Poet Tree
Wednesday, July 9, 2025
Convergence of Eyes
Monday, July 7, 2025
God as Truth, Key 77
Saturday, July 5, 2025
On Horses Running Maskless in the Sun
Saturday, June 28, 2025
Remembering Machado
Thursday, June 26, 2025
Only Birds Over Hillhead Road
Walking Juneau this evening has been like a video game,
Cars out of nowhere to dodge, small attack dogs on magical leashes
And muscular huskies who show they know they would throw her
Down for lunch, before lurching off, to become the bicycle guy
Who says what a beautiful dog, and a little girl who stares holding
The largest piece of chalk I’ve ever seen, her sidewalk rainbow art
A plea to remember Pluto and all the stars and all beautiful flowers
Then there’s the gingerbread house with matching Diane Arbus twins
And its doppleganger white dog they giggle at, holding spiral lollipops,
And Juneau finally drinks from the ghost dog bowl as if to earn points.
Some passersby radiate a soul while others may not even be real
But there'd be an explosion if she went up to them just the same.
And I pull til she cedes the challenge with wistful whiskerbrows
As I try to keep her safe, to be her badass self, as humans never are.
We get to the park and it's a dog show, like there’s a man with a pipe
To pronounce verdict to a jury of ground squirrels, but there's nothing
Real in other dogs to Juneau, as a careening skater carries a surfboard.
And the only thing missing, I notice now, there are no automatic
Weapons shot at me from every breezeway, no Molotov cocktails
From off-balance Challengers to detonate my innards, no numbchucks
To fear, tho I do anyway, like the drummer in one of these windows
Who practices the wrist shuffle, anticipating his rapid disappearance
From the condo of doing what others tell him to do, when he’d rather
Whistle his own tune, the one they always told him shouldn’t exist at all,
It had no right, like him, to be — he’d rather slip away than help them
Understand the king’s business is worth the king’s time, they should be
Grateful he can frivole this age of peace where he's not needed away.
The moment I refuse the joystick is the moment all resistance ends.
Tuesday, June 24, 2025
The Cazimi of Compassion
Sunday, June 22, 2025
Repentance as Nirvana
Friday, June 20, 2025
Last Day of Spring
Parking Trap Malted
Tuesday, June 17, 2025
On the Road with the Ghost of Buck Owens
Sunday, June 15, 2025
Father's Day at the Stables
This Week in Hollywood
Saturday, June 14, 2025
The Geomagnetics of Presence
Thursday, June 12, 2025
Silence of the Deafening Retreat
Friday, June 6, 2025
6 6 Portal Blues
Wednesday, June 4, 2025
Peace by Appointment Only
Next to the third eye pyramid, streetlights
By Ascension that look like bells.
“Can we bring something? Past lives?”
I asked my white people outreach coordinator
In a unabomber hoodie like a druid
But he simply said become a Jaguar,
Be such a master of frequency you
Can control who and where you are.
But as close as I got was how Kassandra and I
Rode horses on Pismo Beach, dunes veined
With searocket, so I cleared my schedule for the farrier.
What he does with feathers is a tribute to his art
But for Brio it’s a spa day; he drops his hoof
On the fur stand for the nipper and the rasp.
Four white pasterns, star stripe snip but not enough
To be a blaze, much less a bald, much less blue eyed.
Technically Ceri, technically from North Wales,
Bristles at having to defer to riders:
“Unleash the horses to roll I say”.
She has a Dogma Pet Portraits QR code on her car.
Crisps from the blue star with his nose
Like he is solving a Rubik’s cube.
Reality is too much of a hot tin can
To keep kicking down the pasture road.
The crows, all the horses are quiet.
The mountain has moved under the clouds.
We'll need permission to three-day sleep
Away 6,900 acres in Tehachapi.
They will roll on any hillside that will hold them,
Even old absconded Tejon Indian land.
Though one must be under hypnosis to reveal it.
The crickets, as usual, caution silence.
As the mountain falls, another reminder to
Release the trauma once and for all
Who went cray-cray at the Paso Robles Cow Palace
To the horror of the Cutting Horse Association.
Saturday, May 31, 2025
Transcendalism at the Ranch with a Rainbow Tail Tamer
Monday, May 26, 2025
Patio Without Cheryl
Saturday, May 24, 2025
The Horse Traders
Spiritual Illumination
Monday, May 19, 2025
Spring's First Dust
Friday, May 16, 2025
The Essential Nature of Horses to Dance
Thursday, May 15, 2025
Fire Drill
Wednesday, May 14, 2025
Notes from the Road to Fresno
Tuesday, May 13, 2025
Observation at Union Station
Poem at Sunset
Wednesday, May 7, 2025
On Location in Temecula
Sunday, May 4, 2025
Like the OCD Hobo with Matching Plastic Bags
The Monastery in the Mountains
Philosophy with Chores
Thursday, May 1, 2025
Vanity of the Plate Co-Creation
The Linear Flow of Corporate Narratives
Offering to the Fae
Wednesday, April 30, 2025
A Moment Before Meditation
Tuesday, April 29, 2025
This Morning’s Release
Monday, April 28, 2025
The Dead Sea Scrolls at the Reagan Library
For the black smoke pope
In these New Jerusalem hills,
Just a President's seal, a crisp
All presidents get a library
To go with their other boondoggles,
To bury compromising documents
In a memory hole of record
Forever cut off from the grid
Except from the chosen
Who’ve been given codes to see.
The Dead Sea Scrolls were like that too,
A secret, makeshift library
To bury what is sacred
At the lowest point on Earth
Of what only the pure can see,
Moving down from cave to cave
To save what was being destroyed
As the antediluvian trauma receded.
It was 47 miles away exactly,
The place of their viewing, the most
Common number sequence on earth
(So says Solomon). The sealed scrolls
The same year where here, in Simi Valley,
American Jewish University was founded,
Post-Shoah Palestine was partitioned
Along with de-Britained India and Pakistan,
The year of the Marshall Plan, when the Cold War
Began, with the Playtex bra, Polaroid camera,
VW Bug, Bikini, Tupperware, transistors,
The breaking of the sound and color barriers,
The CIA and Roswell, Operation Highjump
In Antarctica.
Above Reagan Freeway
Carry galactic codes.
This place is ordained
As a high priest of wisdom.
A cross is on the top
Of one pyramid
Like the mere crack of light
Out of the Qumran caves
Of the secret long withheld.
They have to make it look
Like the Romans have succeeded.
Israeli Antiquities was effective
At rendering unto Caesar
What is Caesar’s, for they know not
What they do, all that happened
To the total victims
As seen through
The eyes of the conqueror.
It starts with the “Jesus boat” from Galilee
Made of fine black, torqued mahogany.
The Romans used them to kill everyone
On every shore they passed. The Roman
Is “furniture” for a Torah scroll.
It has the Tree of Life in limestone,
Snakes, dragons, Ezekiel's galactic
With the Romans. The ossuaries in their tombs,
Embossed with flagrant UFOs, were meant
To bury the pure from corrupt institutions,
Not to be gaslit anymore.
There were bone gathering instructions
From Rabbi Elazar ben Rabbi Zardok,
For the families to reconfigure
The bones in stone holding,
Protected from eternity’s
Invasive vibrations.
Menorahs and merkabah’s are everywhere
But nowhere what they meant.
All we know is some who entered
The Holy of Holies, where only the highest
Priest may go, were corrupted,
To weave the spell of the spy, throw law
To the mercy of duality, such purity,
The Zealots of the Yahad
At the ostraca at Masala
Made the ultimate choice
Of deathlife over slaveryfreedom.
Among hundreds, one mention
Of Governor Flavius, the guy sent in
To subjugate the Jews again
Just like Egypt, the criminal mastermind
In the end of the religion of peace.
There was no word of this of course
All we get is smooth Josephus, Rome’s PR Jew,
Tell us the script they are sticking to,
The one where the only good scroll
Was a dead one, that’s how it goes
When you try to transmit down
Ancient knowledge through Hebrew
Of a supposedly arid wasteland, where
This Modayot entrepot pottery
Of deuteronomy was found,
Among the Essenes, who “esteemed chastity"
Around a central circle
Where the fragments shine from their tombs.
“This one has a coffee stain,” a young cynic
Helpfully noted, as we went 2 by 2
Like Noah’s Ark, divine couples all,
Musing together, to the goathorn call.
We enter from the left, go right
In the ring, just like we were reading Hebrew,
Only to find that our wait, seemingly,
Was to give the Yahad time to write
For it was written on the go, like Genesis 6-9
Rendered from memory, to preserve the truth
Of the flood with Chinese brush precision
Lost codes so skillfully scrambled
And meanings so surgically removed
By the secret teams of archivists
The Romans would be proud
If they weren’t so petrified!
The names are wrong, dates changed,
Explanations nonsense, for scraps
Indecipherable, arranged to seem
Unimportant, just “The creative way
"Technologies designed by NASA.”
The modern peshers grasp at straws
As usual. The powder on the
Trauma’s still dry. But the crowd,
Who’d waited in every language
In long lines to behold it, knew,
Every one of them, had something
In mind. There is a precursor after all
To the books of law handed down by God
Via Messenger, just in time, before everyone
Where the challenge came down,
Do you really believe? “Thank you,”
Some one said, as if to all of us
Who were there, “for your service.”
Something good had come somehow
For sacrifice. A boy smiles at me,
The holy codes are in the stone
Preserved, how they radiate
With countless enlightened feet
Who were grateful to walk its marble,
Every movement a note of reverence.
In the same way, not in time,
With the urgency of lives lost to hope,
But how we are the same as all the others,
How we come here as free beings,
How all the crying can be drunk in easily.
The impure, in other words, teaches purity.
In these halls of New Jerusalem.
The Evangelicals grimaced at my whispers
While the Chosen merely chuckled.
Leave the not being able to speak behind
With these olive trees of peace
In this lover's paradise of Ron and Nancy
Where the outside world can’t touch posterity
Its happiness. Nancy’s white flowers
Are a triumph of purity
Among Abrams Tanks and Masonic Stealth
Cloaking Missilery,
A white lake in the distance,
Too many pyramids to count.
The Yahad merely stayed close
To the light, the galactic Barkhi Nafshi,
Invoked to bring from the heart
Its poems, all of male and female,
The sides of God, who must be released
To service, in each other, in love as the power
Of the universe.
Sunday, April 27, 2025
Cassandra's Rainbow
Friday, April 25, 2025
Daytrippin' with Balls
Wednesday, April 23, 2025
Down the Brown Street Signs of Irvine
Brio at the Intersection of Flow
A Question Over Falafel
Tuesday, April 22, 2025
Evidence on Grand
Roz gave us the Lakers, Dodgers and the Arts
And now this fountain overlook
Where LA's Mingus, on piano, on his birthday, plays
From the loudspeakers for the indigenous,
Which only the cool can someday hope to become;
Those the one-eyed cougars fistbump
Must first be jackal gods.
The professor has his bench, wears tweed in spring,
Hears the Tongva Kich songs of multi-generational trauma
But they are all songs, he says, first.
A crow stands on the branch of the 1966 eucalyptus,
Signals it’s safe, which means that it’s real,
Authentic enough to commune at least
As feast.
Victory Bus Lines takes a robot lunch delivery
As “AI-driven art” displays itself below the luxury suites
At the Conrad, the Gehry, the Basquiat
While a crosswalk away, a sister sits with an empty
Saucepan on the courthouse stone
Between Elvia Hot Dog and Nayeli’s Fresh Fruit,
Which might as well be barren as the Nile Melaleuca.
By Rabbit Coffee, with its Viral Dubai, “Stash it don’t flash it,”
A sign advises. Another: “A clash of dictators and poets” –
I hear them practicing now – hard to get an ear in edgewise
Tuning is so individual – “No access to upper pools.”
Another crow, another fountain, but this time, a soggy roll.
Louie from Storyville sings under the half-staff poles.
The fountain’s sound is triangular.