Latest Poems

Mind Bones

I’ve shed my former tech
like old, gnarled skin:

raw to the nerve
as I build it up again.

I lay down my hammer,
and surrender my own name.

The parts may have evolved,
but the struggle’s still the same.

You got the ‘puter bone
connected to the finger bones,

the finger bones
connected to the eye bones,

the eye bones
connected to the brain bone,

the brain bone
connected to the mind bone.

And from there on in,
it’s mind bones
all the way down.

Or all the way in,
or out,
or through,
or as.

Your choice.

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

State of the Union

If I had to guess what plans were laid
while holding back a busted blade

or how we’d greet the morning moon—
which took a bite that made us swoon—

I’d say our daily due was set
but hasn’t gotten settled yet,

and things will happen anyway
based on thoughts from yesterday.

Tomorrow’s crises, like the sun,
are bittersweet, though just begun.

If I had to guess what we would pay,
my mind just simply fades away.

Yet feelings spread both far and wide,
and all that’s out is still inside.

Live

awoken at dawn
beginning to know
did you fly through the light
over the sky

did you keep the old moon
wrapped in your wings
as you flew and you flew
and she started to cry

did you help with your heart
as the world took the glow
did you fall from on high
as she drifted below

there’s nothing to lose
in the nature of things
did you hold your way true
with all that it brings

A New Little Box

There’s a sack on his back
holding boxes of flaws,

so he takes a deep breath
and rests for a pause.

There’s a tube in his guts
that circles around;

like a rube or a klutz,
he sits on the ground.

He carries a hope
that he’s destined to lose.

What he doesn’t yet know
is that by paying his dues

his entire scope
will open so far,

that all he holds now
will shine out like a star.

Snow Day

I look out from
—I have no head—
and see

wool braided earflaps
hanging down

on either side
from my warmest hat.

It’s a good hat
that reminds me of Kristina

Tibetan
thick, crude wool,
tall and sexy.

I can feel my
primitive beast rising.

The scarf wrapped around my neck
I got while visiting her
in NYC countless winters ago.

We tried on
lots and lots of scarves
at shops and kiosk street vendors

down by the pier
and walking under bridges

different types of scarves
different kinds
from all over the world.

Ones made of fabrics
soft and silky
to the touch

others rough and hot
against our skin.

But this one

this long, blood-red vixen scarf
with a Gaelic plaid
of tartan jazz

made us want to—

On this unusual
freezing winter morning

as I tap the faucet handles back
from stream to drip

bit by bit,
tap tap tap,
cold and hot

here in the southwest
my seldom-used winter gear
reminds me of a vigilance
we used to have

about things that
I can barely even remember now.

Like an old, yak-hair jacket
forgotten by everyone
who once wore it

on the mountains
in the coastal plains
out on the high mesas
later, on frozen, black soil

displaced in time now
floating free

bound only
by ancient memory

released
as time expires
through the Void of Being

like we knew finally
everything would

deep down
at last.

weidh-n-jo

Wouldn’t you know,
it’s a snow day!

A time when the forest people
come out and play.

They bring out euphorias
to wild men and warriors

while everyone’s wasted away.

We all dance to their tune
discovering soon

that our destinies
are fading away.

And for those
who’ve come only to slay,

requesting their leave
on this very same day?

They have only begun
their time under the gun

and will stay there until
their minds start to splay.

And then they can join
us all on our way,

because then they’ll finally
groove to the sway

that is leading us all
right back to play.

wobble

lonely station up in the sky

been there for years,
been there for years

do you hear the rush of space going by

isn’t it clear,
through all the gear

do you feel the weight of time flowing nigh

though maybe a sphere,
we’re starting to veer

do you see the crush of form throwing lies

is it just the veneer
of all that appears

do you know your fate is to recognize

that truth is sincere
and there’s nothing to fear

and only creation understands why