Turned Around to See Itself

Professor Kotack paces the narrow auditorium stage. I am amazed he has managed not to fall off the whole semester. On this final day of fall term, the anthropologist is telling us a story from his time with an African village family in the early 80’s.
“My last night on this excursion, we sit at the dinner table. There is much laughter, but also tears and heartfelt tributes. I will not see them again for two more years.”
The mother serves him some rice with chicken. And then, on top of the steaming mound of rice, she places a boiled chicken penis.
The class takes that in. There are a few guffaws, but we quiet ourselves.
“You see,” says the professor, “when you have the opportunity to really connect with people whose lives, on the surface, are much different than yours…you come to appreciate that differences mean little in the face of what is common. This family had the utmost gratitude and love for me. Their honoring me with the rooster’s dong”, more laughter, “was the highest compliment they could give – from the standpoint of their own culture.”
Something in my head twists around to see itself. I think I have finally understood what he has been trying to show us in the past three months.
Sure, every culture has vast differences in belief and custom. But, truly, there are no differences that matter. We are all bound by the same code of honor – a friend is someone you esteem as much as, if not more than, yourself. I think of the “headman” (in a sense, the “mayor”) that did not honor this code. He tried to keep his wealth to himself. He was shunned and mocked by the entire village.
Professor Kotack has left us enough to think about, for the rest of our lives, perhaps. At least he has left his gift with me.

comfort

comfort is not
what it appears
a murderer
dressed as a teddy bear
a mother
who eats her young
the placard that hangs
on this moment
does not point
to this moment
but to the next
or the preceding one
a fantasy reality
where confidence men
are trusted
for their warm hands
with their sure grip
that pull you back
from the precipice
without letting on
who led you there

not Al Pacino

not Al Pacino

I was sitting in the coffee shop
when he walked in, I swear he did
Al Pacino, in Cleveland for a film shoot
or maybe it was the Christ
holy light of each of our hearts
or my father, departed and all, as he is
returning to tell me
to complain to the Honda dealership
for the extravagant amount they charged
for an inspection that brought up nothing
nothing but my own lack of guile
the trusting naivete
Dad had a hard time
accepting
in me

assuredly, it was not Al Pacino
it was the handsome, scruffy Balkan guy
who comes here for espresso
but in him, perhaps
a latent everyday savior
or a doting father
the kind of man you might find at Starbucks
playing dominoes with his friends
proudly showing off his little boy
the kid, a tad shy and a bit soft-headed
with a grand, budding heart
that not Al Pacino
will not appreciate
for years to come

am I dying?

am I dying? I wonder
have I slowly been approaching
the end of my contract with karma
in a majestic car wreck trajectory,
the earth element dissolving into the water principle
my strength, gradually dissipating

this feeling of falling
this sensation of withdrawing
perhaps the Tibetan Book of the Dead
has my number, Britney Spears singing
"Toxic", in the background

I am still aboveground, yes
but what's to say
this month, this next moment
will not be my time?

all things must pass
oh, preach it, brother George
but I don't want to know
the extent to which this goes
how this soul dissolves
into bliss, what is bliss?
when my line of sight is contracting
self-certainty lacking
so slick, I once thought myself
with every bullet I managed to dodge
never knowing they would all be waiting
at the moment of my most prideful misstep
my most profound realization

dire bouquet

dire bouquet
midnight foray
feeling the hunger to disappear
into the woods to lose us

we have built wisdom into the system
prosthesis reaches to dream
binds us and releases us upstream
to merge into absolute sky

jettison medicine into the sea
breath for life, death for free

we have broken with the past
still, our ancestors hold us
to rituals meant to embolden
the DNA they have bestowed
to push toward prize
to realize, we must believe
we have only conceived this life
we have only this life
to give to receive
received only
to give

shadow blinds

staring at the shadows
of near-bare branches
waving in the wind
cast on my bedroom blinds
by the parking lot lights
I wish to die this way
watching you, somewhere
on the edge of sleep
not wishing to go there
just yet

the diligent one

don't assume
the approaching night
of dust and boredom
is the herald of a lesser merchant
come to sell you
purgatory on earth

believe that the ache
with which you face
the meat of hunger
is the ache meant for you

and, yeah, the sultans
of unimaginable inner kingdoms
do not think your life a waste
nor your efforts to unite
the beating cells of broken hearts
venting hate on one another

you only have this moment
to grasp the lightness of death
and it will never return
until the moment that follows
time after time after time again

nothing to prove
everything to lose
and that is where you have them

-- your enemies march to the beat
of the lead clock, housed in the lead sun
radiating sickness and wealth with no conscience

but your forgiveness will eat their innards
vulture of compassion
turn them to beg for some small particle of grace
turn them to honest contrition

never worried much

I never worried much
about loneliness
but it is so cold
now that I am happy
finally sober and on some road
to some kind of purpose
to my sweet spot
at my job, in my writing
it is cold, but not freezing
freezing might impel me
toward somebody
some company
but this,
this is the lethargy
of the satiated deities
with protruding bellies
inclined to arrogance
with no one
not one soul in the world
to long for

what they say

it's true
what they say
worlds
fade away
crumble
or implode
with the insurmountable load
of beings, ungracious
but space
is spacious
and living, forgiving
we find our center
where the lender
and the debtor
learn each one
better

what passes for a political view around here

the Buddha
holding up a flower
is about as progressive an act
as I can think of

if we are doing more
or less
in my mind
we are spinning
our wheels

still, there is much to be done
let it be done
but keep the eye of your heart
on that flower

to complicate matters (OCD days)

the hospital chaplain asks
"Who are you to tell God, No?"
but never inquires
exactly
what I think
God
wants

regrets come in pairs

deaths of this nature
never ones we hope for
and do we hope for
any death?
perhaps --
the merciful end
to a painful struggle
the sudden passing
in bed

and did I love you
as I once asked you
not, "do you love me?"
but "COULD you love me?"
our love-making
contingent on the answer

and did I blame you
for an overdose, or a suicide
or that slow dulling of soul
that is addiction?

forgive me,
I truly did

refused to talk to you
because I could not understand
who you were
where you were going

fumbling for the ocean

you reach out
in darkness of night
of soul
of heart
for an ounce of solace
a drop of your own empathy

in your false grief
like an actor's
or a lawyer’s
or that of a child
who has been given way too much

yet a year after his death
when you light a memorial candle
a real one, a Manischewitz
blessed by a rabbi
in the People's Republic of China
unlike the chakra candles
and the tealights
you lit for your mother
you read the mourner's Kaddish
not your own prayers,
the ones you improvised for Mom
fancying yourself
an unappreciated closet rabbi

the well opens
and you are glossed
by a surge of tears
the ocean you reached for
but could not find
had been waiting
all this time

Tormato

She studies the album jacket, the song list on the back, the odd cover photo.
The music shop owner says he doesn’t know much about the album -- Tormato, by prog-rock band, Yes.
I step in to tell her what I know of the cover.
Critics had been crapping on Yes for some time. When their producer showed them their new album cover, commissioned by an artist who photographed a man in a suit, dowsing with two sticks on the British tors (hills), drummer Alan White cursed, and threw a tomato at the expensive art work. The band decided to include the smashed tomato on the cover, naming the album Tormato. It was a middle finger to the critics who, in any event (they assumed), were going to throw a proverbial rotten tomato at the finished product.
The woman decides to buy the album (for the $3 asking price), if nothing else, for the story.

the world creates you (found poem, from an interview with Gabor Mate)

just before they got to [Budapest]
where my mother and I lived
under Nazi occupation

(this, I tell you
has informed so much of my work)

the pediatrician said
“all of my Jewish babies
are crying”

(the child is very open
if the mother is suffering
the baby is suffering)

the parents' pain
is felt and passed down

the iniquity of the fathers
visited upon the sons

with our thoughts
we make the world

but what I want to add –
before you create the world
the world creates you

jazz vs. jazz

listening to some old timey
female jazz vocal songs
with sappy trumpet, strings
and one note per bar bass

I do not know
if my urge
to return home from the cafe
to listen to Miles and Mingus CD's
is sacrilege, good taste, pigeon business
or simply garden-variety monkey mind trick

Frank's

totally engrossed
in the weight of sensation
of behind on seat, feet, plopped on floor
pen in hand, hands on notebook
static with commercial radio ads
sizzle of steak omelet on grill
swoosh of metal cooking utensils
eyes on more than one perception at once
hearing eyes, feeling eyes, visual eyes
trained on Bic flowing across lined paper
at Frank's Falafel House, in dead of pre-dinner rush
I am alone with my thoughts
and with the lonely waitress, who
with big eyes and wrinkles like dimples
waits for my order with me

the grow

the push upward
the pull inward
fill to fill-line
complete the race
you are chasing love
which was at the start
and at the finish
it is the road
it is your heart
the beat that drowns you
has found you
tracing your way back
in circles

mirror of the moment

the quiet of voices
of humming refrigeration
of twangy pedal-steel guitar r&b
the innocence of young women
baring their secrets, for all I know
there, across the room

I sit with these solemn embers
burning bright in the midst of daylight
forever for a moment
in excess of contentment
where an invisible mirror lives
smiling back our luminescence

in the balance

do frogs transmigrate
sideways?
do cats mingle with mice
for any reason other than
family barbecues?
if a wayward word
happens out the side of my mouth
would you come gather it
for your bouquet
of nonsensical contingencies?
and when does the moon
dip below the clouds
to taste of its own reflection
in the ocean, in the lake
in the wild grass and the wine glass?
I cannot answer your simplest question
but I am certain
there is room enough
for every possible solution
in the balance of broken worlds
made whole
by droplets of our desire
to see it so

raintruthJune

when the rain is too heavy
for the earth, for the streets
for the long purple flowers
crushed against the wood chips
sorrow and struggling
against death and wetness
we may finally know
the weight of our desires
is too much for even
our children to bear

the stress test never ends

two and a half minutes, he tells me

until the end of the stress test

but it never will end

he amps up the speed and tilt of the treadmill

I am breathing through my mouth

two and a half minutes

turns to three

to another ten

stretching asymptote toward infinity

my mouth is dry, I can hear my heart

it is gonzo John Bonham, pumping the bass drum

Josh, the lab attendant, pushes at my back

holding me on the treadmill which slows, tilts downward

I am confused and drowning

in the air that surrounds me, that is inside me

there is not enough of it

water would be so good right now

but the ocean is salt

and I am heading for the door

for the water fountain

because you have to start somewhere

when the world is your oyster

and you are allergic to shellfish

certain words

an undisclosed location
in the inkwell
certain words keep cropping up
freeing neural pathways
scientific Spirits
angels measured with calipers
speaking in tongues
we are seeking an answer
finding quite another

ode to you, tree

I've seen you bare 3 seasons, a trio of winters. I have seen you bloom again in that skylight window at the Einstein Brother's Bagels. Full, and at once proud and humble concerning your fullness. Your crown of sky, blue, grey, or mottled white, never fails you, serving as a stage for your eminence.
I have written poems to you, several through the years, you crept toward the upper pane of the window that frames you. From a world of phantom imagination and shapeless form comes the song that gives rise to your being.

I was Pu Yi

1 -- 1912
trouble boy, ruler ruined
last emperor of China
hurled a mouse at wooden gates
feeling that he was that mouse
a pet, a toy for display
he found out that day
in his Forbidden City
that he was nothing

2 -- 1983
we entered through the tall arch
a picture of Chairman Mao
ushered us in
the City, stone sculptures, red flags
concrete pathways
was she with me then
when I was here
the first time?

3 -- late 19th century
I am a drug-lord in Mongolia
before Pu-Yi's time
we sit around a large rug
in an opium den
colleagues, fiends
I am betrayed, stabbed
in the back with a dirk
by my closest servant

4 -- now
we are reflections
in the pond of Being
of all we have been
yet something more
an evolution
propelled by earnestness

the impetuous boy emperor
lives on in me, the feckless drug lord
as well as his flunkie
with his curt spear
betrayer, betrayed
savior, saved

serious ritual

bare feet on linoleum
cold to the touch, warm to the heart
a sticky spot where dinner abandoned ship
resolute steps to the refrigerator
the open, the peruse, the shut
nothing here to see, move it along

coffee, Easter morning

I am negotiated
into my own skin
"don't twitch"
I tell myself
"you have so much
to be present for"

in this time
in this place
I watch the movements
cogs within cogs
inside a vast machinery
that is a Universe
that is a eulogy
for this morning's coffee

through the skylight
branches of winter tree
reaching for buttons
on spring's blouse

"I have faith in you"
"stay in your own skin"
"something grand
is afoot"

more, always more

freedom in coarse confessions
the 8 broken limbs
of yoga
the genius
of disbelief
more than meets
the eye
more than we can
bear
more, always more
we run into cloud barriers
and stop, dumb
not understanding
what we are
to do with this
information
cost of a funeral
on a Friday late nite
when the stores are all
shuttered
and the living
is easy
and songs cost less
than the vinyl
from which they rise
a liberated vapor
some measures of pressure
singing their
confidences
disclosing
everything

platytudes

no time like the present
and the present is a gift
don't you know
and the altitude of ego
diminishes as days
collect as counterparts
into ever-expanding
into on and up
into off again and the why of it all
into something less than we have
but satisfied nonetheless

happy enough to burst
through the ceiling, through the clouds
to the stars, to the constellation rotation
to the crazypeople who hide
among the asteroid belts

and who would guess their existence
when so confined by science
in silence only, we know
what a moment
is truly worth

the invention of time

the invention of time
right about now
this tableau is broadcast
on the screen
of flow
time, invented anew
each moment
by whom
for what purpose
dive deep
beneath the waves
of radiating light
find the maternal glow
that is the source
through layers
of pestilence
feed from the breast
you holy, only child
newborn ancient
along with
the rest of us

on reading Hazrat Inayat Khan

greater unto greater
one world immense
into another such world
the path becomes the Universe
the Universe becomes a marmoset
baby, warm and purring
folded into mother's belly
our stories are for telling
one voice, one silence, one fur

green life

love as balm
attention, a panacea
mindfulness is medicine
in the window
in the early evening night
first day of spring
a heart thing
leaves glow street flow
we grow, merging into mind
waves of knowing
lap at home
of ceramic and soil

struggling

struggling
against nothing
against no one
against myself
against the great Birth
the moment of Introduction
the bow-inducing audience
applause like blood
rushing
a river of blood
through one ear
and out the other

take your bow
you are absent
empty hands
clapping, no sound
finally accorded
your Dispensation

w/ the therapist

I am lethargic and bored
we speak for nearly an hour
I am evasive; she is tenacious

when a moment of clarity arises
I notice the tissue in the box on the vent
waving like a flag

don't judge

don't judge me
by my actions
stone me in this
world of appearances
the sitcoms, hidden
in the march of the postman
by any weather, endeavor
the purple coifs
under hijabs, regret
that we never did begin
to excavate
our acne'd, alabaster
faces for signs
of quiet soliloquy
tones of a primordial
sludge of sacred
reverberation
speaking volumes
to legumes
and moss, and other
forest dwelling
peoples

Kali Ate the New Age

some of them were anticipating
the coming of the Age of Aquarius
with peace signs and tie dyes
acid trips, Hendrix
an unfolding human consciousness

I was the product of two ships
that gasped in the night
in a car or at a concert
at a friend's apartment
a brief allotment of time
for free love

I tracked down my mother's brother when I was 21
detective work turned up his yearbook
when my letter arrived. my aunt implored him to call his sister
let her know that her lunatic bastard child
had found his way home

but Kali ate the New Age
aglow with fierce compassion
she knew we'd need more
than salvation in some quick fix --
crystals, hot yoga, chakra balancing
the archetypal mother's arms

the turning of our Collective Heart
would require something closer to the bone --
pestilence, despair, outrage
the death maw of electronic newspaper in lap
joined hands, an oasis of tears, knit pussy caps

counter-survival

untold stories
untasted experiences
for the starving in us

we marvel
at our good fortune

fulfillment
was never
about satisfaction
but hunger
under-indulgence
eyes forever turned
toward want
and its innumerable uses

one step at a time

follow the somewhat thread
into the microscopic house
the tongue of reality flame
licks your hand
subtle dog

morose mind
under construction
its tender malfunction
drunk on the process
slogging toward conscious