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