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