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