sapling

the light lathers her dark limbs
twist and tremble like a puzzle
like a game of growth
life is a torrid affair
the pain, the leaving
the betrayal and the coming up
a sapling became a god
branches beneath the sidewalk
under the streets
she holds a city together
looks out over her queendom
of shop windows and automobiles
headed anywhere but where they began
knows our hearts
knows our unseeing ambition
remembers her roots
feels them, not as phantom limbs
but as toes and eyes
mind and Self
she has no qualms now
holds nothing against
the night
nothing but the all of her
in amnesty, majesty

the underhand

I have no defense
against the underhand
the suckerpunch
the psychological breakdown,
slipped in on the side
with a plate of eggs
and hashbrowns
three links, fried crisp
and greasy

the fall, the break
and the regret,
cleaving to me
like 50 years
of undigested, failed
relationship

the split was phenomenal
the rise, undeniably unexpected
I wrecked a perfectly good
ruinous end
for a better friend --
the man in the half-moon
clambering for a peek
at the same man
in the half-moon
of a silver mirror

by the talking tree

down by the talking tree
the black sinews
throw words like wisps of smoke
placid and placating
conjure your real name
out of discarded garbage
plastic bottles and styrofoam cups

play for awhile
by yourself
in the woods by the creek
watch the slowness of snowflakes,
falling
catching you unaware
with each untainted blast of white blot
on the blue of the sky
on the surrounding dead branches and brambles
ending on the ground
as anonymous as any vulnerable soul
wandering these three worlds
lost to find themselves
lost

all these dreams

all these dreams
all these wasted minstrels
kick this rotten globe
down the fields and alleys
down the ravines and ravenous streams

at least
they are having fun

and all these dead words
end in the ocean which reclaims them
renames them

they polish the stones
at ocean's depth
relinquish life and pride
Muzzein out and up
to challenge the sun
in its rejoicing

I fear I might break

The white lights of Christmas
The bright, white tree
Gaudy red stockings and bulbs
Morrissey, Cohen, ginger beer, coffee
Journaling, reading Ryokan

I fear I might break
In this quaint café
My pavement heart
Tender shoots
Sprout up
From within

a single eye

I believed
the Universe would end
on such and such a day
with so much entropy to spare
atoms throwing off electrons
quark divided
against quark

but one thing I had not bargained for
-- your faith would prove to be so strong

not trust in yourself
or in a higher principle,
an Absolute that binds
heart to heart
world to world

but a deeper knowing,
a single eye watching
a single watching eye
listening
in the midst of whirling suns
and warring nations

we would come back
through the simplicity of our desperation
to the mercy
of our infinite, gracious deferences

I thought my Hebrew teacher wanted to kill me

A sign of things to come, this narrative poem represents a night from my teens.

* * *

I lay in bed with this delusion
churning me awake
keeping me racing
my red demon horses, bloody
with rage and spittle flying
around mental track
listening to Billy Joel
on the pop radio station
"Only the Good Die Young"

in the details

the devil in the details
the pixie in the pieces
parts of car
screw and nut
welded together by rust
I can take the old plate
off, cannot put the new one
on, do not want to drive
without this critical duck
in a row, stuck
where I started
yesterday
taking
the bus

as confessions go

that I turned on you
who cradled me
while the firing squad
loaded their weapons
who opened me
in that spectacular moment
of my destiny
who stood on the other side
while the ferryman
eyed the black ripples
juggling the half-moonlight

Hurt

"Everyone I know"
he sings, says
snags and snarly crags
"leaves me in the end"
Johnny Case
performs Nine Inch Nails

voice has traversed
every lonely road
deepset eyes
have seen the sunset
slip over the cliff

man in black
rubs sandpaper over wounds
a brutality that heals
this spectacular Hurt

the power of myth

once fictional
now medicinal

resuscitating dead trees
is not killing time

lifting while leaving
flying through better believing

nothing beats a story
told on the eve
of transforming

*plop* (a poem about a poem)

Basho
and his frog
must be rolling
in their graves
with laughter

we'll never get over
that gymnast amphibian

no one told him
his splash
would be captured
for all posterity

let go
of these tiny moments
a poem
has no cause
to prevail
over centuries

lances to the heart

the story where the orphan
finds true home
the scripture wherein
the world is saved
by its own inhabitants
lances to the heart, indeed
the book of invisible blessings
one in each phrase
unknowable because they are
innate, we reach
but do not succeed
and in that utter defeat
are complete

last love song

placing songs
in my pocket
saving them
for later
for you to hear
sweet rendezvous
and sweeter parting
we were never meant
to know one another
our love, not chronicled
in any scripture
or foretold in any tabloid
and we hold on
these last of moments
as if we will never
let go
and when we do
our souls leave our bodies
embracing
in a place
devoid of ending

Reckoning with Essential Bliss

http://boutique.poetshaven.com/index.php?route=product/product&path=20&product_id=134



Well, that link doesn't work very well, does it?

peanut

sing the morning
crystal rain on ready grass
inside we watch her
child, as peanut as any legume
patting the older couples' aging shih tzu
tentative-both

pink button nose, warm
black olive nose, wet
four eyes big and moist, staring
they would sacrifice comfort of home
for new friend, each

most likely will never meet
on sung morning
touched by prism rain
again

little grump

little grump
with bright mustard mohawk
too small
to be outside of the nest
perched on the brick
lining the U.S. Army Recruitment Center
does not move
does not fly away
as I lean in to say, "Hello!"
a fat sphere, frowning
braced against the wind

no big deal

beginner's mind
unfind me now
no big decisions to make
recess!
vacation...
no thought but what comes
on sweet autumn morning
with a stand of trees
overshadowing
the congested roadway

(not the only) 2 levels of being

how much
I little know
the gregarious life
or the wafting of kisses
between lovers
like ivory tree flowers
touching while falling to the ground
and how superb
my ignorance
of honesty
the rigors of unscaling
my serpent's tongue
masking the flip-flop
of dove wings
as they recede

Obsessive-Compulsive (the mark)

Compulsion’s curve
(I am a good boy)
Continually approaches a line
Reaching for infinity
But never reaches
Home
The stretch of the horizon
Is forever
Obsession is ever unhappy
With its endeavor
Always overshoots its goal
Never attains it
The mark of a mole on a cheek
A mistake
An inborn curse
I am the bastard child
Of two people
Who never loved one another
But I am a good boy
May I always remember that

A Simple Idea

The simple idea that we are complete in a way we do not comprehend…
When the shell cracks and I am aware of not being perfect, knowing deeply I cannot be, cannot fight to pretend to be anymore. Fully myself, no one, an empty whisper through the hollow crust of everything. Flesh, blood, lymph, excretions. I am here. That is enough, and it is nothing. I am bereft. I have accomplished nothing, and never can, and in this, I am absolutely free.

~ inspired by an adorable, little read -- Don Miguel Ruiz' The Four Agreements

Yesterday, today (an ode to the first day of autumn)

"Yesterday..."
there is a sweet feeling
a melancholy and a nostalgia
"...all my troubles seemed so far away..."
a little swing of hips, a shoulder dip
"...now it seems as though they're here to stay..."
a celebration behind the counter
"...oh, I believe in Yesterday."
I pay for my coffee and seek out a table
today, already bright

problem is

problem is
problem was
and I'm still
holding it
between
clenched
teeth

answer me these masters three

Issa, instigator
Basho, streamlined magic
Buson, boring

Judas was no antithetical folk hero

I do this in the name
of disdain
for those
I admire the most.
With rage for the one change
I will not make,
I will destroy the miracle
I cannot be

worried Walter

when he frets
for his "me"
he cannot see
anyone else

terrified in mind
sees galaxies collide
threatening
his fragile self

through clearing brush
the whole "us" appears,
crystalline and blue --
tears jerk through

his stomach turns
and throat burns
Walter finally weeps
for the wounded world

Precocity

plastic remnants
collect on the lawn
the drive
the woods beyond the house

it's raining LEGO's!

the titanic spacecraft
-- their own creation --
obliterated
by this legion
of 11-year-olds, armed
with makeshift missile launchers

the mark

ominous
the slow movement
of future
into past

let it be as molasses
let it be aware of itself
an ear, listening
for its own hearing

let it believe
in its own coming home
a remaining and a molting
into oneself
into the essential heart
the mark
we all bear

the ball field

short and sweet
sour and succinct
the need for a car
the want for a body
lofting bottle rockets
at precisely the right time
I remember when we were
that free
when liberation
was a crime
tiny explosions lit
the ball field for a moment
we kicked up such anguished dust
longing for days ahead
longing back at us

Shaktini

she is the one
who turns the Earth
the one
to liberate the world
she is in touch
with herself
like a fawn
knows its own
tender fear
like a net
of inter-related incidents
knows how full
its emptiness
is

fly on the window

my lover
has come
the fly on the window
dark and dense
with tiny, oval wings of clear wax paper
legs, like six, wispy nose hairs
so fragile, this life we share
so tentative, this mortal breath --
coming in
and going out
a kinship
unto death

turning the wheel back

if we must consider
all of these scenes
as dreams
what of your honey voice
your terrible hands
when they touch my arm
I tremble
what of the hint of walnut
in German tort
what of sorrow and those special severings
-- newborn from womb
-- me from you

or the obvious, rent from our egos
leaving us tumbling
forsaken
dust motes, alone
away from any trace
of community

if we should think
of all dharmas as phantoms
why should you come to me
as sweet as the pinnacle of passion
as dense as my unknowing
and the deafness we all share
at hearing your formidable teachings

it is very difficult

it is very difficult
it is exceedingly hard

this is why the children suffer, pass on
before they're old and wise enough
to change the world

this is why soldiers
who have to live in blood
also have to dream in blood

this is why the prettiest women
are dismissed as shallow
bred to bare cleavage

this is why integrity
gestates in ones belly
only after its power is made
to lift mountains
bring them to the sea
for refugees and drowning men
to climb to land
to take shelter
in the shade
of our forbear's
reluctant charity

The Simple Miracle

“We talked about miracles. Not levitating, not walking through walls, but taking the dog for a walk, or offering chunks of Parmesan cheese to a visitor.” – from The Old Woman of Pagazzano

I could not sit still
Could not sit,
Still, I could jerk my head
Argue with the air
Pound my palms on the table
Dishonor my better inclinations
Over politics, the state of the world
People who pick at me daily
Test my patience, my compassion
Or touch my heart
Worrying me to finally care

The simple miracle –
We want it to be
A moment of clarity and peace
A solution, a salvation
But the truth is
Sometimes it is gall in the throat
A harsh word, a flung turd
A human reaction
To a Titan’s dilemma

condemned

blowing high winds
turpentine and paint
the smells of progress
regression, one infinity
at a time
makers of cities and maps
and portfolios, full of maps
we chart our dreams
our plans, our delusions
we never gave up
on peace
we just took care to hide it
in the molding and drywall
silently smoldering
…don't ever fear
on account of all
you have seen here…
in some future
in an eon, a vague
long-awaited tomorrow
this chamber of horrors
this house of our communal
slow torture –
it’s coming down

The One Circle

it is a metaphor
for enlightened mind
a replacement
for the image of Shakyamuni
the historical Buddha

round and nourishing
like a donut
or a teething ring
or a beer bottle cap
or a pizza

I want to eat it
make love to it
climb through it
through the Buddha's head
and, glistening with white pulp
and brain juice
laughing maniacally
emerge from his ear
free at last
liberated madman

The Sorrow Eaters

The work is unforgiving
In this place apart
We cast-offs, congregants
Castigated freaks
Orderlies in this asylum of peace

Lesser men with greater yen
Attempting to appear larger than they are
Have all found their way here
Ego, it is, the disease that ails the greatest
Of the great, the truly sick
Some powerful
Many rich
But none wise enough
To be caught with their pants down
Their toupees out of place
Or their guarded hearts
Spilling truth or genuine emotion

We try our best to hold them still
They squirm and bite
While we brush their hair
Scorpions in nests of horror
Scurry out and into the patience

Their self-centered thoughts, inflated desires
Gyrate inside them, like a hurricane
Or a dust storm
Or an apocalyptic war
Their guts devoured
From the inside out

We seek to grow them up
Eating their sorrow
Inventing their release
From the prisons within prisons
Which they hallucinate, even in sleep
Now that their families, humanity
And posterity
Have forgotten that they exist

the Sarasota 3

Three poems from a trip to Sarasota ***
_______


in a thicket
of spiny, scraggly green
one lone, purple bloom
--------------------------------

in the shadow of my father's
independent living
sipping Coke on the patio
interior to exterior
me with my clothes
inside out
my blood, so fresh
the sweltering air knows
no difference
between mind, emotion
and birds
swapping affectionate calls
------------------------------------------

exotic birds
trading fours
pausing for partners
on adjacent trees

even disparate avian species
know how to
listen
Reply, Repl

as Golden State burned

(this really happened
in my hotel room
with my CD walkman)

as Golden State burned
Paul Simon sang
"When times are mysterious
serious numbers
will always be heard"

trail of tail

brother gecko
skittish salamander
ever wary
of what lies ahead
so soon
loses sight
of what's been left
behind

more senseless, adorable memes

bristles on tiny hedgehogs
a sloth, disinterestedly bingeing
on banana slices
two newborn preemies
in the same crib
hugging harder
than dear life

these senseless, adorable memes
and more
will bring with them
a softness
that will not cease
will grow in your heart
until, all-consuming
sorrow no longer comes to call
and the spectrum of light broadens
while you are rocked
by explosions of new colors
and the most tender feeling
you, sorry mud-beast
can attain to

dreading the father's day brunch

dreading the Father's Day brunch
at the country club
the shining bald heads
the clean plates
the heavy make-up over bleached faces
the straight paths and dishonest math
talking guns and Orlando
kindly avoiding mention
of Islam
and presidential candidates

each grain

drawn
in raw sound
by proclamations

sand through a funnel
each grain, a prediction
representing a possibility
a different order

broaden these streets
simplify your needs
you saints, discrete
inveterate thieves

you deal in love
unreasonable belief
both magic and science
your revolution’s creed

palm to chest

Seer of things in plain sight, unseen
I encounter him
In a television documentary,
Artist-scientist

“It’s a universal rhythm,”
He says,
“We’ve all got it”

“The beat of the heart,
Ba-bump…ba-bump…ba-bump”
Places palm on chest,
Thumps with fingers
“Everybody’s got music”

He plays guitar
For his prison band;
The bluesy funk
I never could understand –
Bass drum,
Ba-bump…ba-bump…
Connecting us all

you are

I'm lucky
to have you
lucky
to be alive
gone and gone
through the mist
of the remembrance
of this –
in static explosions,
the center, the ground
that you are

fliesonthewindow

flitty and inconsequential
good friends of mine
the small, graceful one – carefree
the fat one, pouty and self-important

the cartographer's gold

gold: north
a metaphor
a transformation into light
a realization
arms spread
to soar
and to enfold

gold: south
a standard
a sacrificial lamb
a price on a head
dead desert land
worlds falling apart
a golden calf
a perfect ritual bow
a knowing smile

west:
stymied and stuttering
second rate
second place
we suck their leftovers
through a straw

east:
a steed
a prince
an immaculate reign
a hand on an arm
a push and a threat
a sword raised
a price paid
a heart betrayed
a face portrayed
her portrait
delicate and true
will pierce
his impervious armor

the only victory

when you see
the ramparts untouched
the citizens dancing
with the enemy
you will know
this town did not know
any onslaught
of terror
or weaponry
not strategy
nor logistics
no fallen gate here
no shouts of bitter triumph

just laughter
citadel spire
waving flag
of white and rainbow
and sunlight
just inconceivable joy

for this city
was not taken
by war
it was won over
by love

several stories in one

no place
but the present
notice, I hold nothing
against me
yarns of exploits
that unfold as they
are told
I will not believe
any ill
about your person
only hold
this thermometer
gauge your honesty
throw away
every trace of evidence
when mounting fever
proves you
the crown princess
of integrity

Sheep

Sheep
Have more confidence
Than a man
Obsessed
With the idea
Of love
Of swapping
Body parts
Of courting peril
Of stopping
The world
To relinquish
Citizenship
Free in shackles,
Finally,
Straw handbasket
Of heart
Pops open
Turquoise rose
Awake in each
Buttonhole

transit ministry

Graffiti, like
Butterfly promises
Preaching release
Ministers to trainyards
And hearts of transiteers
Open, close
Argue over
The criminality and the artistry
Will to belong
And to break away
Vision to reality
Tag in big, big lights
Where famous and notorious
Are the same damn thing

always shorter than you thought

"On...
May 1st, 1990...
something changed inside me...
and I....
saw the stars align...
and I knew that it was meant to be...."
Adrian Belew, from "Here"

they always seem shorter
in person
stars and musicians
larger than life
offscreen or onstage
he was no different
at first I thought he was
the guitar technician
with silly airplane captain's hat
on balding head

then he spread his arms
in white T-shirt
Ta-Da!
it was him!
Adrian Belew
among the top-100 all-time guitarists
played for Zappa, the Talking Heads
King Crimson, and ubiquitously
on seven or eight albums

he did a Q and A
in the middle of the show
I got up my salt
and asked him
"What happened
on May 1st, 1990?"
a woman in the crowd exclaimed, "Ahhhh!"

I thought he might say
"I attained everlasting Satori,
complete enlightenment"

but no, larger
than life, he said,
"I met Martha,
my best friend, my wife,
and the loveliest woman
in the world."

Love walks in, in yet another form

God knows
it all falls
into
p l
a
c e...

concurrent video
of my life
before me

my life
in my head's
eye,
then

your life
comes crashing
the party
and I am at a loss
for how to
respond
fumble for p e n
boy reporter
can only
kiss-
-and-
-tell
but not

make

L O V E

Bagels

So many bagels
Bagels piled up
One on top of another
Enough bagels
To feed an entire preschool
Two days in a row!

And all these people
These Rocky River people
The bagels wait for them
But they stay home
And eat their eggs
With Hollandaise sauce
Or whatever it is
Rocky River people eat

And these bagels?
One for me
One for you
Two star-crossed consumers,
Strangers in this empty place
Wondering if all these bagels
Will be tossed in the dumpster
At days end

Solitude Cafe

Dean Martin wants to know,
“Ain’t that a kick in the head?”
Love – it makes you wonder…

Sam Cooke declares
What a wonderful world it would be
If you loved me, too.

They both have a point.

And Marvin Gaye
Has heard it through the grapevine
That she was with someone else
While Carole King is wistful
Because no one stays
In one place anymore

Love can go both ways.
It’s good at that.
While I am only one-dimensional.
Coffee and books in Solitude Café for me
And love songs, written and interpreted
With such insight.
These comprise my world
On a Sunday afternoon.

two lost tales (of what may be)

I
sitting with mountains
garrulous clouds
spruce, climb-climbing
up halfway to the peak
the leaking, star-saturated sky
falls shuddering
to blossom again in rivulets
near the edge of the valley
these days make us
breathe out
from our ancient
hiding places

II
parched for weeks
transposing our cries
onto leaves, trimmed and folded
of thinking we've had our fill
no one remembers the time
we called the ground "heaven"
poor men of sad countenance
even a soul with gold fixtures
misses the mark
in a country where
the birds are no longer honored
the wisdom of suffering
no longer sought

a google bunnies

a google bunnies
running across the street
in the wake of a hemi-semi-minivan
don't tell me rabbits don't come
in googles
I saw 'em
one after another after another
so quick, so soft
front of foot to pad of paw
pad to pad
in the darkening
and the danger
of the fading daylight

Bernie and the Road to Sheol

The migrants and refugees
The sweat shop children and sex trade millions
The poor, underpaid, over-stressed and oppressed
The hungry, starving, homeless, hopeless
All hold hands in this afterlife antechamber
Awaiting his election
To kiss away the mess
Of our solutions and pretensions
But the Grand Luminescence
Depends on this reflection --
The road to Sheol was paved
With un-consummated intentions

I can't lift a finger

socks and jeans
warm from the laundry
I can't lift a finger
to put them away

twelve o'clock hits
sleep is a lazy toad
too tired or despairing
to hop into bed

I am a product
of an incendiary union
collage artist and high school girl

the birth was a superb bait and switch
I never found the mother I wanted
in adoption, I wanted the mother I got

I was in the suburbs then
when that meant
exclusive, shielded, gated
with no gates
only dreams of Avalon on a hill
white, white birds swooning
circling inward
to the dead-end
of a short, suicide spiral

response to web photo of whales on beach

beached and bleeding out their spouts
stomachs full of plastic -- our waste
our inconvenience

I want to get rid of it
get rid of this image,
but I find I cannot

only embracing the blood
and the suffering
-- enormous creatures
slowly losing breath, ingesting
cut glass of terror --
can relieve the suffering

because it was this
"get-rid-of" mind
that murdered them
in the first place

all it takes

liking what is not
likeable
feeling
the feelings
freeing the bird
with its wings
so embroiled
in the threads
of its own personal strivings
all it takes
is one surrender --
inward,
out
the whole world
in that instant
liberated

early onset #2

caring enough to hide my uncaring
I forgot what you were saying
a moment ago
in tears and at the precise
point of boiling
I'd ask you to
repeat it again
but I'll do the gracious thing
and just embrace you

two attempts at rap fragments

a deeper hole in the pit of the gut
dousing fire with gasoline
an elephant in rut

the counter to the iron fist is not chaos
it's Love
and Yin in extreme is not motherliness
it's an empty glove

step to one side far enough
and you're in the lake
you've traveled the world backwards
to land in the pit the fascists made

balance, giving
openness, forgiving
easing the tension
electric engine
windmill peace
birds fly, words fly
by way of intention
quiet, raging discretion

******************

vast public meltdowns
Armageddon countdowns
what have we lostfound
in our daily manic rebounds

contradicting points of view
the patriarch anointed you
your doubting, hedging hungry self
a gutter dog’s unanswered yelp

wonders of the modern age

I am crossing the street
with paper bags in hand
filled to bursting
with groceries

the first inkling
of tearing
has me limping
a little quicker

and I am halfway across
when the bags break
kneel to pick up
a half gallon of milk
and tofu

a line of cars wait
though the light has changed

"oh fuck"; I am grappling
with organic vegetables

and a man arrives
from the far side of the street
kneels with me
takes up what is left
of the spilled groceries

walks me across, and then
leaves me at the corner,
as I have a handle on this

and the last bit of grace,
a woman gets out of her car
and offers a plastic bag
a home for the tofu and milk
in my spare hand

my life in Mondays

morning spent
in gross dis-awareness
quasi-consciousness
mis-mindfulness
my life in Mondays

come evening
a sprig of spearmint
a power smoothie, green
with small, black seeds
supersweet
drowning all I left
at the doorstoop
of your remembrance

qualms

loss is a good word
much like love
or dust

qualms with the Universe?
think of the black holes colliding
out there

never before
have we seen you shining
so brilliant
so sublime

still crave resolution?

open the left hand cupboard
the left

your answer
is in
a small wood box

behind
the right

stars overlook this place

stars overlook this place
where highways meet
night sky
begins to wonder --
why these stacked cars
in curved lines,
lights blaring into the rear
of each one in front?
why these hotels and motels?
why these restaurants?
why these stars?
why these questions,
this ceaseless dodging
of honest answers?
why was I born into mediocrity,
raised in limp denial of self?
why have I come here
for the velvet sky to tell me
"we are out of excuses,
you must now answer
for yourself"?

a prayer not for us

bounce as high as it takes
to split the sky
with well wishes
for all of those
beyond

that they may know peace
in their four-dimensional homes
smoking their plasma pipes
on the dream dunes
of black hole shores

unrequote

in coolness
they flaunt their
unwashed bodies
coil and merge
her head
touches the lobe
of his ear
he stares
at the yellowed window frame
the fly, winged voyeur
stares back
she kisses his ear
he flinches
carries her engulfing bosom
to the altar
of his mouth
he hesitates

worlds are born
in the gap
between loving
and refusal
to love

grave matters

lining up
for destitution row
thoughts, concepts
images, intimations
mention me to your God
when you speak to Him

overturn your allegiance
to dustballs and loose threads
get in line behind me
for the grave awakening

my fall backward
will shield you
from the lightning pulse
of realization

Jordan

the brooding, silent safety
of Jordan
Mastiff-Pit pooch
with sorry, sloppy eyes
which begged us to commiserate
weary with age and illness
four legs, one broad back
shouldered the columns
that uphold
the three worlds

moment by moment

moment by moment
we see the healing of all wounds
in all beings of all worlds
with no insurance
without a prescription

with hands
over hearts
hers and yours
braided together

with 3 ingredients
in the poultice they hold

-- infinity
quaking
and mud

please, no cake for me

growth requires no effort
no arrogance, no air of sophistry
sit on your inner throne
and watch the world eat you awake

a turn of your head
topples the wealthy
circumvents
the stealthy

please, no cake for me
I have had my fill of luxury
let's be pragmatic, like stone
people don't know
from whence their next hint
of lotus breath

borrowing, borrowing
from each other
never intending to pay back
no expectation
of being paid

wonders never cease
because they never started
no virgin birth, no Big Bang
just spontaneous combustion
concurrent cameo
no end in sight
no beginning
we can claim
as our own

where Jaco lives

bass, mostly defunct
stands against living room wall
year in and out, patient

A dream -- from several years ago

We are in the hold of an alien spaceship. We wait there. We are disheartened, unable to imagine a way out.
The spaceship belongs to aliens, from another dimension. But at the same time, they are Republicans. Or, rather, they are the same energy that has invaded the brains of far-right conservatives.
With little hope, we simply wait.
There is a screen on the wall of the hold. It is blank.
A scene, an old grainy film, begins to play on it.
It is not of the aliens. It is…a miracle of some sort, an emanation from some unknown source that seeks to free us.
The scene is of a wedding, a young couple getting married, embracing. And with deep grief, we realize that the couple, joyfully celebrating, are Bobby Kennedy and his wife.
We are sad, yet we are joyful, too. Bobby was assassinated, but his spirit is still alive. It has brought us this film as a token, to show us that he still exists as spirit, ever-joyful, as on his wedding day.
Our hearts hurt and we cry, yet they celebrate at the same time. We will find a way out of this ship. We will rise up against the aliens.

Missouri Sky

Pat Metheny knows
to fold the moment
into crystal prisms
with guitar sparks
and chord sorcery
rhythm moves deep
in the glass, sees
inexplicable visions
liberated
in sound

haiku -- @ Einstein Brothers' bagels

woke up in thick fog
beginning to understand
bare branches through skylight