Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Today's Movie Makes Me Want to Buk

I only live for others
When I'm by myself.

When the waltz light comes through
The most despairing yellow sun

Across the Virginia Avenue bungalows
In late lilac afternoon,

Clothes stacked outside,
Chickens eating crabgrass,

My joy seems then so miserable,
As I think of all I'm missing in their smiles

In this moment of peace,
Where I spend my time on me,

The gun not pointed to my head
By the strangest hand of all: my own.

For once the horror seems resplendent,
Mendelsohn conducting Santa Ana the bitch to move along.

Tomorrow we go to Santa Anita
To see the dawn before it fades,

Watch horses fresh as dew
With friends made new in hats

And ancient bleachers, holding racing
Sheets, stale donuts and coffee.

We have waited far too long 
For cheap amusement,

Spraying with bullets the possums and raccoons
As if that makes them go away.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Pacific Spray

Yesterday the sea
       was louder than my mind,
Its madness of no words
       in pearl clefts' stillness surging
To land's grey ends, the seeds of sand,
       mounds gathered for veiled burials.
The overwhelming sound, that strips out
       raucous children, the masticating gulls,
A man on fire with summer's rough desire...
       all tossed like shells in madcapped froth
Brought in by the blue stranger, who churns to
       other chimes than these we knock around,
The gourds we have collected, from a giving
       spendthrift tide.
The furnace spits. This thing too small to be,
       the mind, rises like a reddened thumb,
Engorges on our brutal flaws, too much to bless
       when we must do the blessing for ourselves,
The way we are, imbued with all the dust
       of pilgrimage, the waiting water
For our healing too indifferent, too like God,
       for what's left when we clean the grit
And watch it go like hats of defunct sports teams,
       mirrored glasses, lucky stones?

How much that we could lose that isn't there.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

At Upper Newport Bay Nature Center

No one is as pure as California light
And the cool become old in this wind

That carries the egret like a gaunt moth
On the venting of dry phantom tides.

The red cactus came here a long way to die
Where the half-alive stalks cry in unison

To leave this last russet of earth alone.
But what else can we touch when heaven's this close?

We're squeamish as the estuarine mud,
Silently making each day from clay

Til the pictures are framed and stories playacted
Like a fish that leaps without need of an insect.

Friday, August 15, 2014


In a white boat, white people
With white clothes and white hats
Watch a white fish flexed
On a white line
To a white deck

Then a haemorrhage of red 
Is wristed by what seems like holy water
To the ocean below
As if heaven can be fooled
By cleanliness.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014


The devil is only as evil as we are,
As wounded, as cursed -- his coyote chuckle
Echoes through the night a kind of kindness --
After the blows have landed, on what remains of our flesh,
All pretense of dreaming torn clean, all reasons
Not to love.
                      The clamoring herd moves like clouds past the stage
And an eerie quiet of light resumes
                                                               so meaningful
The candle now
                             still bearing light after war.

Monday, August 11, 2014


Sunset, and the screaming begins
And there's a short violet light
To determine
If the sound came from outside
Or within.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

Morning Arrival

We are our mothers' aphorisms,
Our fathers' pearls of sweat,
But the hens emerge fresh from their hutch
Forgetting their new eggs.
The bunnies every move is unannounced.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

A Spot on the Ocean

Beyond Catalina's crowds
A garland of kelp
In a desolate churn
Birds skirt never touching.
I can hear their wings beat.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

In Pink Balboa

Boys will smear chocolate on their shirts
Pose like pelicans on storm drains
Walk into the harbor in their clothes

Sunday, August 3, 2014

A Skater Rests

In the sun they glide
Still they try to learn to fly,

The present moment flow
Not alone enough for mind

In eccentric orbit glow
Thinking of the Icarus boy

Emblazoned on the sun,
An afterimage mote

That makes the hot earth come alive
In perfect sequence -- as if it is now dead

In vain sense clinging, finding something
Because nothing still is too much to endure.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Yolks Darker Than Tomatoes

Egg laying music
Beautiful if we all join in
Even the dog next door bares his instrument.

Friday, August 1, 2014

Working Lunch

The gray area
Beyond the building
Before the sun divides all into one.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

The Hen Will Not Stop Crying

Every moment is a new life
Yet every fragment of the past
To be corrected, not destroyed.

Sunday, July 20, 2014


Progress is measured
One disappointment at a time,
In hopes it may be less
Disappointing some day;

To maybe crush the berries
He didn't eat
For the potion he decided
Not to make in the end -

A little bit less of a mess
To clean, after all.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Cabo Communicado

Mouthwash-blue sea,
Iconic rocks seen from an infinity pool
Warm as the ocean is cool.
I play volleyball with Mexican children
While my love in a bikini water-stomps to country tunes.
There's nothing to prevent heaven,
Not even a cloud beneath the kind sun,
The mission light, the palms saying something
You have to be slow enough to hear --
All you can eat papaya.
In sprouting palms a yellow wren
Poses for a snap,
Purple balloons float across the pool
Like there could ever be too much fun.
The cactus shines in the sun.
There is no sense to anything anyone does
But the birds speak the impeccable logic of the palms.
Trouble in paradise -- a blue drink --
"What's in it?" -- "It's delicious!" --
The fix was in on the poolside trivia game --
All relaxation stopped and the faces
Became those who can't win.
Annabelle sells bracelets by the seashore
In a white robe and straw fedora,
Patiently waiting behind the rope
For tourists to cross, the few
Who are unafraid
To negotiate her down to pennies for her day.
She faces away from the sea,
Toward listless luxury
On a beach that's burning.
The joker laughs -- ruido --
The cards always tell a joke --
But the tablecloth is neat
And the breeze from the veranda fans
Will make you forget
Whatever it was you willed yourself
In hopelessness
To remember.
The streets of no mind;
Where all is sensation
As a king is kissed by a fool.
They wait all night and day
For the birds Americanos
To light again their dream corners
And fall in the sinote
Where they play.
At the pink hotel
St. Michael slays a lizard
While the Spanish virgin looks on in wood
And a blind parakeet named Adolpho
Sings at every opened door.
Schools of fish spawned from the chum thrown on the bay;
The death boats drop from the landing;
The Mexican Navy plays drum reveille less than crisply;
Dolphins are kept in a concrete house as therapists for children;
You can pose with a marlin as the captor or the captive;
The big fishing boats (owned by Microsoft, Walmart, Exxon Mobil)
Eat the little fishing boats (owned by Juan)
And the tiniest vie for scraps
As grey pelicans wait grimly for food.
The worlds are so far apart they don't even collide,
The well-rounded views of wealth
And the half-completed skeletons
Pass like ghosts exchanging pesos --
All they know of each other is the sea.
The rhythm of the waves --
Desert clouds, palm fronds,
The shadows on the rocks --
The only things that stay.
The mission garden
Date night
Hard feelings softened
By the yellow tulip lights
Until a few sobs drop to the tiles
From the skies
To baptize the lovers
Before the monsoon starts
And fills the water glasses,
Clears the tables, sends the still
Smiling hostess on a mission of mercy
To gather all the cushions
Before they float away.
The customers have given up
On Campari umbrellas
And detach to the oak room
And it's orange light to sip
Incandescent green drinks
And watch the streets turn to beaches
In sheets of surf-glow black.
At the top of the tower
A blue light beckons
As if what happened before the rains
Was just a pretty picture,
A backdrop to a game with rules more ancient
Than even the masterchef here understands,
At the end of which is ruination,
Mysterious and hopeful and beautiful
But ruination nevertheless.
There never was an empire here
But they make it seem so noble
To be so broken and ashamed,
As happy as the dead, to heal
Those orphaned of their Gods
With nothing but some hand-painted skulls.
Such visions of what never was
Can take the place of heaven
Everpresent, never ending,
Giggling in the breeze.
Trained we are like seals
In ways to see the sky and sea;
Blue means one thing, grey another,
Some valence on our lives gone flickering by,
Sealed as good or bad. But what if
The water, churning in, is as green
As Senor Frog's lime-green philosophy
And as black as Yucatan Chocolate
At the same time? If blue is fractured
By beveled grades of slate?
Heaven is as real as what's let go,
The need for blue, the attitude toward grey,
Letting the green moments stay impossible.
The rocks on the other side are full of spray,
Just now. You may have the food
Here, but that's where the fish are.
Angry in paradise
Two black swans,
The people caged outside,
Are overseen by naked Neptune
At the Roman fountain end
Where busts of the Caesars reside.
They pick at their food,
Pick at each other,
Snort and snarl at humans,
These two of a kind
Flown in from Namibia
For reasons the toucans don't understand.
They pace savagely behind their well-appointed wire --
No amount of blue sky and surf frosting
For waverunners, parasails, hangliders will do --
No quantity of happy hour Margarita's and Texas Slammers
In the the deep bass pulse disco light show
On fluourescent Mexican folk art while an 80's cover band
Drives people back like cattle to their youth
To reclaim what they never obtained in the first place
Will keep them from craning their long black necks
Like plumber's snakes looking for a clog
In their sandy demense -- no --
There aren't enough endless pools of bikini'd beauties
And white-washed houses with blue miniarettes
And cliffside drives at night along the Pacific
Past immense haciendas lit with golden light.
No tradewinds breezes will ever soothe the irritations
They feel. Do they know they are black
In this white swan world of beauty?
Is there some onyx and malachite pool somewhere
To call home? Neptune doesn't say, he only
Looks on with the contempt of the ocean,
His curls, trident and impossibly small penis unconcerned
With the problems of two ornery birds.
They are some half-baked symbol, one supposes,
Of nothingness, how black is white and good is bad
And rareness is unexceptional - a gag whose humor
Has long since turned to bile, for no one had the curiosity
To ask for the punch line -- maybe these birds resent that,
How the joke their lives were made into
Was never even laughed at --
Maybe they are laughing
In their squealing swan tongue
To show that they are funny, really,
Despite everything.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

New Canaan Morning

The men in blackest suits
Emerge from dim white mansions
To walk the pre-dawn highway
With grim eyes fixed ahead
Suitcases sway in rhythm
Up to the Talmadge Hill Station
Where their crosses await.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Goodbye Mamaroneck

The peacefulness of flowering weeds
        Draped along the waterline
The green that reaches through all grime
        In summertime

I see they're all not there now
        To be seen
They're paintings of the train
        That stays on rails

Its cargo is too fragile
        To look within -
And Willow Auto Sales
        Will do for now

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Compendium of One-Line Poems

Too much talking — stream be quiet.

A concrete metaphor: chainsaw days.

In Harlem a rooster sells mulch beneath the train.

Marguerite has holocaust eyes.

Black vanilla from Antananarivo.

A new Hemingway story: Men Agreeing About Women.

So how's the money?

The low road to Fresno.

Rotisserie chicken baseball.

A lurid lack of sleep.

Fashionably Latte.

The suffocating perfume of the rich.

The Aristotelian death cult strikes again.

We disappear in the sun now so they spray on the clouds.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Sadness of the Rebel

Consequence the child must learn
            as if it is a fact,
But the only thing they ever learn
            is love and its lack.

Sunday, May 4, 2014


These trees move much too quickly
Like thieves in the night
When the leaf vale finally flows

A softness far too perfect
To ever compensate
For the hard-luck lock-down winter
Where all was lost, all forsaken

This new thing at the gate
Has no pain left but the future
It must, like a spring, await

Sunday, April 6, 2014


Like Midas and his gold
     the masks turn into mirrors,
But I see them still as mysteries
     cos’ I can’t see masks I wear.

It’s far too bright, my being’s light,
     to gaze upon directly, so these
Forms that take the fire's place
     are the only thing I know.

To the mind they are false,
     to the heart they are death,
But how could I ever take them off,
     knowing they aren't there to begin with?

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Life and Death

Spring sounds so confusing
          to the newest birds.
“This is life? Or death?” they’d say
          if their cries were words.

There are no shoots, no leaves,
          no crocus in the grass,
Tho’ summer cigarettes the sky
          and glows through every glass.

But maybe they know more than we
          how full trees are of sap;
What could we know of life and death
          who eat meat from shrink wrap?

Wednesday, April 2, 2014


There’s always an amusement park
          at the end of the line
Where the sewer of dreams
          has run dry;
Each stop is more hopeless
          as more time passes by,

And the last extras peel
          away from your screen test
Where you would tell the little of the story
          you can handle
(The story we all know so well
          we think we own the rights to the sequel).

You kill yourself thinking
          there’s something you can’t give away,
How if you knew what it was
          It’d be no longer yours
And maybe you’d be lighter

And could plant your banner
          at the end of the pier
Like some phantasm
          cool, dark and pure,
Lurking, turned heartless
          from heartbroken.

The sound of money and gimcracks
         and junior high proms
Echoes so sadly, like the lights
         that won’t stop
Disappearing, and crying
         through the gear-restless night.

On some moonless Sundays
         you can still hear the ghost
Of the dance hall waltz
         in the arms of the wind
Like the story is writing

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

The Ghost of Henry Dumas

The dispossessed they cry
But it's never quite as real
As those who're crying for them
-- The anger out of line,
The victimhood unseemly --
What has all of that to do with me?
The watcher understands.
Yet the specimen parade, in cages
Is the only voice of freedom
We're supposed now to attend --
The loving touch of those outside
Too much like us
To trust.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Negro History Day

"The contradiction between ethics and aesthetics in Western society is symptomatic of a dying culture." - Larry Neal, Director of Education for the Black Panthers and Guggenheim Fellow.

The cool passed all their tales to us
Like a bag of phony dope.
Toasting by the dozens,
The dominant jazz
Oppressed the printed Miltons
In their ghettos.

A child sees only this,
How pale his own skin is,
How ugly.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Aftertaste of Explanations

The machine of mind
          hums brighter now
I cannot hear its
          high-pitched drill.

My prayers are automatic now
          - the clock, the keys, the glass.

Our comfort God asks nothing but
          to serve It like a woman
And drop the petals of my soul
          upon Its black faux-metal
Without a trace of will or
          pause of doubt.

I finger news,
          thumb-wrestle sports,
                    push pictures for the weather -
As if I was betrayed by trees and grass
          for turning yellow.

The older Gods said "shh" inside
          vast honeycombs of texts,
For knowledge was a secret then,
          a sacred thing that blessed.
Now all that humans grasp and know
          is just one more addictive pull
To keep the wolves away
          outside the fire line.

No limit on how
          empty all this
                    striving for the
                                             can be.
The truth
          - the me that I've abandoned
          for fear I'll be abandoned -
is undisturbed.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Another Poem About Chemtrails

The skies are finally thick with a silvering grey, not like every otherwise blue day, when all manner of thin etchings balloon in gassy sick criss-cross in the sky, back and forth, up and down. The skies that would break the silence of God to us forlorn mortals are now sprayed with human waste like some vast and secret dog marking impossible territory. So we evolve, beyond the shapes and thoughts that brought us here - to new visions of what's real and true and right. I begin...with you.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Winter Night Without Stars

The wind must believe I have never existed.
The snow can't accept it won't stay here forever.
Who will correct them?
The trees dare not show any life,
and my heart is far away,
teased and contradicted
by a sweet ocean breeze.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014


The gaslight is not real
-- people say --
but they can't really know
if saying "you've taken my soul"
saves or loses it.

I'd like to think
there was a voice
you stole from me;
your total lack of honesty
let me believe
quite indulgently.

But now I know
there was no you
only me --
even loneliness was feigned,
it took every piece of
the city of lies I built
to fool myself.

Your gift of nothingness
I thought was life itself.

Friday, February 28, 2014

Another Ode to Lethe

The death of literature - ah -
what never was life - oh -
hold the warm beads by the fire -
feed your heart now something more.

All things must live -
passing cannot change that -
the list of things to forget
grows larger every day.

It seems so easy to release one's grip -
until the will fails -
and decay alone opens the hand
to let nothing fly out like a bud.

The councils that watch this - with pillars and eyes -
are no more real than we are,
trying to live in homes we've built
- we pilgrims never lost.

Thursday, February 27, 2014

The false hope - becomes real

The false hope - becomes real
With a wave of one handkerchief
- For you remember how you feel
At each turn of love's leaf.

If the thing - underneath
Merely fills the echo of space,
The face of God's the form bequeathed
- Fixing your gold from its base

Like any altared Lord
Can't exist without thankful breath
- Something later nailed to a board
That won't die a real death.

Heaven's in you - now Hell,
As if it's from something you've done.
The pictures you know all too well,
Subtracting one to one.

That thing you remember
Is not your old life, well disguised,
It's barely the flare of an ember
Pops the dense seed - outsized.


Home is full,
Home is endless,
Home takes all you have
And makes you whole,
Each step another lesson,
Each breath a chance to grow.
Such peace when you are sanctified,
Tethered to love's service,
All there ever is.
Home stays still while moving
Mirrored with the sun.
In one home there are many,
Each right in its own way,
Unyielding but still blending
To a purpose singular,
A giving to the future
Without the present moment
Ever jumping off its track,
The memories that have built it
Never needing to go back.
Each day awakes to new disputes,
Problems and resolutions,
Each night is filled with smoky warmth,
The rich bouquet of guidance stilled
In love's unbreakable connection --
We laugh, we cry, we mourn, we play
And home is always with us;
It hears all that we say as prayers,
Forgives us all our freedom.
Home is love, it needs no words,
It gives by its receiving,
Asks only for the best of us,
Never expecting,
Never hopeless.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

The Gun Shoppe

What can we share but objections?
We feel one through what we're excluded from
And build a place away from the people with whom we disagree,
In hopes some nest will feather from our fear,
A bright new bridge to God will build,
Some salvage for our sorrow.

Monday, February 24, 2014

The Inflatable Geodesic Ball

The sound of breathing
Birds through reeds,
The gift of wind calls it song,
This pain of being
Ungrateful for life,
Surviving for oneself alone,
Yet touched by sharing
Breath and sun,
With death,
As if one is unworthy.
The plangent voice
Blots out all I am,
Because it has some being.

And then I see it,
A tiny bird
Perfect, on a branch
Keening, and I watch
As one divine, as it flies
Away, learns to let go.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

At Dana Point

A peace sign on the lawn
Of a mansion built on postage stamps,
The conga lines are drawn
In the sand, beneath the man-made clouds.
What world there is has disappeared
In smoke on endless oceans.
All that's left in the mausoleum
Is "Hell is other religions"
And pilgrims who have climbed its cliffs
To touch its form devoid of form
Bring too much life along with breath
To coax the gold to truth.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Feather on the Lawn

No one hears the crow
Assault the shady lanes
And echo all that pain
Across the grass and gravel
-- But he can never cease
His slow harmonica drawl
Until they finally hear,
These people sealing off the air
To tamp his clamor.

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Funny Pages, Bag of Crickets, Frog Dirt

Love brings desire
The cry of the hen for my food

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Outside the Holy House

All of life
      In goldfish eyes
As we lie
      Inside of time --
               Bubbling --
Letting pass
      Every meaning
                Because we need to
                       Make more
My one job:
      When the kettle boils
                 Turn the stove off
No one knows how bad it is --
       This gift --
Which makes it easier to let go
        The many faces of grief --
So that a greater gift, a more
        Paralyzing grief
                  May arrive,
Like lightning must dissolve
        To illuminate the void
My wife is half a world away
        -- The house next door --
Still her flame burns in my heart
For there is only one
        When all is said and done
Two bodies disappear into the soil

Monday, December 16, 2013


It's 12 degrees above zero
Honolulu can't unlose
12 iced degrees above zero
And the blues are bound to lose
Motown man can never choose
The only way to walk is in those doomed shoes

Saturday, December 7, 2013

Three Poems

High Modernism

In the devotion of rhetoric [in French poetry before Verlaine] to either beauty or truth, there is a certain consciousness of an audience, of an external judgment: rhetoric would convince, be admired. It is the very essence of poetry to be unconscious of anything before its own moment of flight and the supreme beauty it will never attain.” – Arthur Symons

The word “like” has broken
the blood brain barrier
of an entire generation,
like a gulp of terror:
don’t kill me, don’t judge me, don’t commit me
– do you, like, like me? The cautious hedging
of every possible bet, it’s far too dangerous
for any courage of one’s convictions
in even the simplest of declarations.
How smoothly we’ve adopted the fake patois
of the stoner slacker beatnik fraud
because it’s, like, cool, as Shaggy said,
to have the attention span of insects,
the stuttered speech of dislocated consciousness,
with the only word that matters now
counted like a pulse in the trance of endless sleep,
where generation upon generation of impressionable children watch
Gilligan’s Island episodes hundreds of times apiece
without ever seeing how they’re teeming with sexual
Intelligence is in an offsite computer,
the brain a signal processor, code interpreter
remotely controlled—but at least a machine
trusts in God to work, here everyone is
sticking out their tongues for pharmaceuticals,
and their arms unconditionally on command
for a flu shot that makes them get tattoos
and dance to heart-attack inducing
excuses to rape women, the monkey DNA inside
reducing them like fine China white in a spoon.

Our heroes are just slaves,
Our heroines on heroins,
Our preferences are saved
of kill myself or kill all of them.
The clones called politicians
sprinkle truth like fine white powder
upon the thinnest whole cloth tissues of lies
they call the issues of the day.
Our food is filled with tumors,
our water catches fire,
as they seed the skies with barium,
have sound waves jar our minds,
have science prove our lying eyes are wrong.
It was a wildly botched
lab experiment
this last century,
a colossal failure at every level
although it produced all kinds
of amazing and unintended results,
like Silly Putty and auto-sushi-mats
and expressions like “kid stays in the picture.”
It’s a history of
the end of history
at its end, our linear braincase
cracked with broken links,
pay-as-you-go fantasy machines,
pornograph placebo
cranking out the junk-sick beats
of needle chic calling sheeple to the steeples
beaming out its microwave short-order circuit
wizardry to bend the shorted minds
on encyclopedias of chaos,
a schizophrenic satire-collage,
solipsistic stream-of-consciousness
caterwaul. The great culling has begun.

Chacun à son propre infini.
Immortality means
all the obligations
of celebrity,
none of the fun.
The purpose of coming to earth again
is to punch it up on the rewrite
for we tell stories first and foremost
when it is said and done.
As the moon waxes and wanes
so does our emptiness hunger
but you can’t teach a new moon old fingers.

Nostalgia-sick I am
for shooting galleries in the grand and central terminals
and agitprop art event announcements
stapled sad to abandoned warehouse plywood doors,
for days of old when boys just laughed
and left the game alone,
before the wind cried Cesar Geronimo
to Bob Gibson’s rising incoherent murderball,
before replacement gods were hatched
just to be retracted back
by the Aristotelian death cults of Venice
who bought and sold the universe
and hurled it as a dismal diurnal
darkened void of stone
with all the immortality of a black hole,
before the word of mouse
and the long strange tip of project artichoke’s
day-glo mustard and Esalen champagne
on rock salt ice for later use at the mkultra acid baths,
before Eugenics became Genetics
and the subjugation of women through feminism
and op-art hallucination mini-skirts,
before the dormant Queen of Hearts
could terminate by altar command
with playing cards that hide the tarot in plain sight,
ancient divination from the alien
snakes from above and underground
performing a cauliflower lobotomy
with heterocosmic archeobotany,
before the wet jobs and Glimmerglass
and the Knights of the Order of the Garter
created virtual tribes afraid of their own shadows
reliably liable to crack, like all the stacked debts of Baal.
Idealism needs only to be believed to be victorious,
Materialism needs everything but itself to be destroyed.

(It may be a tin-foil pipe dream hat but
don’t bogart that hat,
it’s gold cinquefoil with tailfins,
the hat of a different color,
heavy is the head that wears that hat,
the hat that got your tongue,
success has gone to your hat,
the moon is a harsh hatcheck girl).

The train is calm as the passengers soak up
damnable lies from dry newsprint
while the skies are criss-crossed by unmarked planes
spraying conductive metal salts to block the sun’s rays
and no one seems to notice or mind.
They can’t kill all the fish in the sea, after all,
or change the color of the sky too much, but they can
control your mind through your smart phone waves
and program you through the smart dust
of this spray line of lithium trails that veils our world.
No, there’s nothing new in any of this,
it’s not even more refined. Take joy when they say
it’s to save the weather, for they finally admit they are doing it,
what’s been going on all this time.

In old little leagues the whiffletree
still sits crying to be born.
October’s octopi in the ghost land of the fens,
in chain-saw weather, remembers all that was
and never has been,
the blues played like a sick kiss
on the Sun god’s muddy mike.
I sink my teeth into some Hollyween irredentistry
but time flies for no dude.
Possibilities are the last refuge of the sleeping.
The fish is already covered in fur
(put that in your this is not a pipe and smoke it!)

On November's Buck Rogers clock
dry snitching for a juice card with the duck
for a stainless steel ride or parole to paradise
on a karmic roulette wheel, they deal me in
with brake fluid, bug juice and wolf tickets to sell
in a ghetto penthouse, picking up road kill in peels
before the ninja turtles insectival with their monkey mouths
go "if you dance upon the blacktop you go dutch."

December’s mildewed decadents sigh
on a pharmacologically frozen rose,
another quid pro snow, a neural zone infraction,
a meta-amphetamine meta-languaging
hyperactive hypodermic solution
that cooks a mean book
of whirled war peas
as seen from the dervish service station
by the dustdevil crossroads truck stop, dog track
and temporary amusement park, but circus people
suffer more than most, usually in silence.
I represent in purple on a divan in full flaneurhood
but true flaneurie is dead, in McCoy truth.
There are yachts to sail and foundations to run.
The British have their causes. We have our deeds.

Rodriguez the Sugar Man
in a red plastic overcoat
felt he owed a little something to the lost;
how long it took him to realize he wasn’t
like them.

Autumn Poem

Gold dies in the green pond’s reflection
                The geese bathe backwards in unison
                And disappear in a sudden splash
Of illusion on cloud-mottled glass.

Chasing hieroglyphs of squirrel tails
                More heard than read, as the forest flails
                Like our life and death – as mystery;
Seeds drop – the secret stays – under leaves.

Birds call to me from whirring trees
                That are the consciousness of the breeze,
                To hear what only hearts can recognize:
How silent this grace that overrides.

A stream clogged with sheets of sky-starched brown;
                The woods are now dropping underground.
                The geese are now floating past my eye.
The cold, inside of me, starts to cry.

At The Bowling Alley

Usually she just sat there
like a mouse without cheese
breathing in seething streams
the hideous tar of her Kent smoke
hoping only that it objectified the loathsomeness
of all she saw, heard, smelled and touched
– even the blue bean-box ashtray full
of her own pink and noxious butts.
The automated pin monkey sent back
the pink marble Brunswick balls
to the sound of dungeons flushing
like a ghost stuck in the machine.
Someone who thought reason alone
could answer might suppose this came
from an indifferent father and overbearing mother,
or some lack of kindness shown by an itinerant tinker
in some jeweled sepia moment in her past.
But all those suppositions would be wrong.
For the plain fact was
she were too inarticulate to even assume
a fixed identity, except in the vengeful
blood entitlement of dreams of annihilation
where everyone grieves the loss of their squalor.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

At the Racetrack

This man's ghosts
Galloping gravy
All bets are on
Over toast, baby

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Current Events, Explained

Newsprint sky, against the telephone lines
No breaking into sun or tears this time
Just the smudge of heavy camouflage
And the helpless feeling in each one of us
Of what's been left undone
And who's been placed outside
--Our brothers, who we are, the ones alone
With no one to defend us
Or believe us
Or cast a friendly stone

Save the demagogue
With ears to the underground
And eyes on some pharmacological prize
--He unifies what isn't even us to begin with
Behind his stories that are lies
That so much become who we are
The truth lines up on the other side;
It would make us disappear
Were it not for
The incredible rhetoric
So careful to say nothing
But what we feel

For we've long since passed the point
Where any word
Construed for dialog
--As we would construe,
In our loneliness, any word--
Would be too much.
We're just too far away
From us,
We need protection.
We call it justice.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Autumn Poem

The new morning light - so final it seems
Long shadows remembering everything

Love is perpetually saying goodbye
As it rises to enflame decay

The dying leaves become the sun
As if they're being born

This place between
We call it "Time"

Where memory can't free itself
And being is unseen

We hold on to its sunlight
Like the body we so desperately need

For fear that it will go away
In the night

A leaf floats down so quietly
I almost hear a sound

Monday, October 14, 2013

Monday Morning

The traipse - commuter shoes -
burdens hung from shoulders -
a root for breath from underground
- to dirty New York morning.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Alone in the Woods at Sunset

Bountiful day,
Intelligent evening,
The fire-tempered branches lean straight in to me.
The woods have thinned to valleys and rocks,
Brown and orange suffuses the green.

The leaves are all leaving for the light now
And falling back on black mirroring streams
And on meadows clear enough to receive them,
Alive enough for ghosts
And carrying such wisdom the boughs keep their pride as they bow.

Nothing here wastes a moment of its life
Or resists death's tender dissolving embrace.
Gold ferns seem older and firmer than I am
Sensing the smoke from my kind.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Aversion to Immortality

Leaves fall on the turds of modern sculptures.
Even the willow here loses what it
Never really had, the year’s well hidden
Appearance of something, so this nothing
Could commune with the nothing over there
And call that living – this thing – resisting –
That never lets us call it by that name.

Children pass like leaves – how crisp they fly by!
Red berry days display the happiness
So carefully not chosen on the way
Within the shelter of my freedom’s cage.
Leaf life floats down, unhurried to its end
Without a sound, except the mourning song
Of birds ever-joyful, ever-bending.

The hill that beckons me to climb—just like
The voice demanding suicide—does not
Allow the mind to ever understand –
The strict demands of contemplation make
The hiss of wind-filled leaves some mystery
That reaches to the center of my being
—That thing that never knows it is a thing.

Sun tears through the canopy as if it
Was a gift to me, the migraine light on
Leaves like grace—but what is can never seem
To be, life’s miracle, mathematically
Reducible to the impossible,
Mere darkness owns these sparks that have no place,
That think that they exist until they don’t

And nothing evermore of what they were
Survives their moment – hope turned meaningless,
The light turned off forever for every
Thing that ever was, so that it never
Lived at all in records of eternity.
That’s what they want the falling leaf to say
– And who are we, so open to the myst-

Ery, to disagree – we've fallen here
Ourselves, so out of place, we make our peace
With nothingness so greedily, happy
To have shared our need instead of making
Meek apologies for how outsized is
Our feeling—and how we go beyond our
Selves as if it’s laws that we are breaking.

Soft the voice that tells us we are nothing,
How comforting to know we’re lost and cursed,
Bestowed the blessing of impermanence,
Annihilation’s grace, just to forget
We had some existence, we lived here once,
In a world too beautiful, its colors
Final, fearing we were responsible.

Oh horror as the leaf descends – that I,
Born so divine, could squander these precious
Moments of alignment, looking for the
Permanence of graves, the shelter of dead
Walls, the protection of the mind from the
Enormity of consciousness, from bird
Song ever beckoning to understand.

The long and wrenching cry “I am”
That we never can

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Planting the Feed

"Without form, man is hidden in his own unfathomable secret." - Chuang Tzu

Have pity on the world
For we existed long before it
And will mourn the God we missed
When Her flesh has turned to dust.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Red Matty on Ice

"To know oneself is to study oneself in action with another." - Bruce Lee

The nice blue dice rolls paradise,
Atlantis Braves dispatched
through some trap door to nothingness
with their guilt trip of death as oblivion war paint
like our lives need so much that shocking change,
a road never taken before.

Fibonacci Mordecai unstrands his spiral green absinthe
cotton candy, and banks like a flamingo an impossible shot
on Minnesota Fats’ magic-trick tablecloth royal blue felt.

But the only one who wins at this schtick
walks alone in the clouds
lacking the wisdom
of the lowest, sorest loss:
that we want it this way.

The allure of the losers:
Atlantis in half-light
still rules a toxic stretch of black hole tar
where ruck-sacked hitchers rue their power
in gasp-for-air bar chairs for victims
where the thought of being immortal
is too much to bear.

The ball goes in play—the heart’s leap of faith—
Time falls away, and the game is too long to keep score.
Eyes study moves like they’re holy book clues
to do unto others what you don’t want done to you,
with a full of love handshake and hug afterwards
for all the respect invested in a brother’s defeat.

Loser, that impasto graffiti
sprayed perpetually over vast boundaries
of stone by the young. The death never ends,
expression can never be emptied,
the puzzle is pulled out of chaos again
to dissolve afresh in the spiral
like flesh shells, expended, decay in the soil
that re-uses all to reshape life so malleable
—the spiral moves on, its dense clouds of mind
like seething grey downpours in the distance,
the fields being watered some unknown plane
far enough away the eye can't, mercifully, see
save transcendent sky that smothers with mystery
but never once gives the candy of its secrets out
for the heart must be empty to receive.

Today the rain drips from sundrenched eaves,
pigeons and people collect with each other,
share something in silence that cannot be known,
only work to be done, beyond the East River,
new gods to be tried, combinations applied,
alliances plied and untied
with the ease of the current to a half-imagined sea,
a destination irrelevant because it does not exist,
despite what the flow we surrender to suggests.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

The Light at the End of the Book

All the miserable young poets
don't seem to know
love is a weapon
against every ill
that makes the world cry...

The unknown can seem like the known at times.

Mere fear can seem like the truth

Nothing is clear
                 no one is heard
                                problems are never resolvable
 but the heart doesn't care about any of that
        for what other truth is out there in fact
                   but love in the universe?

And what doesn't feed on our fear
        but faith
        in whatever it is we
                     believe in?

The dream of a better and larger world
shows the world of death as a dead world
        that has no hold
                on immortal
for in our dreams we are Gods
         and it is only in our dramas
                  we are not.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Helen and the Giant

They could not be more perverse,
These readings that she forces
Down all her students’ throats.

When common sense
Forces them to balk
She fails them.

So it is the Great Ones
Stay unknown
Yet remain in the service
Of the hypnosis machine
Where minds are trained
To do anything
For fear of being shamed.

It is not enough
To say that she is wrong.
It is not enough
To say there is a reason
For her always-undersold
It is not even enough
To say when humans find
Their natural genius
It’s always snuffed
Like it’s not even immortal
In some diabolical way.

But it is enough
To simply say
That this waste of time
And violence towards the soul
Is there to serve our mastery.
It is the gift waiting
When we wake up,
Like cut flowers in the sunshine
Or brand new words in a book.