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