outside/inside

my life, on the outside
not politically-minded
not wealthy, attractive
reactive, not a social climber
nor skilled rhymer

inside
a Kashmir Shaivite
to whom everyone is God

what an odd outlook
in the blamelessness
of that knowing
to envy and judge
to look down
from below

at coffeeproper

I

something of her quavering voice
in Arabic, larceny of polished
art, correcting my spine
through cafe airwaves

II

dead to this Christmas-pining
world outside
cars rush to small shops
and big box glops
drunk prior to New Year's
on the pasty pollen
of insane consumer craving

salt and blue

stars of varied sizes
brightness, audacity
stuck in pools
of sand and sea scum

we walk this beach
unhindered by complex thoughts

the salt and blue truth --

we come here
in search of a purpose
and find it
in feeding
each others'

seen too much

broken in solid shock
I've seen too much of this
to let it pass
programming for a swifter age
men turned birds
whose wings beat the light
out of the sky
running ahead
of intention itself
only the one that watches
knows why

Interview with Pema Chodron -- a found poem

she wasn't always Pema Chodron
Batman Buddhist monk grandmother on Halloween

sensory deprivation, silent for a year
has more room in her mind as a result

(tiny Mama
wrinkled, laughing)

distractions are not just outer phenomena
our cravings and longings are distractions

fully present
wide awake

seeing and hearing, tasting and feeling
without any screen between you and the object

to be there for other people
in increasingly difficult situations

An awful admission (Mom)

I stood by your bed
held your hand
laughed out loud,
"This doesn't look good."
What was I thinking?
Where was I?
How was my heart
in that moment,
one of our last together,
you no longer able to talk.

But you were able
to pull your hand away.

deeper

there's something deeper than our science
deeper than our sophistry
than our schisms
our systems
deeper than the sick symbiosis
of oppressor and oppressed
something deeper than karma
deeper than the interwoven fabric of lives
in every world, at every time

the light that shines outward
from inside
illumines everything you’d hope
or fear to find
the mad infinity that lies outside
has nothing
on the One inside
that shines

the one stitch

in the end, we're
always getting back
by line, by spiral
time takes time
to return to the tale
the silence after the ending
is the silence before we began
the quiet, merged in the middle
held in the bosom
of the telling
through which the red paint
bled
the one stitch
ran

the trouble with solutions

the trouble with solutions
is there's never enough
soup to go around
save some hot and sour
for later, when we send
our weary stars
to the end of the world
to give out
to give up
to rest

Grandma Syl

Ukrainian Grandma
her Yiddish, quite impressive
her nose, humped at the bridge

heard

my sterile life
my plagued, bound soul
under my thumb
out of control

here is the thing
it just takes a word
a crossing of chasm
a warmth that is heard

my blood

my blood
does not sit well
in calm
will nourish my heart
in fear
cannot rest
unless put
to the test
will flow happy
only when
the end
is near

from the cafe acroos the street

grassy hair, big lips
freckled and Jeckyll'ed
hide as she will
the bounty of the beauty
of the lady sitting on the stoop
in front of the gelato shop
will not remain
unspoken

by the cold creek (for Basho)

by the cold creek
by the summer, sublimated
by the lisping songbirds
the plums of autumn
die to live
in the clammy hands
of an old woman
ripe with hunger

in the greatness

in the greatness
lies the rub
you're going to fall
as hard as sin
splinter as impossibly
as a ceramic vase
lobbed from the top
of a redwood

but know yourself
as inescapably whole
while it happens

you will still break

but nevertheless
will believe yourself worthy
even after the wheel of time
has had its way
with you

dirigible

don't grow cold
don't go far
filling the chalkboard
with language and signs
please, don't call me
when you've fallen
finding the chill
unbearable in autumn
offer me
your hand
as I rise
I saw
your strength
when you believed
in mine

skyweed

grey crepe
strung across
my loss
like a limp
squid
like floss
that's been spent
with bits of bread
sullied and soggy
chewed and screwed
between my monstrous
teeth, on the floor now
waiting for broom and pan
or another cold front
to turn that grey skyweed
into cleaning solution
el sangre de Cristo
has nothing on the rain
the weather throwing down
its gentle complaint

first nightwalk

crossing the bridge
over the Rocky River
home is not an idea any longer
it is a place, with chairs
a lamp, a bed, a kitchen table
and little else
a spontaneous puja
that accumulates trinkets
as I unpack
finally, home is a form
I pranam to

the sun is setting
the sky is cloud-laden
grey, grave and gauze
with blue and red spiking through

this is a clusterfuck of wonder
an upturned catastrophe
whose rear end wags at the coming stars
a new depression averted
gladness, as sincere as it is actual
tasted, devoured, relished

Dewey's Pizza: play list

Bob Dylan's "Tangled Up in Blue"
"I can't stand it", sings Jeff Tweedy of Wilco
and John Lennon's "Whatever Gets You Through the Night"
remind me that we can't all be breastfeed to sleep
by the milk of the Divine Mother
("your prayers will never be answered again")
not every night
not every life that sees us
impossible in our treachery
tender in our war-honed
misgivings

how many books?

how many pieces of literature
does it take
to hold my attention
in the cafe
one might say
I can't concentrate
can only multi-task
monopolize
masturbate
slave to no one
sell out to some
more than my dreams
less than their sum

the one I am writing

the one I am writing
is always better
than the one before
always better
when Dennis Kucinich
is in the cafe
or maybe
it's the presence
of his lovely wife
that makes it that way
towering, with long, red hair
simple blue and white
tight dress
step on me
or maybe it's because
I am no longer fettered
by the false hope
that bites into the place
where my carotid pumps
imperceptible from the surface
or maybe I'm nervous
and writing is the new diaper
I wear to hold in all the crap
the pampers I present to you
with their clean white veneer

stories in return

people are okay
give them just enough rope
-- they'll crochet!
will weave stories
from stories in return

that is why I am settled here
in love and lies; I will not go
until the pull of weariness
draws me earthward

if I crash, pick up a bone shard
to wear aorund your pale neck

if I burn up in the atmosphere
let the light illumine
a moment of pity and awe

remember me
every time you hear a fool ramble
or a stubborn door hiss open

Charlie Haden (w/ references to a documentary about his life)

Charlie Haden spoke to me
with his boom bomb boom
with his monstrous discipline
with his hands tenderly applying
a 100-year-old veneer polish
to his favorite acoustic bass

his daughters, triplets
singing sweetly, bow their heads
at the folk festival where their father barks
"This! This!", beating out the rhythm
on his music stand with a baton

his wit and warmth, wonder and intimacy
chatting, joking, jamming with fellow Missourian Pat Metheny,
with jazz wildmen Keith Jarrett and Paul Motian

he spoke to me
on stage at a jazz festival in Central America
dedicating his final song to the working, fighting
people, battling the dictator of their homeland
Miles Davis telling him he was one crazy MF'er
as he climbed, tall shoulders hunched
from the stage, into the waiting arms
of the military police

companion peace

wow and yes
are two creatures cuddling
perfect storm brewing overhead
under a shade of branches
lightning illumines
intent gazes fixed on one another
palace of gold diamond jade
warmth and wealth
another order of brilliance
nevertheless, pales next to the darkness
that surrounds them
lashes of rain
and wet through to the soul
forever drowning
forever dreaming
in the most honorable fur
of each others' company

catch your fall

practice please
and I forgive you
whittle out time
from your day,
filled with fullness
say yes to you
and, crying for good reason
your heart concerns us
(not just the ones who know you)
we weave our hands together
a knitted blanket
of fingers
catch your fall
and loosen your grin,
stuck somewhere between
"I don't feel comfortable"
and "make me invisible"

but history is history

But history is history
A life is time spent
Mistaking who you are
And a life is history
Within history

Time and telltale signs
Sifting through ruins
And through runes

And only you determine
That your history
has not been spying
On your destiny

midnight ball

the clock stuck
on itself
big ego at 11
small phallus at 12

the moon shows
just a sliver
one more stupid joke
and the light
will disappear entirely

my insides
neither peristaltic
nor vibrating any of
the subtle, vital hum
of life

the speed of nausea
a traffic jam of one
cursing
middle finger
blood boiling
at the bottom
of my throat

I want movement
need relief
plead for an act of grace
for a moment
to show my true
face

the job of wanting

the job of wanting
is earning me less
than the vocation of having

turn my eyes backward in my head
seeking someone, something
some substance or situation
to feed that need

nothing will do

and this work I do
rather than putting food on the table
has stolen bread
from my mouth

I look at an empty cupboard
my salt shaker
the only thing full
and all the water
I don't have
can't compensate
my growing thirst

once the poetry was lost

once the poetry
was lost
other things crept
away
roses, thorns
plastic milk containers
so slowly
we hardly noticed
once the words
were gone
he lost his passion
for any type
of protest
invitation
or insinuation

hiding signs

hiding signs
clues with no scent
I cannot pick up
the thread
deeper than Universe center
closer than the orange blanket
I slept under every waking night
as a child
once you have opened
that envelope
there is only bite
into lemon slice
and lingering aroma
of mother's cooking

none but the broken

none but the broken
steal from the perfect
none but the perfect
feel pain for things lost
no one must open
their hands to another
none but the broken
open hands at all cost

the big show

that they may not see
the big show
the bigness of it
eyes drowsing, unbelieving
neither doubters nor sinners
just missing it

the synchronous sun
to which we all dance
interlocking puzzle people
lives entwined, interdivine

The Gertrude of Forbearance

She never stopped, he noticed, as she walked Detroit Avenue, heading for the grocery store. The thinking, the perseverating about what she was going to eat for dinner, what she’d already eaten that day, changing her mind about dinner, persecuting herself for planning to buy a bag of potato chips, these he saw with interest and sympathy.
He watched her turn into the short walkway past Burger King, past the other storefronts and on into Marc’s Deep Discount Grocery Store, all the while fretting over what her doctor had said to her about hypertension, her risk of heart attack and his admonitions to avoid salt.
He cooed, blew a slight breeze across Gertrude’s face, and she dropped her cogitating, if just for a moment.
This was the one he’d chosen. She had a sweet disposition; hers was a life to which he knew he could bring progress.
Gertrude entered the market, clutching the handle of the shopping cart given her by the attendant, leaned on it and used it to sustain her wheezing, perspiring form. She wheeled up the produce aisle, her cart vacillating back and forth; one of the wheels, stuck. She pushed forward regardless, as he fed her notions of steamed green beans, of kale and broccoli. She avoided these images, pressed them deep down past her belly, down her flabby legs and into her over-stuffed shoes.
When she had made it out of the produce section, she recanted. “I’ll eat my vegetables and I’ll LIKE them,” she said to no one in particular.
“Yes, dear Trudy!” he congratulated her in her mind, thinking the words to her through an image of her departed mother.
Wheeling back with some difficulty in her dilapidated pram, she grabbed a bag of iceberg lettuce and tossed it into the bottom of the cart. “That will do, for now”, an image of her father said in her imagination.
When she had gotten herself to the dressings, she perused all the selections.
“My, I never knew there were so many yummy choices!” she said to herself, and picked Creamy Garlic Caesar. Tight-lipped, he spoke nothing to this.
When she had reached the checkout, deftly making it (he saw with satisfaction) past the potato chip aisle, he quipped, “Bravo, my good girl. Bravo!” in the inner guise of her doctor.
---
That night, she sat alone in her cluttered kitchen, the sound of the TV set squawking from the other room. She munched on a Burger King, original chicken sandwich with a bowl of lettuce, drowned in Caesar dressing. The raw sounds of the couple below her, the man screaming at his wife, the wife crying back at him, just barely penetrated the cheerful applause of Wheel of Fortune. Pat Sajak’s darling voice attempted to squelch the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.
But Gertrude had had enough. Not enough dinner, enough of that monster’s mistreatment of her downstairs neighbor.
Gertrude resolved that, the next day, she would bring Marlyse some chocolates. She would listen to her friend, and they would work on some solution to her problems, together, over a box of Malley’s Nutmallow.
And she didn’t care about the promptings of that voice in her head that admonished her to respect Marlyse’s privacy, to not make waves. Tonight, a different kind of thought, one completely her own, was brewing in her heart.

Grandmother Lovely

Grandmother lovely
Gray and pepper
Smile like Mona Lisa
Watching video on laptop
Smirks, giggles
Laughs outright
Then stately, serene

I pine for my secret crush
Distracted from my studies
Pull in vignettes from the bakery
To allay my anxiety
Untidily complete the circuit
Of my inattention

I'll Have the Cannibal Platter (and make me well done)

The difference between
Uplifting oneself
And groveling
The understanding
That makes this difference
Irrelevant
This, this
Is such sublime
Crucifixion

Only in the eye
The light finds
Its completion
Only in the grave
The eye shuts forever
And light is free
A coin with no value
At last
Knows not an ounce
Of gratitude
For this sacrifice
Because it is
Sacrifice
Itself

Muse of Silences

songstress, soundless
to pluck her plum
to swallow the grape
that bursts with ecstasy
in your throat
her hair strung tight
then undone
so nonchalant

not the end of the strum
that interests us
but the breast to which
the vibrations are held
and from the world of sound
-- soften
then cease
their existence
from the wooden column
of atmosphere and time
uncarved

most museful one
marvelous, inquisitive
into the fecundity
of unanswerable questions
sends the one that sends
us all mad, on fire
with answers that will not
make the burning
stop

East for salvation

"turn your eyes and ears
without for revolution
within for revelation
East for salvation"

from an incomplete song I wrote, circa 1986



music pumped my lifeblood
my friends walked the ground
that I worshiped
food, an unfailing comfort
romance, I sacrificed for self-study
through marijuana

I tripped the wire that year
an inner depth charge erupted
my life broke free

my mind, unraveling
thick with wet sand
my head, dangling
by a strand

the only things that survived that shock
were an addiction to God
and a trek on a dry desert path
to some undisclosed
abode of awakening

where Stan and Ed
U2 and R.E.M.
my shiny, new elephant bowl
and adequate nutrition
could not follow

the bird in me

by an odd
ornithological
osmosis
the hatred in you
becomes the bird
in me

have I left you
bereft of kindness
in cultivating
my own?
no, I will not take
responsibility
for the cruelty of others
anymore
once I would have been fooled
by my bleeding heart
hoodwinked, hornshnozzled

I start to discern now
the disgust you earn
from my indecisiveness
my failings
by no means saintly
I stand here as me
and you, as you
in your toxicity

a day with Linda (1986)

we took our shoes off
walked the Euclid Creek
throwing rocks into the water
careful not to get too wet

afterwards, I drove her
to a new, used book shop
in an old, mildewy building

she browsed novels
while I looked through "Religion"

when we got back to her place
I gave her back her copy
of Somerset Maugham's, "The Razor's Edge"
I had read the epigraph –
“The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over;
thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard."
but not much more of it

she asked if I would like
to come upstairs
look through old photos
I declined, saying, "Thanks"
and "I have to go"
returned to my car
and drove home

some things shared

bamboo stalk
with eight tapering leaves
quietly bares its presence
against the backdrop
of the sky
the window
the world
of my thoughts
clamoring for attention
aggressive, selfish
then slow
before the simplicity
bow to the rising
of wooden garages
by the stream
of our shared inhalation

messing with mysticism

Messing with mysticism
Tinkering with Kabbalah
Meaning in the dull and ordinary
The Torah was a lifeless forgery
Of the innermost Testament
New every moment
Old as the time before the beginning
The sword spinning above the entrance to Eden
The fruit of the tree of Life, already tasted
Put down the apple, pomegranate, pear, beer
And see this dilapidating body
Quite ageless

every night for months

every night for months
it felt like
invisible arms groping
hands grabbing
my arms, my face
legs, torso
strange violation
I lie in the first stage deep,
aware of my surroundings
with eyes closed
asleep

that night
the last night
of this awful ritual
wisps of appendages
glossed over my body
whittled down to only a few

I focused on my breath
relaxed, released
the arms, dream arms
only two now, one on either side
alongside my physical ones
blue-throated Shiva
Lakshmi
Krishna
or me

passing the stone

the night before I passed the kidney stone
I lay in my bed, the bunk under Ed's --
arch-nemesis, best friend

I repeated my mantra,
my breath (a palpable energy)
coursed throughout my body
like blood

soothed me
wooed me to sleep

when I woke at 6 in the morning
that night of Universal suffering
gone, gone beyond the great beyond
had it even been real?

I pissed into the toilet
held the metal-mesh cup strainer
across the way of the urine stream
and -- *plunk*
a hefty pebble landed there
from out of my wondering member

words once spoken

(note: I should know this one by heart, but sadly, every day, it seems, I put my foot in it)


guttural muttering
not cautiously chosen
fuck's and fuckerings
blues, not rosy

funk, sunk dog deep
in Fudd of mud

dirt plead scamp
and scream

gristle need
stamp
bite and bleed

plight of
greed grown thickly, then
gone to seed

increments of progress

a smattering of mattering
a gleaning of meaning
a pepper pinch of purpose
each, a necessary purchase

a small change on the surface
pieces of the part
a psyche still quite nervous
a movement of the heart

3rd Frost

A frizz of strawberry against her forehead
A sheen of sweat on her cheeks, beneath her eyes
After she’d walk from class
I knew a need for her

Not a sexual need or a heart desire
But the longing to make a journey
With her, into her
To taste her matrika
The soft web of her speech
The outer shell of her mind

We ran routes across each other’s path
I never said one word to her
that year in the dorm

And when I’d played Secret Santa
To a friend on her floor
Played the jangling, mumble-mouthed song I’d written
In ode to my fat, green Buddha statue
She was among the young women
Packed into the 3rd Frost room
Who listened quietly, applauded
And whistled afterwards
Wished their boyfriends could mumble

But I was only a siren for myself
My true wishes never finding fruition
I only bit into dust and winter
In lieu of more succulent fruit

losers, two times over

everyone here is a loser
two times over

first, we were brought here
shadow bodies, seeking
a better deal
in the light that
treads the lower road

second,
the birth that maimed us
is under no obligation
to bring us back

we will go, weeping
and laughing
madly
into the abyss
from which we were born
the light, gently guiding our way
coming from our eyes
our hearts

Blackbird Baking Company

painting of blackbird glaring
at bright green wall
red-tip wing, open-mouthed
squawking
at the techno playing here

the little bakery
named Blackbird
has a happy hour before closing
I buy a tiny cheese and potato pie
for half price, not realizing
how rich it will be

an orange print poster
#104 of a set of 150
from a 2008 indie-rock concert
crows flocking
onto white shadow branches
eerie and comforting

the young women
behind the counter
talk about dates they've had
dates they'd like to have
and jobs other than the one
they have

I am stuffed and think
I have a stomach-ache
I start thinking
about where I'd like to go
for dinner

Made in His image

If you close your eyes
Who are you then
If you press your finger
Against the point of a pin
Are you not
The tiny, invasive pain
And if she kisses
Your neck
Your ear
Are you not
The certainty
She will
Leave you
Again
Whatever we see
Whatever we think
In the end
In the now
We are completely
It

tall table

can't keep concentrate
focus notice nothing
of her hand down her
hair here
with no desire
for awareness
of anything unusual
except for the insubstantiality
of coffee
and the tall table
legs dangling
from my tall stool

practical matters

practical matters
like obtaining a bagel
on a Tuesday morning
Asiago, toasted
with sundried tomato schmear
the artist know as "Lorde"
on the overhead
a diet Coke
a Newbery book
a day ahead
that starts with sustenance
with feeding Self
brother body, fed as well

polarity

polarity
implies one --
a see-saw
with the crazed and compassionate
on one side
the pent-up and polished
with clammy hands
on the other

it really is one
light and shadow
two sides
of one
paradox

and it's fun
this game they play
the worlds in the balance

at least one side
thinks it's fun

and at least
the other,
slick in their
suits of implications
and innuendo
are getting some
exercise
are getting their stale garments
in the fresh air

gargoyles

gone are those guides
through darker climes
we reach for crinkly
bags instead
potato chips, fast
food burgers
for cheap beer
and bottles of salsa
with notes written
hastily, "set me free
let me out from this
freaking reality show"

if only we'd eaten
the partially-rotted fruit
the meat, underdone
but tender
the clouds, grey
and looming
they were the only
sustenance in sight

the only monsters to be honest
to tell us
we have taken this all
a bit too far

ye old shell game

the pleasure
of pleasure
expectation
met
the two work together
and then you forget

ships pass
in darkness
working at skew
you know this discomfort
instead of knowing
you

between plastic and water

been told
about the connection
between plastic
and water
between the bully
and the heart
between knowing
and doing
all things
that can't dissolve
resolve, involve themselves
with each other
unlike the skin
the fin
that cuts the sea
the friends
that tend
the inside
of me

manila and print

manila and print
paper, thick and plentiful
grainy and beautiful
open your heartmind
write, materialize
a new way of being
spirit...breathing...born
the jail of inner commentary
the words that open
the door

2 and one-half hand-lengths

we all need
something
I need
a rain
after the winter
to let me know
it's not all over
I need
a stack of compact discs
with your voice
and your scent
emblazoned
in holographic
verity
and what do you need?
perhaps a sip of tea
or the sound of devotees
chanting Shiva's names
to keep you
tied to this Earth plane
or perhaps you need
something so simple
and improbable
as my undivided attention
my wobbling ceased
a trickle of honey
joy
falling the 2 and one-half
hand-lengths
from nostrils
to heart

brick through window

brick through window
crick in shoulder blade
when the weather turns cold
all those years ago
I started a riot
and pay for it
with arthritis
the cost
a dull ache
come autumn
a new age
of questions
the gain
a pleasant ache
in my heart
a new age
of questions

when the center is not central

when the center
is not central
off shift
clip blip -kilter jolt
thought crime
bolt
quirk
lurk and jerk
born to turn karma drama
on its ear
oceanic fear
fills with light
from drop
of gift
to lift
humanity from its worst
but your own sacred self
first

my one beer a month #2 -- Mars bar

Mars bar
loose cannon
friendly faces
looking into other friendly faces
faces other than
my own

basketball on the TV
bad bass heavy pop
on the stereo
feeling at home
away from any sign
of any kind
of home

happen a glance
at the ball game
on break
his 30 seconds more of fame
Ringo Starr
plugging Skechers
the bar lights up
the IPA lilluminates
neural pathways
for one loner
for one moment
on one lonely night

my one beer a month #1 -- pre-gustatory perception

looking at the draft list
I know what I want
not knowing what a lager tastes like
not knowing what a mead even is
except that they drank it
in the Lord of the Rings
I order
knowing full well
that my choice is perfect
I can feel it
in my gut
savor it
in my throat
before it is even
poured

it's very difficult

it's very difficult
the man in the mind
correcting every thought thunk
directing every feeling felt
inspiring every meltdown melted
in the late winter
when such things happen

When This lose sight of That

Only the invisible
Finds its way
Into the minds
Of our hearts

Correct and incorrigible
Neither of them
Marriageable
This lost sight of That

The others
Tried to explain
To the children
Our illusive need
To speak out of turn
To fire back
With ground rockets
And mind-bombs

But this is all a game…
Do not get too concerned
About the small man
In the swamp of his own urine,
Arguing over others’ lives
Or the humble souls
Dredging the blood
Around the Universal light
Who do not understand
They are really
In control

passing of a curiosity

a sponge
with human tentacalia
enormous, like a house
she passed peacefully
in a thunderstorm
her charity
paid back 1,000-fold
she'd reached a point
where her love
just swallowed her
whole

mote

simple
to the eye
your fault
in the place
of mine

The Sea of Mankind (after J. E. Stanley)

projected onto this plane of existence
to revel in the celebration
Species Termination Unit
we carry our flag
to the base of the crater
with the most strategic view
drink a toast
watch the lights below
name our temporary home
after the civilization
that will do all the heavy lifting
for us

Cutting All Ties

The freedom
Of cutting all ties
Not suggested
Not the best move
Perhaps
Of all slinking, sideways motion
Sort of away from the light
But the way I know the best
My only love, myself
My comfort food
--My favorite book
A lamp, a chair
One long weekend
And me

good words

no and yes -- good words
much like home and road
splendid places, both
here and now
enter and delete
welcome and well, go
thank you, please
and peace

lunar hymn

the moon is here,
the face
that faces us
both the part that is illuminated
or dark
or that part covered
by clouds
obstructed
by buildings, trees
mental obscurations

it is there
in all of its
limp roundness

silent cells
of brilliant brains
culture, conduit
to give it epithets
attribute intentions
to blanket it in stories
myths and science
all to give us greater

vision
at night

The same chord

I saw the purple first
Crocuses cost winter its end
And spring, newly consummated
The fog on my glasses
The frost on the car windows
Breeze biting into my morning skin
Green buds daring to show their kindness
All of the trees seeming to ache
The same 3-tone chord, sustained
-- Seek, grow, pass it on

reverse Rorshachs (an evening at the Boarding House)

his light, fabric gig bag
slips easily off of his
electric bass
he plugs in and runs scales
and funky improvisations
while the pianist and drummer
set up

their music does the same for me
as the Taoist meditation
my therapist taught me

puts a sweet flame in my heart

jazz juxtaposes discipline
with deeply felt
experience

I draw while they play
approach the bass player
during their break
show him my drawing
my gift for his --

"It's a reverse Rorshach"
I explain, two simple lines
curving together

"How so?" he asks.

"In a better world,
a psychiatrist
might try to find out
how sane you are
instead of how sick you are
a patient might look at this
and say, 'That pattern looks like
a heart
or two swans in love'"

Gary introduces himself
says we have got to hang out
sometime
I visit his apartment
once or twice
for lessons
walking bass lines

we run into each other
every 10 years or so now
East side, West side
by synchronicity
he, having shed his vocation
like a fabric gig bag
-- a counselor now

me, shedding assorted neuroses
Rorshach, reverse or not
the world appearing brighter
by the decade

hungry ghost

empty the space
of cringing
of cleaving to want
diminish until
you are a speck
that mars
the vast opaque backdrop

fill your stomach, hungry ghost
do not deny
your desire
to be whole
to live your bliss
to bow to a greater
future, caring for those
through whom
you have come
to be
you

it has been said

the rich get richer
the poor, poorer
the hawks get war
the doves
lay down in its path

why are we surprised by this?
appalled, yes
but the wind goes
where there is concave
where there is inlet
swirls and returns
to flow
or to confront itself

by fear or by desire
we all get what we expect
or what we dread

the rich get richer
the poor get poorer
it has been said
why complain?

stand, rather
witness
accept what is
then move to change

suppertime

never forget
the dog
you are
the rusty chain
that broke
underfoot
while you were looking
for another kind
of freedom

power of two

Barbara Brennan
energy healer
author of "Hands of Light"
former NASA physicist
wrote that boys
who have been humiliated
by their mothers
tend toward portliness
and a fascination
with pornography
outlandish as it may sound
it hit the mark for me
when I read it
several years ago

tonight
I listen to some Indigo Girls
I sit and journal
map out and peruse my life
in pen
as two lesbians
sing of a power
"stronger than the monsters
beneath your bed"
and it occurs to me
that there is something
I want more
than pictures
of untouchable dominatrixes
and fetish queens

I want love
in whatever form
it may come
a power stronger than
humiliation
childhood sexual abuse
and years of inaction
in the face of losing
that passion for healing
and sharing
with tangible
wounded
fellow humans

in my basement

I don't know
a thing
but that I don't know
what machines
are carrying on
in my basement

a flock of terns
in the sky
between my hair
and my chin
the quest
I am in
the promise of salvation
the dismantling
of all
of my secret
cogs

Fever Dream

The day I lay on the couch
In hypnagogic fever dream
Walter Cronkite raining ghastly energy
On my pajama’ed, five-year-old self
-- His news of Universal destruction
Burrowing into my sleep, tearing at all childhood
F oo t h ol d s
Waking me with a start
To find…

Walter Cronkite on the television
Talking calmly about some banal development
In the news

I pulled off my blanket
Rushed outside
Looking frantically around
Until I spotted the Cleveland Press delivery boy, alive
…Alive

I fell to my knees into the lawn, sobbing
“I thought everyone was dead…
I thought….everyone….was...dead...”

Not alone in this world, as if I ever could be
The paper boys, the pet hamsters, my stout little mother
Would be with me, in some form or another
Until the end of days

When Brahma will open his eyes
The dream of his Creation ended
And we will revel as One
In the worlds of our own Imagining

songwriter's manifesto

unless you have
something specific to write about
it's best
to just wing it
stop making sense
let meaning
and purpose
and your ethereal voice
duke it out
in the back alley
your flaws
be your cause
your life
be your latest recording

above the factory floors

so quiet
above the factory floors
lights hanging
from the ceiling
in the sweltering heat
in the grand industry
showering bright thoughts
onto the blessed heads
-- sparkling, dewy star-drops --
of the toiling
great-souls
below

heart in the briars

leaking
from my essential heart
the part about -- they never
accepted me as I was

well, by the same token
I never put myself out there
as I was

I let the pressures
of the movements of inconsequence
and the lust to be loved
push brambles over my heart
making it a bottomless floor
a trap door

and now
with clock running backwards
to catch itself cheating
I find you
solid and sultry
my own reflection
in the body of redemption

the trap is shut
I've exited
up

big thaw

the conundrums
by which we are
plagued
are not as good
as the ones
we make up

plot the course
remorse
stuck in frozen stream
our ankles await
the big thaw
of dreams
our heads bob
two arm-lengths
beneath

grounding

touch tree trunk
unyielding girth
feet on roots
twining above,
below the earth
feeling my way
into your core
your heart
is my heart
looking up into your branches
a few dangling leaves
and seeds remaining

it is newly winter
and I have
come here
to learn
to stand
on my own
with you

that death you do

buried shallow
just beneath the sheets
cold body
recently released
shallow grave
just beneath the surface
of appearances
hurtling toward
a brighter sun
within