Monthly Archive: February 2018

What Is a Dream, for 200

hell’s burgers baby bells
fell inside a wishing well

Tutankhamun dropped the asp
fell right back upon his ass

viper spread its mouth apart
bit the queen right in the heart

king was off, fighting Celts
icebergs fry as planet melts

somewhere else upon a bed
dreamer rests his weary head

letting something other in
not made of flesh nor bathed in sin

working all those ideas through
to build the world with me and you

Like a Miracle?

I have read about ancient masters
who wandered off into the mountains,
into their caves,
into their later years,

doing mysterious practices
that brought their hair color back,
tightened their skin,
thickened their muscles,
refreshed their sex,
rejuvenated their aging bodies,
to last yet another half century or so.

One Avadhut supposedly joked with his followers
after a lengthy attempt buried in the Earth itself
—which seemed to have failed—
that they’d have to paste cotton balls
on all of his blessed pictures,

because his beard and hair
—instead of darkening
to their younger shade—
had whitened like snow,
like father Christmas.

But then, days later, the dark
deep bloomed from his scalp
and face
like a miracle.

I didn’t know if it was true
or just another
dream within the dream
for those hoping to extend
the ridiculousness
of their dreaming
even further.

Yet I do know the routine of
shaving on the weekends
before the inevitable
return to work
on Monday.

Trimming up bits of hair
that continually sprout up
all over my face and head.

Such routine events,
lodged deep within being
dissolving in the Bright.

I imagine the rituals
of the ancients,
played out in as many nows
as they can.

Incense, from what was once Tibet,
burn in a bowl full of ash
on the sink as I shave.

A razor,
a trimmer,
a full-fledged grooming kit
proffer their tangled wires
like the holy of holies.

I imagine animal skulls
and bird beaks,
ambergris and kumkum,
talons hanging from leather cords,
crystals smudged with
burning herbs.

Little bits of chaos
to focus on
as I trim and cut and snip,

while I rot and dance and slouch,
as brick-like as ever,
across the works of time.

the brain is the mind’s camouflage*

you wear it like a muddy cloak
and skulk about in its purveyance
as if you were made of matter

“the mind?” you wonder
“just white noise…”

yet your thoughts
they come
from everyone

your smiles
your laughs
your very frowns

through all the noise
combine them all
or grind them down

yet still,
can you tell?

if you just
mix the space
and time around

and say the words

rejoice your joys
with all your poise

the choice is yours

*from Seth, via Jane Roberts