Monthly Archive: June 2016

method of loci

I tried at first a memory yurt
that went deep in the earth
beyond the years of my birth
with pictures to hang
and songs that I sing
adorning the places
where I’d keep everything

but I don’t really know that much about yurts
here on the earth
with their cylindrical walls
and what they are worth

so I tried once again
with a place that I knew
to hold all my things
why not memory springs?

no need to discover
or know a way new
I’d just have to recover
an old place anew

those rocks on the walls
overlooking the springs
would be perfect for storing
a variety of things

the beams holding up
and the stucco with swirls
would be quite enough
to store all of my worlds

my ideas that arise
when I’m away from it all
that go out of my mind
before it’s time for a scrawl

I know what you’ll say
I could use an app
but what about times
when wifi is off
or I’m taking a nap

so as I drop what I hold
and sit down to rethink
what ideas go where
and to which memories they’re linked

“refraction” is placed
in a rock over there
while “reflection” is held
in a kink on the stairs

“cloud man’s” new home
is a knob on the door
and “mud bath” is stored
in the mat on the floor

they’re still very new
these titles to poems
and I hope to review
when I’ve made it back home

I’m liking this way
to capture my prose
at the end of the day
I’ll see how it goes

we’re all growing old
so I’m hoping to link
the new memories I make
before I’m too weary to think

and if it all fails
and I forget all my rhymes
at least I’ll recall
the springs in my mind

they’ll lead me alone
while forgetting begins
and the lightness of joy
finds that peace deep within


have you ever seen a cat swim across the floor
live without harm
purr a wonderful sound

I for one hadn’t known that before
as I worked on a farm
my hands deep in the ground

I worked and I worked, chore after chore
using my arm
to hold what I found

but I knew there must be something much more
different ways from the norm
that have us spellbound

I actually stood and heartily swore
with all of my charm
and my spirit unbound

but that didn’t work because deep in my core
I still felt a storm
pounding into my crown

and I know when I see who’s being a whore
acting so warm
down under their mound

I had such high hopes for what is in store
with new ways to disarm
our too-present frown

so that’s why I’ll be opening the door
to perform for the swarm
what I’ve since taken down

and be like the cat with all that she bore
through her swimming form
for me most profound

What Can I Allow the Tea To Be

I felt you through your skin again
as I poured a cup tea
as I dripped the sensuous honey in
I drank you thoroughly

your breath it opens pleasure true
as you press against my loins
to trust as much as love can do
as I hold you in my arms

what’s true is strong and sipping back
both tea and honey too
the splaying deep in from the back
reminds me most of you

amen all joy who loves us dear
I feel us shining now
to feel this way when you’re so near
with all that tea allows

the rundown

seems to me
things are getting
more than a little
run down

folded cots near overflowing garbage bins
debris on worn carpets
remnants of past struggles
when passengers used to race
to try and make their flights

bad smells accumulating in the corners
vending machines empty or broken
curly haired girls no longer hired out
as factotums and wheelchair pushers
quotas ignored

charging stations always packed and violent
p.a. system crackly and not understandable
(but what has really changed there, right?)
fluorescent tubes yellowing in the ceilings

seems to me
it was different
not that long ago

naked pastures were not our destinations
we went to cities instead
visiting landmarks and conventions
our families tagging along
making noise and ruckus
laughing and crying in equal measure

now is more like a shredding
as we weave our way through
our currents of loss
and leave behind what once we carried

will it ever be enough?
will we ever make up for
our mistakes in judgement,
our rampant greed,
our terminal cleverness?

seems to me
we should have asked
and answered
these questions a long time ago

striptease in a glass cage

sisters in hammocks
and pelicans too
and manatees sipping
their delicate brew

girded by turbans
and loincloths of white
they’re waiting you out
but they don’t have all night

you’re playing your dues
in front of a crowd
you cannot be shy
nor pay it too loud

they’re waiting for gold
and they might be your peeps
but you’re trying your best
and it doesn’t come cheap

you get up each day
and part of you dies
but you’re still finding truth
in your most potent lies

you don’t know yourself
how long that you’ve got
nor how to create
something you’re not

your value goes up
if you open your heart
and reach down inside
to rip it apart

you wear the result
the blood’s on your sleeve
yet somehow it feels
just like a reprieve

as you spill out your guts
inside of the cage
you’re paying your way
at a minimum wage

cloud man

I dreamt of David Bowie
now shepherding a day care center
the children all looking up at him, rapt
dressed in an angelic ziggy suit
sweetly singing to try and
lull them into sleepy time

“there’s a cloud man
playing in the sky
I’d like to stop and greet him
but he will not meet mine eye”

one little girl gets up
and walks over to him
and pulls at his golden sleeve
“What’s a cloud, Mr. Ziggy?”

he stops singing and looks down
unsure of how to respond
as she continues
“What’s a man?”

he knows that he once knew the answer
he knew that all he had to do
was let the children do something
although he can no longer recall what

“What’s an eye?”

he wonders as all of the children
get up and surround him
gripping his sleeves and pantaloons
with their hands

he peers into their innocent little faces
as they begin to dance and twirl around him
and his look of bewilderment
slowly melts into a smile that grows and grows

“Let all the children boogie!” he shouts
to the sky
where the cloud man
plays and plays


if I birthed a civilization
each time
I’ve eaten alone
or loved
or gotten angry
or woken in the middle of the night
or celebrated a victory
or masturbated
or worried about the news
or relaxed deeply enough so that all apparent conflict dissolved
or felt withering despair
then it would be like
a family of cast off ideas
following in my wake
combining and building solutions to
challenges in the future I cannot even imagine yet

this would not be unwelcome
but if I knew it was occurring
maybe it would be more of a comfort
maybe I’d make more of an effort

maybe that is where we ourselves came from
cast off as sparks
from the fires and spittle and song
of our ancient ancestors

maybe that’s the way
it always has been
and will always be

families of consciousness
blooming and then passing
with each new possibility
spreading like wildfire
or like neglected dreams

maybe I live in one of those cities
that my ancestors brought into being
with the flare of a passing thought
an idea gone to roost
in a cloud of foment
one afternoon under the lazy sun
picking herbs in the garden
to flavor a new batch of ale

maybe the moment of this poem
was written long ago
when those who roamed the Earth
needed to learn how to feel apart
from All That Is
before they could work out
how to be fully together once more

it’s the middle of the night now
and I have forgotten why I awoke

but that’s ok
it will all
work out


I’m flying today
up into the clear open sky
in a round metal tube
painted white
with a word in blue
wings lifting up
sitting beside
my brothers and sisters

innards frisked by scanners
shackled in with belts
instructed on life vests and air masks
our faces turned and pressed to the windows
like cats up against a comb
scratching an itch
we didn’t even know we had

they can now tear apart
bubbles in the air
for random inspection
detecting suspicious passengers not willing
to be combined with
smart phones, laptops, tablets, books, magazines

if you are not looking at
the most widely deployed devices
that rely solely on your attention
low-dose penetrating transmissions are sometimes used
to create desire
in the back of the amygdala
again, like an itch

I let go of my skin
and my belt and my
longing for a mask
and soar oh so high above
the concerns of the suspicious

toward a pool
where water warms my bones
and my mind’s only bubble
is the light
that can’t help but spread
through us all


it started off that
we couldn’t even see them
very well

after birth,
we didn’t recognize the differences
between them and us

at first there were just
colors and shapes
smells and tastes
temperatures belonging to all
sounds and silence
light and darkness
wet and dry
soft and hard
spectra of being
bumping into each other
as we played

do you remember?

do you remember that you didn’t
have to be taught how to dream
but you did have to learn
the difference between
you and other things

maybe the first was a pacifier
or a pillow
or a rock
or a kitten
or a penny
or a breast

it was not you
but an other

“not you”

in some deep part of being
this still doesn’t make
a whole lot of sense

but you were trained to accept
that your interior world
is somehow symbolic
and the exterior world is real*

you have since gathered
as many things around you
as you are able
things that mean the world to you

holding them
clutching them
even as they dissolve
one by one
and are replaced
by your desire to hold more

you still want to suck the breast
clutch the pennies
rub your thighs against the pillow

but what if your inner world
is what’s actually real
and the outside things
are only symbolic

what if we’ve been living
upside down
all of our lives
since infancy

what if this is the
dawning of a different age
a new sort of infancy
when it’s time to surrender our things
and learn to embrace the source
within us all
*”In your realm of reality, there is no real freedom but the freedom of ideas, and there is no real bondage except for the bondage of ideas, for your ideas form your private and mass reality. You want to examine the universe from the outside, to examine your societies from the outside. You still think that the interior world is somehow symbolic and the exterior world is real — that wars, for example, are fought by themselves or with bombs. All of the time, psychological reality is the primary one, that forms all of your events.”

—from The Individual and the Nature of Mass Events: A Seth Book, by Jane Roberts, Session 855, May 21, 1979.


the shadow of yesterday morning
just plain and relaxed
pours out across the garden
while tomorrow’s sun
lays on the porch, waiting

the suit you had been wearing
will be a toga when you rise
and a petticoat further on
into the century of discovery
and then nothing at all
as you wander the fields
tanned from picking berries
and wrestling
with the spawn of the seas

you have been a mother
as often as a son
and a father and a brother
and a daughter of holy women
in brigades of soldiers
fighting for land and food
where bards sing songs,
play cards and drink,
your skin the color of maize
and coral and stone

you have prayed to and been
goddesses and heroes
dragons and giants
forgotten drunkards
parliament members
homeless junkies
minor gurus
lone wolves howling
at the stars above
and simple citizens
of lands now long forgotten

your dreams cross boundaries
that you aren’t normally aware of
leaving pockets of yourself
and who you will be
like a trail of tastes and smells
leading to a timeless core
that glows with the pulsating light
of who you really are

the motive for being
is not often what we think
but if we relax and combine
with everything
one day we will know