heart of hearts

the hole in the bottom
of the bottle
you want to fall through it
fall into the Great Mystery

some say of that hole
"It's full of stars"
it’s full of heart
the one you knew
when your mother held you
before she left you
the heart that sang harmonies
with the celestial ghandarvas
before your father chained it
to his wallet and to his belt
it's the heart of all that light
that outshines all the deities
of all possible religions

but those God's
are just kosher pickles
pickled turnips
pre-chutneyed peppers
Sunday communion
dipped in salsa

that your Friend, the clean-up guy
the janitor at the end of the Universe
uses to point out all those blinding stars
yea, those selfsame suns
that sit at the bottom
of your weepy beer

the slanting in

the scarf she sent me
draped over the back of my chair
dull, burnt orange
the color the swamis wear

this moment, chosen
for its veracity and razor clarity
pops like Escher's 4-D fish

and here with me
the new books and used CD's
that claw at the dust of the day
the caked on mud

my eyes decline a statement
smile, instead, at the slanting in
of the last of daylight

washed out

like so many washed out weeds
rained into the mud, blazed by the fire sun
I am one, thirsty and drowning

all the Metropark is one living being
trees, thicker than my body
ants, tiny, black, like marching raisins
crawl and tickle my wrist

I could have been a lover in another century
swooning over the natural world
a Muir or McKibben
but it is too late in this one

some process of change
hurtling us out of this existence
quicker than we can recycle starships
to carry us to another

where, morally wounded, we might plant ourselves
like so many washed out weeds
or germs escaping viruses
as if it was our good karma
or our pedigree, or our privilege