?
bye bye

to the land where abortions
hope to be resurrected,
dreaming of being born

again in the world out there
where melancholia
and high-strung neurosis
get both sympathy
and recrimination

and what did you come to see

oh, end of days --
once the water
drains out
and the air
escapes
we will be
free of all
hope

the red balloons
stuck in trees
the let-down
in our guts
the songs
all sung

there will be
no more need
for unfulfilled dreams
or diagonal crosses,
being raised
and brought down
at the very same time

listening to Joni Mitchell, reading about Kabbalah

"Help me
I think I'm falling
in love
again"

that was
yesterday's song
when corporeal touch
was a prerequisite for love

today we are made
in the image of God

ten Sefirot
lead us back up
down the tree
to our roots in heaven
where

much like
the man who
(if he had his way)
would “just walk out those doors
and wander down the Champs Elysees
going cafe to cabaret”

we are offered,
as we stand
at the cracked door,
a taste of freedom
a glimpse
of the Light that shines us
into Being

work gloves

Sri Krishna had it wrong
we are not on this Earth
for self-denial, culminating
in Union with the Divine

Jesus didn't have it right
either
with his crucifixion
offering his body
to cannibalism
for our salvation

the smell of garbage
overtaking our planet
implies rather, that we put on
our work gloves

we are here to love
so strangely and strongly
that the problem of suffering
becomes immaterial

Pez

you make me
want to write happy poetry
you, gesticulator
with tongue and pen

since I've known you
you've inspired me
to see things
with mirrored glasses
boldly reflecting back
the sunlight

in the cafe of the cosmic frappe

I bought
an original thought
from the woman
sitting to my left

in the cafe
of the cosmic frappe
this was no
ordinary theft

the conception
of this deception
took only a moment
of time

this stealing
turned out to be healing
twas a medicinal
crime

buried in our hearts

we have no more lies to tell
no more fabrications from the realm
of wanting more

but tales abound
in this senseless, stark
and modern world

we have stories to share

they are buried
in our hearts
beneath the landfills
the bank buildings
the nuclear dumping grounds

and along with
the truths we find there,
a new kind of world
will be excavated

land with no name

I have no story
no past
no end in sight
I exist
solely
in a weary cartographer's
troubled dream
a land
with no name
and verdant beauty
unchartable

I attempt a love poem

I could write
a sonnet for you,
for your beauty, your humor
your graciousness and charity
but lots of women
have these qualities
and God forbid
I let my foolish heart
eclipse the plain,
manila-folder full
of reason

snow this spring

Raw days
Spring
Not winter
Winter
Not warm
Snow
This spring

We will have
Fun tonight
In the tense triangle
of the teeming
Resentment

We will laugh
And note
each others'
Peculiarities

They will grow
On us tonight
Will grow hair
Inside
Our throats

We will dodge
Eye contact
Crack jokes
With double
Meanings,
Snide
In between
secret smiles
hiding in the way
only those who
hide from each other,
every weekday
from nine to five
can manage

calliope

the machinery
that holds up the clouds
a calliope of gently held ideas
suspended in vocal harmony

aloft, soft and fat
1,000 feet above us

rain signals to us
that the machinery
will need reinventing

neither spent nor rusty
nor needing new batteries
it simply will need regrouping

tomorrow morning
when the storm is past
the sun will lift moisture
up to its petticoats
wanting only to see its children,
fed and clothed,
left in peace to inch further
toward some kind
of communal understanding

this is how I write

babble, I
ramble, wander
to communicate
lifting the pen
is as important
as pressing it down
latent urges
make their little
worms known
crawl through
the goo
of expression
leave trails
for others
to follow, yearn
or spurn

refund

drawing a circle
around yourself
pleading with destiny
for a big [tax] break

allowable
as much as
advisable
your refund
must come
from within

winter is coming soon

I flash back
to ornery, mud-eating days
the grit and stone
I can taste the blood
feel the cavities shock and startle
as I run my tongue over my teeth

gone,
gone are the days
of lounging,
popping open a beer
or a blouse

I am incredible
in my honesty
totalitarian
in my compassion

winter is coming soon
with it
the running
running shoes down to
bare soles,
running to fly
if only for a moment

it will be one moment too much
1,000 moments would
not be enough

forget what I said
winter is here

new reason

crotch of this
male dominated society
crumbling,
balls breaking
under the weight
of a new reason

we once thought
male meant
logical, reasonable
detached
but it was so
to the extent
that it was not

your father was so detached
he couldn't kiss you
or comfort you
or even teach you
how to maintenance
your car

reason is not divorced
from the heart
they work in tandem --
random miracles
spontaneous joys
we hold our children
play stupid games with them
love our partners
with passion
married to deep listening

untitled -- Beatle's song

play me that
Beatle's song
one more time
the one they never
recorded
the one they never
wrote
the one
implicit
in the whir
of your
espresso grinder

untitled -- shorter

shorter and shorter poems
soon, like a Neil Young feedback solo,
they will be two notes

twasted youth

drunk on whiskey
we vomited together
in the women's room
in adjacent stalls

I shit my pants that night
while asleep, fully clothed
sharing a pillow
with the homecoming queen

in clinical settings

there is a correlation
between lost virginity
and found dreams
a fluctuation in heart-rate
measured between
first and fourth base

everyone knows these things
why must we dissect their love?

first, there is the parlance of
longing, next,
a drowning in ketchup
of greasy fries
on fabulous summer nights

they eat too fast,
give in too slowly,
lay on the hood
of her father's Cadillac
arm around shoulder
there is never,
never enough
of this

why must we put
frames on masterpieces,
industries
around music,
curfews
on what our expectations
will process
out of them anyway?

why do you think

why do you think
you're better than everyone else
why do you think
you're worse
why do you think
the middle
is so difficult

you're right
it is difficult
it is...stretching your heart
as wide as
space is empty

but, oh, those stars
would be so close
their warmth
would help you push
to the ends
to touch the farthest sun,
the one, in its generosity
that gives birth
to us all

sing to it

sing
to your losting

the heart knows
when it ventures
too North
too reasonable

summon your human
that foundational feeling

and in the prosthesis
you know
your whole being

your senses
never trusted
a sight
so
sweet

no self bittersweet

the bundle
of nerve
touch and tremble
the Total
Marc
Experience

the ceiling is tile
and track light
the floor
abstract carpet passion
the high-backed
comfy chair
and generic
cafe table
the journal,
the only thing here
of sentimental value --
a Christmas gift
from a sweet,
curly-haired friend

this is my world
the sum of my perception

my thoughts --
the image
of people listening to this poem
my agitation
at the noisy kids
at the neighboring table
the ball of gut-grief
in the pit of my throat

something is
missing
broken relationships
vacillating
over repairing them
or letting them be
the cloying bittersweetness
the aggravating uncertainty
all hold this bundle
of me
intact

cornered

the compassion
you witness to
wanders into
the nexus of all worlds
the center spins out
your heart
reaches me
I find myself
cornered
by the beauty
of hope

inner art

twigs
born of strings
everything
in this world
has a subtler
existence

inner art
of the Universe
sets cold, contracted
matter afire
with feather-light
snow-bright
Spirit

here,
Good and Evil
manifest,
or at least
for a time
to pretend
they're at odds

then we all
dance the Macabre
and fall into bundles
to reckon with
essential bliss

born again

born again
born yesterday
born a thousand years ago
in the converted carriage house
of the old Ann Arbor ashram
clapping to the arati,
Vedananda, short and adorable
crew cut
leaving his head
pink and black and grey
and for an instant
all of this
disappears
I black out
I come to
still standing,
chanting
the correct verse,
still clapping

contour training

this life I envisioned
in my teens
as a solo bass player
wowing the crowds

I could conjure this image,
this silver fleeting flash
but could not hold on to it
for more than a moment
because I wasn't looking
beyond the superficial

contour training took me,
in the dark, with its
stark realities,
hurt so deep
I went dumb beyond
disbelief

in time,
a shape took place
a sparse outline
girders and frames
a life created
from sky earthward
like a building

with each footfall
it comes in clearer

the silver flash
from its reflecting exterior
burning back the light
of a sympathetic sun

watch it fall apart

the fog clears
day in hand
with morning, evening
deep blue midnight
corral the little minutes
into hours
watch the clock spin
sickening
as we rush
to meet our brides
with skulls behind
veils
daggers behind
smiles

Starship Earth

Disney
is a jerk-off fantasy
of mice and ducks,
clownfish and corporate
wish-upon-a-star peddlers

Dad and I stand
in a long, cordoned-off line
with 100's of strangers
waiting to view the future

and in the intimacy
of quiet patience
I think of the humanity
assembled here

kids with moist, gleaming eyes
teens chattering on cell phones
adults and seniors having seen
much grander things than this
still, drawn to this city of distraction

and somehow the light
of the blue heart of God shines here,
as much as in the Ukraine or Syria,
in the early evening
as the sun goes down

and the future,
smacking of insane technology
and hopefully, marked by
a return to our source,
seems to me
more like Now
than ever before

untitled #3

displace
the gravel
in your mouth
with numerous
multi-colored
amphibians

they leap around
within
kick out
the remaining
mess

of strategically
unmade
promises

Reginald

turning the wheel
I sit in yuck
I did not come
to talk
I came to read, to rest
to think

he is a vampire
he has affixed his mind
on me,
his empty-eyed stare
on me
this schizoid acquaintance
to whom I pretend
to be a friend
because he seems to be
so interested
in being mine

I pull my attention
away, to my notebook
scribble, dig
I read my magazine
as Thich Nhat Hanh's student
watches clouds pass
I watch
clouds pass

turning the wheel
the yuck transforms
to liquid blue aura
in which we are both engulfed
he now staring at
the Saturday paper ads

could it be
we are both here
to feed each other
exactly
what we need
to experience

to PIr Vilayat (to myself)

my grandparents
were at that camp
where your sister
was beaten
and then
shot to death

Noor was a radiant heroine
a key component
of the French resistance

my grandfather
bought his and grandma's way
out of Dachau;
they emerged
relatively unscathed

it is not the divergence
of these two stories
that consumes me now

but my own story

more than half a century later,
will I fight for what
I believe in
or will I be buying my way
out of martyrdom
forever

charitable kingdom

castle
to castle
equivocating
deep beneath
dungeons and moats

water is a thicker stone

once concrete,
the dream
now dances

traipsing parapet
to parapet
we collect up banners
flailing helpless
and help them fly

conscious of outlying thieves
stalking riches
we provide them sandwiches,
apple and honey
to fill
a deeper need

Deja Vu

he found her
by a dusty bin of old books
in a vintage furniture and
bric-a-brac store

Deja Vu, the shop's name
summoned them
to find something each had lost
and had not been able to replace

the second bookend,
the odd candle-holder

these they found, on sale,
half-off, red-tagged
waiting

little roses, a haiku and another short one

little roses climbing
on the side
of your house
climbing
to the sun
and
making it
there

***


only wind
hastens to its death,
to its life

***

when seeking outward
is looking inside
then leaving is alchemy
is coming home

a raft (on heaven's waters)

a raft on heaven's
waters,
the serpent, Baba Naga
on whose
endless fanned tail
lies everything --
the star of the mid-noon
sky, the enormous price we pay
for all we have hidden
and Jackson Pollack,
doing impossible art tricks
on his canvas of grey and white light

once we get through

the trauma
and confusion
trickles

layers of denial
long strips of gauze,
bloodied by wounds of broken desires

we insulate ----- we differentiate
we are the One
caring for the world
holding it
in our upturned
wings