yaneverknow

 

yaneverknow

 

so the end has come

and I, like everyone else

expected a miles-wide hammer to fall

or a dust whirlwind to fill our parched throats

 

instead, She enters with music of castanets

a constellation of smoldering jazz quartets

the perfume of red, garlic tomato sauce

and warm, olive oil with herbs

wafting on the winds 

of an unsurmised shift

 

the blinking of our hearts' eyes

wonder at the new world that appears

at the dawn following the final night

the morning after the sun broke down

to make way for a radiant, all-sustaining love

shining from below ground

INWARD

"I'm not interested 

in who suffered the most. 

I'm interested in people 

getting over it." 

  

      from "Jerusalem", Naomi Shihab Nye 

 these homespun ideas 

not new, just fashionable once again 

that justice is actually in human hands 

 "peace not war" 

pushed to the side 

for the engulfing rage 

we all feel 

for somebody now 

 better to turn that anger inward 

not to self-harm 

but to self-warn 

 the enemy is never out there 

it's in our heads 

the more real for being there 

grotesque vulture with timepiece in claw 

cackling, playing us for fools 

never at a loss, never misses a beat 

 when you hate 

it's too late, too deep 

no more time 

to keep

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

for all those Emmy Lou's

the VOCALS are NOT

the voice or the lyrics

not the tone or ability

range or ricochet

from guitar line to drumbeat

to pedal steel twang



the vocals are the little girl

who climbed the tree of the world

helped by spirits of artists and heroes

over the bones of those wrecked

by this insane business

where failure is a recurring honky tonk nightmare

clock strikes closing time over and over

drunks unable to fly safely home

let alone discern the gravy and the gold

in that "pretty, little songbird's" soul



but she sure as hell did not fail



she was starlight in a match

held to the cigar of a music exec

who tapped his feet and teared up at the sound

of her singing, 50 years ago

taking her one shot at breaking the back

of that Appalachian family devil called despair

the secret tantra II

I



she calls me to come for her

when a hook-up goes bad

I ride my crappy 3-speed bike

to meet her on the other side of town

she leaves her car

just wants to get away

to walk

to talk



so we foot the 1 1/2 miles to my apartment

gossiping, crying, mostly laughing



"this is better than sex" I tell her

I am not in any way thinking of sex

but of friendship, good buds, helping each other out

-- she rescued me from a night of boredom, after all



"this is NOT better than sex" she giggles



"yes it is. it's the secret tantra"





II



I don't know why I'm alive

and she is not

I've lived my life as stupidly as she



but we were both there for a moment

although she couldn't see it

she does now



"it's simple"

she whispers to me

from where she is

"stop fighting yourself.

enlightenment IS love”

no money down, for an unlimited time

absolutely no assembly required