Monthly Archive: May 2016

Drought Flood

It’s simple to just sit, I’ve found:
the birds tell me what’s happening above,
the untreated mold on the beams by the floor
show the progress of what has been,
and the billowing green growth of the yard
indicates what will be next.

I planted some rosemary and cilantro starters
and in a matter of weeks
both have blossomed into bushes of spice
larger than my belly when it was full.

The chives and parsley are growing more slowly
perhaps wanting the absent sun so they can stretch
or needing drier air in order to climb like monkeys.

My ankles swell up sometimes, especially the right one;
I don’t know if I’m supposed to shamble or walk my path,
but I do know that if I don’t follow spirit
all else is lost
to the ravages of the flooding drought.

Sometimes I still remember
the feel of my restless, yearning youth
and the long, hot summers when I learned to love
as my friends and I set out to gift the world.

Little did we know that youth has its own arc
ending slowly in drawn out age
mellowed or hammered by the way we’ve lived our time.

Little did we suspect that such a blessing existed
counting off the years and decades for us
like angels of infinite forgiveness.

a little bit of sunlight

just a little bit of sunlight
little bit of sunlight
little bit of sunlight
through your door

got to open up your notions
clean up all the oceans
surrender the emotions
you’ve been waiting for

stop melting down those glaciers
harvesting their vapors
and realize your nature
evermore

looking at the weather
string these words together
you can’t altogether
still ignore

time to help out all the teachers
reach out to the creatures
educate the preachers
what’s in store

the greater your defiance
of killing things for science
opens up compliance
you’ll adore

it takes no heavy lifting
consciousness is shifting
think of it as gifting
the world once more

just a little bit of moonlight
felt throughout the deep night
brings in a vast delight
you knew before

so if all you can remember
is being very tender
take that as a splendor
furthermore

pass it on to others
your sisters and your brothers
all the hopeful lovers
you speak for

just a little bit of sunlight
little bit of sunlight
little bit of sunlight
through your door

Booky

my main relationship these days
is with a cat
who’s mostly feral

I call her, alternatively:
Mrs. Bunker
Mrs. McGoogle
Goofus
Booky
or Budda-Budda-Budda
depending on the mood

at first
she only barely allowed me to feed her

now she sometimes cautiously comes into my place
and, if I keep my movements slow and my voice
deep and smooth and playful calm,
she’ll hop on the sofa and rest, preening and cleaning herself
licking her paws and brushing her fur

but the front door has to be open wide enough
to allow her to bolt out into freedom
at a moment’s notice if she gets spooked

especially if I too suddenly for her tastes
rise from my chair
to get a beer or some food from the fridge
or head to the bathroom

when she’s inside and I try closing the door
she starts to pace and howl erratically
kind of like me and my ex girlfriends
when things start to go bad

if she were a woman
I’d think she wanted to be in a relationship or kill me
she’s sending out the same conflicting signals

purring as she rubs her head and neck familiarly
against my hand or calf
and then suddenly rearing back and nipping my flesh
with her pointy teeth for no reason at all
kind of playful but kind of not

I’ve tasted enough of that
and been misled by my own hunger
too many times before to want to really do it again
with a romantic interest or anyone else for that matter
at least not for very long

she’s meowing up at me now as I write this
like we’re in it together

yeah, Booky,
I’m writing a poem about you
what’s the Booky say?

or maybe she just wants food or to connect
due to some instinctual mammalian imperative
we both share
as our lives blend together
arising in unknowingness

your sign

you wrote your sign across the sky
to drive your many thousand lives
you can’t unknow the hows and whys
that bloomed right open, idolized

and yet you dance across that shore
to live another life before
the sacred knock upon your door
takes all without within once more

the sign you wrote has now dissolved
no lives to live, no problems solved
there’s nothing left to be absolved
and time no longer is involved

zeitgeist in my mind

there’s a place that’s not a place
a Void where you really don’t want to go
since it scares the shit out of you
like nothing else ever could

you know that

you’ve felt the blinding inevitability
of the looming loss of everything in existence
in the relentless pull
of that blanketing Void

it keeps blossoming pieces of divine scat
into and around your every circumstance
there and again at the corners of your awareness
over and over again

you’ve heard whispers in the news
you’re seen things that don’t align
with what you’ve known before
you feel the pulsing offer of its embrace

and after a while
even you won’t be able to ignore
what’s being revealed
always
again and again

at the base of your abject terror
you can dimly feel the immense breadth and weight
of what longs to surrender
to the non-being-ness of the Void

somehow you know that it lives all of us
from the inside out and through and beyond

you know that it infuses every moment
of time, including this one
where you’re writing and reading this
right now

you know that the only balm
that can soothe your every fear
is what and who you actually are

who you think you need to be
and what you think you need to do
doesn’t matter

another moment
another day
another year
another lifetime
won’t change anything

but truly letting go
remembering the joy that is your essence
jumping freely into the Void
only that
can awaken what has never slept

American Metamorphosis

we kept our heads down
way back in the day
since we thought it was
quite a bit safer that way

but what did we really know from safety
except for uneasy, booming dreams
in a temporary Shangri-La
that allowed us to live
well beyond our actual means

until we found ourselves
in our beds one morning
transformed into something
we no longer recognized

some of us still held on
despite the warnings
ignoring the truth
that was unraveling

some took up residence
in constant traveling

some lay still,
stunned by the monstrosity
we were becoming

some resisted
with different philosophies
and various ways of numbing

some became themselves the versions
of the vermin
they most feared

and some never got any farther
than the lies
they’d always heard

the wake-up call
the world had long since devised

was the horror
we all saw
before our very eyes

the land of milk and honey
defaulting on all the loans
of all the money
our golem corporations
finally control

and we know now
we can’t afford
any longer to grow old

and as our dreams and lives
start to fade away
under our new proprietor
we are reminded something else entirely
and finally
we become quieter

Bildungsroman’s Bluff

Do you remember the dark as it crept
and, in back, alone where you slept,
outside that holy encampment,
where fires burned every night in barrels
because of the clenching cold and the constant wet?

You stuck to a simple regimen back then
drinking any fluids you could find
to try and slake the fever of wanting to write
that had crawled up your veins
out through your arms
and deep into your mind.

Even now it glows every damn time
you suck in your breath and still want to know,
though those nights are long gone,
why the fever still crackles and burns
through every creation
you haven’t yet learned.

No matter what changes, in a strange way,
the last of the fragments of your previous days
weave and wend through your writing,
bits and pieces thrashing your soul
and stiffening your fingers beyond your control.

You sometimes still think, oh, those were the days,
but were they really, in any appreciable way,
as bit by broken bit you keep on fighting
to warp and weft across the pages you’re writing;
to you it makes no nevermind
since the fever
it still continues to grind and grind.

the worn pavement of time

self-absorption broke the day before yesterday
and, though there must’ve been a reason,
no one really noticed
beyond the passing of the smell
of a bitter yellow vapor in the cool breeze

Lucy’s attention was locked onto
some specific happenings
now long gone

she, like most of us,
thought she was at a certain juncture in life
and was tangentially interested
in what was going on in the rest of the world

but egoity wasn’t giving that to her anymore
since its continued sprawl
wasn’t all that much different
from what had already unfurled
in the days before and the days after
rolling like balding tires
over the worn pavement of time

her attention, like ours had been,
was locked onto whatever it considered important
maintaining the stance of whomever
she believed herself to be back then

when it broke
there was no drama
no revelation
how could there be?

one-pointed focus had just ceased
and time flowed into time flowing into time
and physical details merged together
like fluids mixing in a bowl of wet light

a bed and a girl and a rope and the moon
we’re no more distinct than the weather
and Lucy, poor Lucy,
had merged with all the rest

and, though we continued to spoon
in the true blue rapture
that was rolling over us all,
something not lost but fading
cried out in a voice too still to really hear,
“Ahhh, this is it then.
This is what loving feels like.”

I just woke from a dream

I just woke from a dream
I was having of you
back before I received
my current purview

back before you had gone
when you still were my wife
when we lived the same love
and we shared the same life

you had just turned your head
in the very same way
that you had in the dream
on that very same day

so I woke from the dream
and was facing the wall
and all the love that I knew
seemed not loving at all

all the love that I knew
has abandoned me since
but for new love to grow
I’ll have to convince

myself that the bind
is not love that we hold
but the grip on the love
when it starts to get old

so thank you for telling
the truth then, my dear
my beloved once was
will now soon reappear

the terroir of being

I don’t even know what I’m looking at
across the floor
of my room

sometimes I’ll just be sitting here
and sensations still seem to be
playing across my body and mind
like distant memories
experienced by the ancestors of attention

I know I used to believe there was something
I had to do
to be who I truly was

but that belief
like the pungent draw of sex
and hunger
and pain

doesn’t seem to hold much substance
anymore

I step outside my door
and the wind
through the trees
across the water
rippling with a movement of light
through expanding space
now suffices
as a reason for being