like lightning on water

"history, too, is a simple machine"   -- Steve Brightman

 

like lightning on water

grace brought the first living organism

 

the Triune God -

Frankenstein, Passion, Darwin

 

moist dirt rises through eons

spits out humans

crafts of them Buddhas

 

we sit somewhere in the balance

not believing this possible

that the stench of iniquity

could give rise to beautiful flowers

each of us, a lotus turning 

in the hand of self-effacing time

melt me

 

not to disappear

not to be invisible

or cease to exist

of suffer like this

melt me

master monkey man

open my heart

as you open

and empty

my four hands

this is November

early evening sprawls before us

this is November

indoors and further in

reading and guessing at heart's depth

outside, the darkness is light as well

I remind myself

anything that gives secret joy

is lit from within

and love is a light, too

I see it, and in it

see you

• 
  

just sitting

just sitting with

who you are

as you are

constant mountain 

movement, distant 

brother star

toss of coin 

into golden 

sun pool

placate timid tiger

with song of 

being you

all I know

  

all I know

there's more to see

all I am

there's less to be

open heart

open door

wind and star

tell me more

in our hearts

some may deny

they are good inside

or that pain is there

-- in our hearts, both reside

 

"I hurt; I am good"

two grand admissions

when taking a look

hold them both in cognizance

 

how can that be?

don't they cancel each other?

yet bright as plain day

we are grand and we suffer

 

create equal space

for sacredness and affliction 

for wonder and awe

at life's truths conflicting

grotto of St. Dymphna

(actually likenesses show her pretty happy; she is matron saint of the mentally ill...)

 

weeds neglected

dirt smeared on concrete molding

smudges of blood mixed in

no one can guess their source

the question lost to the failing faith

of the previous century

 

the image, hunched, recoiling

as if from a gaggle of marauding geese

as if life itself had become a burden

air and the sun, curses, crosses

 

on her face

a fleck of an impish grin

breaking through an awful grimace

an ounce of grace

rained on her perpetually-breaking heart

on Exercise: Finding the Feeling, by Pema Chodron

the feeling of

being in Mom's hospital room

as I draw and write

sitting by the side of her bed

 

Ani Pema instructs,

Bring up a memory

What does it feel like?

 

like ice water

a pool rich with grief

hovering below my heart

above my belly

 

I look up, distracted

a single cloud peers out

over the top of the building across the street

 

I am not unhappy

I am just sad

writing

what is this "writing"?

it is just that --

one letter following another

meaning seems to have

escaped me

not that I meant something

in the first place

chickens squawk

the farmer's axe

maybe 2

 on maybe afternoons

the sun lights every possible path

could be this, could be that

good and/or bad

I'm down for the infamy

up for the epiphany

this could be erroneous math

I'm making my predictions

based on phantom predilections 

Amelie (the Cleveland theater production)

the nearness of a father

and of a mother

compromised

for fear of illness

(closeness)

control and isolation

(the beat of her heart

suppressed)

 

father touches her

once a month, when he

a doctor

takes her vitals

 

mother teaches her

at home

Zeno's Paradox

-- as you approach your goal

   you will reach half the distance

   and continue to reach

   only half, and half again

   never quite arriving at it

 

Amelie, an enigma

a warm soul

in a straitjacket

can touch anyone

gladden their heart

but lets no one

touch her

Gospel of Marc

This place is too public for an execution

They'll do it in closed board rooms

With pie charts and power points

The one they cannot reach through crucifixion

With a moist finger to the wind, testing ghost flight patterns

The one who takes off in t minus 10

Of edible grace, invisible friend

Has chosen the time of his own expiration

Not by scripture or tarot or revelation

The button down turncoats and Judas kings

They'll make their big move

He'll be pulling their strings

none but One

 

toward a greater understanding

of misunderstanding

bless the beasts and brutes

Alpha males and sentient snoots

snails sliming to nirvana

backwards, around the globe

I just wanna 

embrace the disgrace

heal the heel

uncover the selfish lover

scrutinize and tenderize 

the emergence of hatred 

in my own blessed, little heart

skip

 

lost a skip

of a beat of my heart

defeated once I won

the world caved in

crust enclosing my body

expectations, beliefs, desires

assumptions imploding

there is no consoling

the hole I am holding

and a flicker of light

at the side of my eye

draws my breath back in

I might lose everything

and still sit here

watching the breath

wash over the fear

too soon

 

dawn came too soon

the dark night of my soul

was such sweet rending

heart alien

to everything living

I longed for you

though I did not know

if you existed

I died for you

grand aesthetic principle

glorious idea

that you may be well

that you may be well

and all manner of beings

be relieved their suffering

I have renounced renouncing

taken up coffee

and poetry

listening closely

to the articles of evidence

of our emerging humanity

the worry

the worry is not in your head

it is in the wormlike creature

struggling on the window pane

that fights to unfold itself

revealing, not a worm

but a firefly

Jonetta and the Man with a Sun for His Head

In the dream, a man with a head as bright as the sun walks the streets aimlessly. His light is not intelligence or a warm radiance, but a sick emanation, an ego shine. The man is me.

The scene shifts.  I lie in a dark hospital room. A tiny woman, with hair closely cropped to her head, is whispering to me.

I am touched by what she is saying; the sickness of ego is no longer blazing.  A tiny light goes off in my heart. I am freed, enlivened by a tender feeling.

 

I have this dream during a stay at a psych ward.  When I wake up, I reason, “I have an ego, yes, but is it really all that big?” 

One evening, later in the stay, I have a panic attack. I struggle until bedtime to keep myself together. I am extremely happy when I can get to bed and just focus on my breathing.

I wake up early the next morning. Something has occurred to me. I have been full of myself, and the panic attacks I have are my body’s way of taking me down a few pegs – I may be book smart, but can’t even rely on the integrity of my own mind on a day to day basis.

I stumble out of my bedroom, take a shower. On the way back to my room, a young woman, Jonetta, stops me. No one pays her much mind – she seems to always be stumbling around, clamoring for attention, with her froggy whisper that none of the nurses or patients can ever make out.

She is really keen on telling me something. I lean in close so I could hear.

“The medicine makes me so sleepy,” she croaks, “I can hardly talk. They need to lower my medication.”

I repeat this back to her, and her eyes light up. “Yes! Yes! No one will listen to me.”

I realize, Jonetta is the woman from the dream.

I relay to one of the (nicer) nurses what Jonetta had told me, but the nurse is dismissive. She says that I don’t know what Jonetta is there for, and I am not a doctor – I couldn’t know what she needs.

Thus, I have learned a little bit more about the helplessness of the psychiatric patient “in the system”. But I have learned more about myself, and I have made a new friend. 

attached to the cup (paraphrasing Hindu teaching story)

you are attached to the cup

that brings you water

this is your mistake

throw away the cup, look up

you are on the shore

of a freshwater lake

I believe in disco

I believe in disco, I do

now

 

I have heard the very best 

here at Starbucks tonight

#1 singles from the 70's, 

strung one behind the other

 

"Freak Out"

"Boogie Wonderland"

“Funky Town”

and this one whose words 

I could never make out

"I love the night life

I love to boogie

on the disco roooouuunnnd, 

balayang!"

 

dumb stuff

starfloss of morons, you say

and didn't Chic almost make it

into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?

travesty!

 

but I do believe in disco

I do now

 

they used to dance, you see

beneath a shattered star

in another time

in another world

light, like a thousand fireflies in formation

circling, dazzling, dizzying them

 

and how we might long for that mindlessness

that sexual abandon

high on mixed drinks and cocaine

they ushered in the 80's

the stupid 80's, all Reagan and spandex and big hair

what could we know of their sweat,

its odor wafting through too much perfume, cologne?

 

but I know

I have smelled it

and I believe

I do now

I believe in disco

this is how it works (true story)

 

I stand stopped on the bridge

from Old River to where I live

bothered by the diatribe in my head

an argument, political

leveled at a statement

made by a dear, dear friend

a year ago

 

I have gone too far

frustration pitch

for a woman I have never argued with

in person

never had reason to

don't have now

 

I stare through the metal bridge fence

at the river, the trees below

at nothing

at my own horror

at myself

 

turn toward the street

 

meet the laughing gaze of a girl, waving madly

out the back window of an SUV

her smile, breaking her face with light

she is waving at me

 

this is how it works

 

I smile, feel the weight of my frown

everpresent these days

lift, a droplet of grace

worn through my rhino’s hide

to moisten

a long-parched heart

Impossible

"It is impossible!"

the waiter tells Natalie Goldberg

...dessert -- after the kitchen has closed?

No way, her mortified, Japanese friend thinks

slinks after Natalie and the waiter into the kitchen

to see the playful imp, writing teacher of writing teachers

confront the chef -- Yes? for us? dessert?

        and it is impossible, this life, love

        sanity, sobriety

        these could never happen

        for me

the chef relents

she is too cute, this impudent American

       and I feel a breakwall breached in my heart

       the ocean of dreams threatens  to flood reality

       for me, for you

       for all beings and non-beings

       for the countless Buddhas

       for the thus-come bums

       for everyone

first of birds

first of birds

great flops, I hear

skittish, smacking trees

unbelievable buffoons

when the wind was not right

they would be lost in the clouds

frail fluffs of flight

forgotten, lost

lost, it would seem, like the dinosaurs

or the Atlanteans

the never-again and the never-was

but they found their way, at last

through the multi-hued skies

through multifarious forms

raised one wing at the right time

parried with the other

lovely darts 

propelled up through

the alleyways of history

up through

to the present age

to the trees and streets

woods and rooftops 

those ever-saints 

and sometimes-thieves

born

 

born in blue blanket fuzz comfort

castle palace home hoisted on steel girders over gold mine

trolls digging deep but never set filthy feet

on suburban streets

white as peach tree fruit

for this life to taste devour rape

home is a long way from Kansas now

swirls whirl down dark dank side of danger

cage I create and make sanitary with prayer

can't lie down for fear of falling into another lie

I would return in an instant to the solid mass of plastic heaven

if clarity wasn't so obvious, so sweet, so damn insistent

by rote

token emotion

feel by rote

for ones who suffer

always my M.O.

quasi-authentic

here, in the epiphany of agony

heart wrenched

by your emasculation

I know a new feeling

a weeping and fretting

for all the hurt in the world

Untitled (link to poem at 3 Quarks Daily)

Thanks to Jim Culleny, poetry editor at 3QD, for posting this!

https://3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/2021/05/thursday-poem-267.html

 

here

 

the great imploding world view

cascading light particles

you count them

1...2...                    here's another!

3.    three particles of light

and you are full

the aggregates of mind

the foundational delusions of ego

crammed in a space

the size of a baby raccoon

your brain feels so light

as light as your conscience

your pineal gland secretes

primps before its blazing mirror

I have found you

this is no illusion

we breathe, 

therefore

we're here