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