Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own

I had been wanting to play it
on my guitar at his funeral
planning it out in my head
at least 5 years before his death

I didn't play it, never learned it

"a house doesn't make a home...
don't leave me here alone..."
when the lines come up tonight
during Bono's elegy to his father
I bawl, like I haven't in the past four months
5 seconds that bring tears, ugly snorting
hand to wipe face

I pick up the book on grieving
I bought at the library booksale
for one dollar
read about telling our stories
again and again and again if need be
telling them until we don't need to anymore

I sit down, write this poem

the first clue

the music with no source
was the first clue
it came
when I had exhausted
all denial
of the paper folded into
perpetual motion
turning wheel
within
and understanding
at no cost to you
free, for an unlimited time
that this life is neither too hard
nor too soft
neither different
nor uniform
not burning with boredom
nor rollercoaster manic
hurtling off ice track
in the warm rain

every once in a while

every once in a while
a moment of clarity

world gone mad
stumbles on parity

seeing through rose-colored blinders,
duality

all come one in wake
of frugality

The Joy of Crying

“In trying to hold myself together…

I often want to cry, but I feel I can’t”

-- Sam Littlefair



I don’t even think about crying

It’s not an option

Either I feel shame

That I’m actively participating

In the world’s ills

Or I fancy that I have risen above emotion entirely,

Transcendent, free



Cry over the suffering of this finite population

Ever growing, dying out, feeding the ground

Feeding on the fruits of its poorest?

Frankly, I don’t feel worthy



Tonight I am reading “The Joy of Crying”,

An article by one Sam Littlefair

He reflects on what I too seldom do,

What I don’t often enough connect to –

This Whole Catastrophe we are living in



But Sam gives the green light, the thumbs up

The secret handshake



My playlist kicks up, “I Don’t Know” by Sir Paul

Perhaps the superficial Beatle’s first sonic foray

Into soul-searching



A heat and a fullness behind my eyes

With the magnificent opening chords

The feeling blooms, one half tear

Leaks from each parched orb

what still calls

I witnessed this once with my family
suburban sightseers in Florida, snowbirds

a Seminole wrestling an alligator

if you can get them upside down, he told us
rub the white underbelly
they become groggy
defenseless

it’s not so easy, I imagine
making cheap money
and not a lot of it
on tricks your grandfather taught you
when you were a kid

wondering how the fullness in your heart
at hearing the sounds, smelling the sulfur
of the Everglades
could translate into anything substantial
beyond a youth spent
playing with a Caucasian Ken doll
shooting
shooting himself repeatedly
in the foot

gravitate

how a layer of slick
rises up after cars pass
tire grooves lifting rain from the road
how the mind gravitates toward
what it abhors

embrace your dead and doldrums
they believe in you
will fertilize evergreens
of solstice and childhood dreams
made real

winter comes

leaves fall from trees
burdened by our noise
it is not of their world

ours stands apart
does not participate
in the great unfolding

our parents, our elders
those let go before ripened
likewise, fall into the ground

we do not see
do not acknowledge
that winter comes

simple science

all you perceive
is in your eye
watch yourself
see everything else
what you do
others construe
lesser than
or stellar friend
while all you are
is conscious star

upper hand

inside is false warmth
the heat of humankind
the whir of refrigeration
the sounds of the marketplace

outside is human footprint as well
paved road, cars, parking lot
a string of low buildings
quaint shops
a black metal arch,
"Old River"

still, she has the upper hand
trees, leaves, flagellated by breeze
leaning or standing tall against
our Election Day
our inner struggle
unwarranted war

a small black bird alights on a wire
clouds move ominous, unstoppable
the sky, everywhere, watches

how do you know

light is pervasive
except, of course
in darkness

then how do you know
it is dark
what illumines
your awareness
that you are disappearing
into nothingness
and what awakens
on the other side
when having died
you open your eyes?

on retreat

green spaces
in this room
in my mind and blue heart
time like wine
ages, and ages us
similar to our ancestors
we are hunters of monstrous beasts
anger, dissatisfaction
we either conquer
or feed

not in so many words

not in so many words
in a few or in one
hi, goodbye, thanks
please
it's the inflection, the projection
the movement of an eyebrow
twitch of nose
as goes your perception
so goes your heartbeat
your slippered feet
your mercy seat
your fingers lips
your vulnerable connection

this donut shop

this donut shop
is nothing but light
a flood
through the row of big windows

light on my notebook
light, warm on my back
light on my books
light on the tiled floor
on the opposite door

light illumines the hum of the refrigeration
the chatter and laughter of the donut shop kids
light on the creme-filled
light on the cruellers
light on the coke bottle
light on the monthly special,
maple-covered cake with a spider on top
sculpted from frosting

light is something we cannot escape
when we are awake
when we are asleep
in this dream
and in death
it will light our way
through the corridors
of grace

How does time escape?

How does time escape?

Through a tiny hole

In the sun

Out back behind

Where it sets

We cannot see

Where life leaks

Forever decrease

As emptiness

Grows more full

And ever more serene

The turning over

I knew it would happen
at some point; we were all
bound to accept.
There were so many of us
holdouts
from the turning over
but in the end
we signed our existences away.
I am the last
to surrender
to the Sublime Red Cube.
The icon flashes, serene and assured.
Soon nothing else will exist.
The multitude have become two
Me and It
I extend my arm
and with one quivering index finger,
press "Submit"

a piece of afternoon

a piece of afternoon
Sufjan Stevens' song for his departed mom
sad and sublime
are always welcome
tears are green gems
pierce the heart as well as the throat
sorrow is such sweet fodder

we live in light
trees breathe
we follow suit
no one sees
how this music
will save us

Awakened Cafe

She lies on the floor of the coffee shop
Eyes closed, intent on some imagined object
Lips moving slightly, silently

The head barista clears the crowd surrounding her
Kneels and taps her shoulder
She opens one eye
And asks him what he wants

He asks if she is alright
She says she is
She just realized a moment ago
While she was sipping her tea
She is in a dream
She is trying to wake herself

Deciding she is harmless
The manager leaves her,
Asking the patrons to go back to their conversations

A quarter of an hour passes
People step over her body
To stand in line for refills
Or to get to the restroom

It is then, she sits up, eyes wide open
Laughing delightedly, scanning the room
Taking in the storefront windows
With the light diving through
The potted plants
The plodding customers
The awakened café
A gem in the crown
Of a living Universe

meditation hall bathroom graffiti

trying to stop
your mind from thinking
like trying to stop
a skunk from stinking
rushing after
your mind's creations
like cerebral,
genital self-stimulation

all of these things
we do with our minds
all to increase, accentuate
find
pleasure, love
and happiness
all will bring us
precisely less

autumn warm

autumn warm
blue day, grey day
wants to rain
inner heart bloom
in its sad surroundings
a tree sheds its burdens

daily I wreck

daily I wreck

the machine I drive

a corpse alive

a Self inside

witness calm

chest to palm

peace, the prize

compromise

When up is down

The difficulty
When up is down
Is keeping the shit
In the toilet

By the same token,
It’s hard to keep the laughter
In your chest

all we see/old age is cruel/coffeeshop #72

all we see, be, and conceive
is the One, by any name astonishing
delectable, noble
raising hair through ecstatic static
the element of surprise, the sun in the chest
_________

old age is cruel
bent bones, bent low, cane for crone
softened, withering
__________

trees with red berries
long stalk, sunflower turned down
love, a thought, haunts

karma gaining

just leave it
to time
time and letting go
karma gaining on us
here it is!
and there, it's gone
and what is here
in its place?

the future
right now
in all of its mercy and sutures

what once you rejected
here's its response to you

gratitude for saints

grateful for saints
seen and unseeable
100 million Buddhas
Siddhas, seers, sages
enlightened Bubbes
freeing sentient beings
and every being insentient
each pebble and star
each molecule, atomic particle
each grain of light
in this ocean of luminosity
the expanses of darkness
in the folds of black velvet unconscious
I salute the world saviors
the day laborers
on with the light, back to the laundry
down the mountain of realization
to mingle with the ordinary
rub shoulders, impart vicarious sparks

defining "can't"

defining “can’t”
grating on my nerves
parmesan cheese
and Muhammad Ali
things I can't achieve
maybe solely
because I don't believe
crazy, criminal, karma bound
thinking about my cross a lot now
a bleeding fool
in a Burger King crown

I wasn't giving her money, and she wasn't using it for drugs

she stood by the abandoned storefront
where Big Fun once dispensed crass and hilarious items
holding her own against the wind, it seemed
while there was no wind to speak of

as I plodded the crosswalk with my cane
she caught my eye
when I arrived on her side
she asked if I had any change
she was hungry

I fished in my wallet
full of bills earmarked for poetry books
handed her a $1 bill
she thanked me sweetly
and I proceeded to Mac's for the reading

as it was, I did not buy any of the reader's books
left early in a hurry, in between open mic poets

when I got to the crosswalk, she was still standing there
I looked at her, smiled, and she frowned
"where's your cane?", she asked

I opened my mouth
uttered a profuse "thank you"
and trundled back to Mac's
through the shop and down the stairs
to the water pipe I had left my cane by

seeing her one last time on my way to my car
she asked if I could give her just two more dollars
she wanted to get a sandwich from Tommy's
I was glad she asked, because I didn't want to hand it to her
unsolicited, as if it were a tip, though that is what
I had planned it to be

"try Jimmy John's", I told her
"you'll get more to eat for less"
she took the two dollars and disappeared into the evening crowd

the whole time
I was embarrassed to tell her, the cane is somewhat only for show
her concern overshadowed by an awe
that some miracle had corrected my walking

braille of moment

some can read
submerged and dreaming

I am not that confident
I have my issues

I am only clambering
with impertinent hands

for a better view
of drowning

this one note

Bill Frisell

bending a string

through light distortion

offering to the Muse

his aural veneration

this one note

could stop an army

could win a Grammy

could melt a stone heart

could empty a music hall

and fill the surrounding countryside



crickets and fireflies

lighters waved high

tiny flames flag

the gentle breeze

seat of jeans soaked

on grassy hills

slick with thin drizzle

as she approached her seat

I noted an aura
ten feet around her
white light
zapping negative energy
unconstructive thought
dissolving it, replacing with joy

I thought of her as the center
or as one such center
the real deal

what I've come to realize
we are all enlightened
the whole spiritual pursuit
a set-up
nothing to worry over
nothing to chase
supported by naught
but the bliss of bare existence

pink flower

you save my mind

you breathe for me

when I am overwhelmed

by dad cancer

by money, unfunny

by a little Havanese

who wants attention

paws on pad such that

I have difficulty writing

anxiety parasitic

freeloading off of

thought and behavior

but you save my mind

pink flower on the tree

you open my eyes

you breathe for me

your river gets sweeter

unlike
the rivers
polluted by acts of greed
by inflated ego's seed
the downstream, saturated
with waste and insoluble excuses

your river
gets sweeter, my love
the closer it gets
to the ocean
of phileo-
of agape-
of romantic-
of puppy-
of Platonic-
Honey

in limbo (travel poem)

nothing much to say
in limbo
in between cities
in between home
away
in between states
in between space and earth
in between tomorrow and today
in between sorrow and expectancy
in between a sense of loss
and a sense of me
in between utter collapse
and the best of me
in between books
off the ground a foot
nowhere to lay my head
little sleep last night
craving bed
craving bread
losing my mind
losing my father
why bother
an uncanny calm
and illusion of self-mastery
an unconscious dread
and acknowledged disaster meet

border shift

counter to mind
and ulterior lines
the borders to this country
are drawn with fine
markers and pencils
they shift
as the population swells
and we are fuller
for the grace we give
to the people
who live now,
in the bosom
of our fractious family

nothing new

nothing new
under the bleeding sun
stricken orange
speared in side
her life trickling out
and we find our own
pushing up
rising
from inside

king of rocks

"the provocative, irresolvable arena of relationship...", Bruce Tift


51 and I've barely started
to jump into the fray
relationship I don't do well
I mostly stay away

with people at recovery groups
and 4 or 5 friends from childhood
with my family and my coworkers
I get along rather good

but seek outside those circles
or deepen with those I know
I feel like an alien with beak and flippers
a strange and jittery joke

relationship, like enlightenment
continues to remain elusive
I opt for time spent reading alone
in my apartment, my castle, reclusive

do her deed

please, no more
squeezing this brittle-boned
shrivel-hearted miser

the heart will expand on its own
the skeleton become pliable
the mind blown away
along with the brown leaves
nature will do her deed

still, I cannot conceive
this birthing
of a new me

no cry

two girlfriends in a cafe
watch the petite cop
her tattoo covered arms
her tightly worn, short hair
eyes big and moist
lips sculpted on a face
with smooth complexion

on their way out
I hear one say to the other
"I once told a lady in Starbuck's
she was pretty.
She said, 'Thank you'
and started to cry."

park, 7-1-18

the boats
the blues played
in the gazebo
by the docks
the fisher folk
the fisher king
apparent in gnats
and fat fish
families cooking on grills
babies who try to crawl away
the dried mud
of the riverbank
the dead leaves
moaning into dust
red and orange berries
couple walking
softly talking

scene of a virtuous act

the scene
of a virtuous act
inspected for clues

why do his shoes not match?
why is the blood perpetually warm?
from what sky did this dove fall?

something of everyone
is here to be found
a hint in the whispers
we steal as voyeurs

and who has ratted out the innocent one;
condemned the martyr?
whose greatest crime
was love

of which the trees speak

the joy
of which the trees speak
up in the branches
worms and birds cradled
in love, as green as the Dark Mother
the light of the heart chakra
the color of mold
the sequence of practices we follow
to reach the hem
of your red-tinted robes

trippy

the music is ethereal
people enter slowly
synthesizers pulse through each other's valleys
a drum beat sidles up to the ordeal
Chai Cola and something good to read
fresh lilies, arranged in a milk bottle

A Thank You

I was just inspired to offer a heartfelt thank you to those who read my blog. There are only a few at this point who do. But I hope your day, and your lives, are going the way you wish them to.

true story

cute, old couple
enjoying their purchase,
climb into their new, red Honda

a bright cardinal soars past
alights in the bushes
by the front bumper

O, Israel

No land is worth

The blood it costs

To buy it

Better to live

In the sky

Alive

Than dead

On the Earth

Dead

To the brothers and sisters

We need to love

In order

To breathe

playing God

playing God
why play?
throw some lightning bolts

lesser-known Buddhas

anxiety-ridden Buddha
the Buddha with the distracted look
fearful, cowering Buddha
Buddha who insults people
Buddha who saves people
by lying to them
dirty joke Buddha
elderly, church-lady Buddha
tomboy Buddha
zombie Buddha
Buddha with the leather cord
Buddha who cannot
stand on his own
needs the support
of the lowly and the worn

flimsy (haiku)

for the flimsiest
of moments, I see the filmy nature
of existence, chuckle

placard

weary cardboard placard

shaking hands and guitar with no strings

a bank card dropped in his cup

I was wealthy once, like he is

I felt I had nothing to give him

so I gave it away

new lessons in real time

I know you are wise
to the ways of the hypocrite

his violent assurances
and smooth-tongued persuasions
coated your crib
when you were a lamb
in swaddling blanket

but please consider
all of the world does not function
on secret deals
and hidden tortures

try to understand
it will take none of your
artifice and Madison avenue smarts
to undo the razor trap
to navigate the compassless map
of your drowning, distrusting heart

but colliding with furniture in the dark
and soaring down a well, breaking
at the breaking of your fall
the letting go, the letting be
will not be without pain,
but, nevertheless, will be both simple
and easy

garland of dreams

guy playing ukelele
"somewhere over the rainbow"
soft, voice resounding
carries me
longing for books like old loafers
for the elusive soulmate I have yet
to apply myself to find
numberless, nameless heart chakra
objects of confection
attention to the least peculiar
shimmerings of sunlight
on sterling tree branches, passages
outside the storefront window

outer majesty
inner warmth

this deep brown brew
mellowed with raw sugar
and creamer

some things are within reach
some things have achieved that perfection
here and now
others are present
as long we are able
to dream them

on other days

on other days
this would have been impossible
but today
I ate the forbidden radish
claimed the broken bride with the crushed bouquet
angled my eye onto the blind alley
and came out of the dark pool
with my pulse intact
and my neck craning to view
a sparrow's shell, cracking open
in the waiting, wolf-laden world

people on purple horses

people on purple horses
a practical affluence
giving away what has been given away
receiving and rejoicing
a particle of passing over
resting in the peace of blankets
warm, fleecy, silky, silly, thick, baby gurgle soft
bliss like the back of your closed eyelids
progress on the road of understanding
a gentle surfacing
hands like your deceased mother's
they are your own hands
and you are amazed at your power
to comfort a spasming world

understanding hidden secrets

to know them
(or not know them)
you must first
find them
and then dive
the water of broken clocks
holding breath and bail
down down
to bottom,
gotham of not seeing
and there
in the city of the blind
the dark light will reveal
that the mystery
was that you sought
in the first place

in infamy

don't live
in infamy
like a day
of falling metal
and rising furnace
be beautiful
like the giver in the sky
or the glow of a mother's face
no jagged aura, untoward glances
or un-solicited kisses
no groping for your life
from a suffocating pit
amidst the sensations
and the odors
of a death so slow
you can't remember
when it started
be fragrant, the essence of love
and magnolia moonlight
the premise of the novel
that will change history

solace comes

solace comes
in various settings
one, a featureless box
rows of chocolates filled
with secret yearnings
another, in mountains inhabiting
the orbiting moons
of a planet in transit
to where we can't know
it relishes its journey
never peaks ahead
or sighs for what lies
behind
yet another,
the heart of your seeing
the light that comes to kneel
before you, opens its petals
of silver and moonglare
shows you wherefore and wherehow
the basic symphony
that will cut the stranglehold
of your unnatural fog

haiku -- skipping

skipping down the road
past and out of sight, wrong way?
leaf down one-way street

powerless

sorrow is okay
it's the in-between
the not knowing
if tear or rage
will course the distance
between heart and throat,
hand may cover eyes
or rise to strike
again, I do not know
it all depends on me
I have no control

done with moist solutions

done with moist solutions
soggy paper bag full
of reasons for being
I am crow flight crooked
in spine, my calves ache
my teeth are rotting
on the vine, half a mind
controls what little patience
I put toward an early
retirement
cannot please my lover
she wouldn't want me to try
and the sky's the limit
all my money is on
old age, suffering and death
I was born on the cross
I will leave here incomplete
in search of more
incompletion

long haiku

shine of sun
on hold for now
the light that takes its time
trickling through the skylight
grey and slate-blue
the unsyncopated array
of droplets falling from
the soaked black awning
bathes my heart in somber solace
and I am fine with this afternoon
gloomy as it is, a welcome friend
a cold soda to pull on
and yet, in the very depth
of inner and outer worlds
it rains

flying home

no one recognized us
flying home
in the rain

but they saw our
lifted spirits
magnified in our eyes
and forgot they were standing
in mud
up to their shoulders

completing a circuit
a conversation
a theatrical production
a book of secret rhythms

we stirred our wings of flowers and silk
rose into the storming night once more
bringing our home
with us

Mose

old trumpet sound, tight and tinny
ancient bass, 4 beats by 4/4 time
voice with an edge
soaked with gritty pleasure
drummer can spend
his life in this groove
in this future existence
my feet move

water strider

practically everyone I know
I don't know well
water strider
skimming the surface
legs suspended
breaking the skin
tenuous splendidness

factoid -- the water strider is also known as the "jesus bug"

Panic at the Ballpark

from an unfinished manuscript of prose and poems about my first experiences with depression and anxiety


Panic at the Ballpark

the thing about Archie
or Ashish (which is his given name)
is that he seems to have no preferences
about anything

easygoing, one might say
he is one of the few people
with whom I will spend time now
unabrasive and mellow as he is

we hang out
play tennis
and one weekday evening
take the rapid transit downtown
to see a baseball game

he seems to neither enjoy it
nor dislike it
looking out on the field with a reticent interest

yet he is a little concerned
that I am keeping my eyes closed
as I pray, plead and agonize
pretending the immense crowd
the thunderous cheers and shouts
are so many bubbles
on the ocean
of Universal consciousness

coffeeshop therapy XI

mandala on the salon storefront
gentlemen discussing the process
birds winging through the moist, falling snow
cars slogging in warm winter
pedestrians stop in for coffee,
write down their thoughts and observations

in love

discipline in all things
except in love
in love, surrender to the annihilation
in love, ascendency of unparalleled chaos
in love, vomiting of guttural poetry and affections,
tears, wonder and wounds

and us with the mess of our growing
hands over our ears
at the bestial, celestial music
we couldn't let it in
we couldn't work it out
and leaving, such sweet stupid
staying would have kept us from dying
the death we needed to survive

broke-winged

collapse by your wall of assumptions
fall into feeling and intuitive darkness
suffer the highway sparrow
that hops broke-winged across the exit lane
pleading for the mercy of brake pads and calipers
leave the safety of your vehicle
the comfort of warmth behind
take a step onto the grey blood of healing
its slickness covers the off-ramp
drivers question as they slide
who am I? what have I become?

guardian angel

many rivers
forged and aflame
look behind you
your trail has an angel
sweeping your droppings

your mistakes and personal flaws
the adorable way you dump your problems
at the feet of those who love you
you will pay some day

the angel for a soul more cluttered than your own
with rapturous devotion, you will be cleaning the refuse
of one such as me
for 51 bliss-filled years

Inner work

The shelf-life of mental illness. Coruscating images in the mind’s eye. A change of heart. A sickened soul. Living free from addictive behavior, one day at a time. Formerly, a monster, now a butterfly, or an apprentice-saint. Inner work.

Transformation. A saving thought. Pissing on a rock in the sun. Wheee!! Freedom, like a singular, stellar object. Alone and never having seen another. Spiraling and shooting sparks like a hand on fire, or a truth you can’t shake. Total trust. Forgetting until humility reminds you.