that OCD guy

afire with compulsive prayer

hand brushes hair

every minute or so

an outward expression

of an inward obsession

a man twice-odd

fanatic for God

and the part I forgot

I'm sorry a lot

your song

your song cannot be silenced

it breathes, swimming in its own light

swirls, self-propelled, in a bubble of energy

a power that cannot diminish

born of its own accord

cannot have done otherwise

no song can be silenced

it IS because it must be

it is that it is

outlandish

do dogs have feelings? 

can they understand what we say?

in ways we might not imagine

 

does the wind have words?

are we remiss in not comprehending?

 

even a mountain communicates

when we stand in awe

it has inserted its grandeur

into our thoughts

 

is God in our temples, our churches, our hearts?

is Buddha in photons, and black holes, and quarks?

some things are too outlandish to conceive

the more outlandish

the more I tend to believe

Marguerite

Marguerite wanders

by the isolation room door

a nurse tells her to get away

I don't mind her being here

don't mind the company

when she is back, she says to me

through the thick window

"Don't worry. God loves you."

maybe she knows

this is just what I need to hear

years later

during her group home intake

I will witness her 

setting her hair on fire

years after that

will see her dragging her belongings

across Public Square

I will not call to her

she has a rugged-looking guy

in tow, I feel she must at least

have some kind of protection

the nurse calls to her again

she turns and skitters off

down the dirt-tracked hallway

the pink

the prettiest face

streak of grey on her forehead

distant threats of beauty

is the light coming up

so slowly, it aches to watch

the pink hold dullness at bay

to her breast, turns it tin-blue

over the buildings, the lone chimney

downtown welcomes

the perfect dawn

feed the world

like a facebook like

mists of time soar over a past

that is petulant, remains for a day

a particle of a moment among the kalpas of creation

we will never aspire to more

than our hearts can flutter

open the oven door

take out the warm loaves

feed the world as you know it

save crusts and hefty chunks of butter

for all you don't

justice

 justice is a tiny thing

a grain of sand, a simple heart
let the guy change lanes in front of you
he may be dealing with more weight of debt
than you could ever forget
help the crusty man carry a smile
the old woman with her bags of regret

kindness is a magic of brown leaves
falling from the sky
a warm hand, open and full
heals every single one of us

truth is asking how and why
justice, again, is a hut built
in the shelter of the now
we huddle, together
need to human need

the reason I do not dabble much in politics and protest

the world

will wander where it will

the continental plates beneath the plates

always pointing

to impossible, unexpected endings

wholeness, resolution

Einstein's #4

a muted voice -- Kate Bush who'd easily 

go Running Up that Hill

the frigid air from the cooling vent

the rotating cast of customers

buying bagel sandwiches

bagels with cream cheese schmear

a baker's dozen of assorted bagels

doggie bagel treats

at the Einstein Bagels

by the Heinen's store

by the Erie Island Cafe

by the snazzy Old River Shopping district

right on the border of stodgy Rocky River

and progressive, authentic Lakewood

I come here a couple of times a week

relax with food and coffee

read, write, and occasionally

catch a surprising songbite on the overhead speakers

Future Islands

Death Cab for Cutie

Modest Mouse

slightly askew of corporate fare

here are a group of people

I know but don't know

tasty brunch on a round, sliced roll

and music that sometimes

hedges on sublime

line 'em up

sometimes they align

in such a way

chaos theory proves itself

the beauty of clouds

streaks like steak filets

lined up on the grill

mountains of mist

piled up behind them

foreboding, like older brothers

protecting younger siblings

and somewhere in this region of sky

a rhombus of clear blue

cut out of the conventional

freedom, always a gift

hard-won, breath-taking

the goldfinch

 We get into some pretty deep conversations

My therapist and I

It’s not so much about

How I am doing, what happened in my childhood

In my week, but –

How can I be helpful in this insane world

What is this world

Who am I in relationship to it?

 

I am happy today, we seem to be getting to solutions

Ways I can improve my life, while I have not been trusting

That anything can improve

 

At a poignant moment in our discussion

A small bird flies up to the sill outside

I note a gold streak on its breast –

Not a sparrow, if sparrows could even fly to the 4^th floor

 

I call it to Marie’s attention

She looks, “by God, is that a goldfinch?”

It’s so tiny, so fast

It’s hard to get a scope on it

But it is a rare sighting

And the poor thing seems to be trying

To get inside the office, hovering for a half minute

save this world

let's do this together

let's make this happen

like we've seen in every movie

post-dating Star Wars and many before

like that blind-flying scene

feel the force

feel your longing

your love, with your full body knowing

let's make this happen

1    2     3

save this shimmering, ghost world

two for naught, with a tinge of glowing affect

the sky tonight, Matthew-catholic

rains like real men cry

blues shed their macho b.s.

grey interlaced

sun lost somewhere

in the thick grove

of gulls and electric wire, crucified

------

it's okay

the cold, a little damp

in the spring air

brings back the recognition

that life is not always cheerful

all will not last

indeed, happiness

as illusory as suffering

cannot be willed

or worked for, bought

or caught, but only received

as it passes, a dense forest

giving way to a cloudless sky

over a field and a pond

through the window

of a speeding train

to speak truth

turn to your right, cough

to your left, sing

in the middle, speak truth

but understand

truth is a complex affair

a paradox, a well-guarded secret

you must thread a needle

with your soul

to come close to it

and to voice it

climb a mountain

of mountains

to a sun made

of suns

better to just sing your joy

or at very least

cough your misery

that's as close to truth

as most of us 

will ever get

part of the problem

part of the problem

is, I never grew down

grew up, of course

but never deep into dirt

fingers caressing worms

never had the chance to know what I learned

see what I yearned

cross the bridges I burned

the sum total of all the worlds that turn

the endless river to the ocean

the seed of a world-configuring notion

pleads solemn for a place to take root

in my miniscule imagination

I have stumbled down the cavern to truth

opened my tiny heart to you

looking up

I

Yoko Ono's installation piece

John Lennon climbs a ladder

looks around and around the room

looks up, on the ceiling

the word, "Yes!"

II

at Einstein Bakery

always trained on books

phone and food

a moment within

curiosity fueled by despair, hope

a look upward

the top of the sun-illumined tree

framed by skylight window

no one better

no one here better

than a stand of grass

not one iota of seniority

over the dusk that shifts

its collusion with blue, yet darker 

to bleed of brown

and ecstatic hunger of smoky black

stars tell us there is never

reason for pride

we will revolve and solve

the mystery that begat us

the desire that ran us

off the roadways of grace

and we leave our children to the wolves

who teach them mercy, strength when needed

and the truth concedes its smallness

to cast shame on us, restore us to wholeness

survivor's guilt

lines on the street

survivor's guilt

I can drive my Honda

the old guy from my building

with the heart condition

waits on the bus, bundled

in late winter freeze

*yes, I give him a ride if we are headed in the same direction

dreaming windmills

dreaming windmills

seeing one, standing short-stacked

against the pink apartment building

loving what I dream

living disbelief

looking once again

a tree branch, broke apart

hanging across the trunk

bare arms of winter tree

bare arms of winter tree

ebony harmony

swaying beautiful because

it has survived

and spring shows its nose

turning that corner

in crocus pocus

in buds of rose

farther and farther

farther and farther

away from your goal

Paul Simon sang

he was slip-slidin' away

I thought he was crazy

or a pessimist, still

after all these years

there's no conquering that hill

warplanes, cafe jazz

the warplanes are not blotting out

the cafe jazz, here at Blackbird

I'm certain, where the buildings crumble

there is no music but jets above

bombs below, and roadside explosions

I am fortunate, as so many find themselves

even the tiny sufferings and shame

that mark my charmed existence

are small enough to be immeasurable

in the jetsam and sputum of history coughing

washed down the gullet of time

inconsequence and grace

make me more fat and comfortable

than I have right to be

to be honored

any spectacle

worth honoring...

      not the tacky red gaud

      of TV reality

      not your derisive laughter

      nor your feeling superior

      in how you live --

      punching into the world,

      knifing the air in front of you

      with a clean nose

...but a window

onto a slice of life

so sweet and charming

so full of baby's s laughter

and old man's wispy beard

the hand that rocks the soul

has held the infant Jesus

while Mary relieved  herself

in the brambles

that hand reached in

and pulled twenty men

out of a collapsing coal mine

everyone deserves transformation

but not all should be inducted

in your heart, holy of holies