Sunday, July 27, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
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
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)
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
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.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
The peacefulness of flowering weeds
Draped along the waterline
The green that reaches through all grime
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
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.
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
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
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
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
Thursday, March 27, 2014
"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,
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
hums brighter now
I cannot hear its
- 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.
push pictures for the weather -
As if I was betrayed by trees and grass
for turning yellow.
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.
empty all this
striving for the
- the me that I've abandoned
for fear I'll be abandoned -
Monday, March 10, 2014
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
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
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
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
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 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.
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.
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.
It gives by its receiving,
Asks only for the best of us,
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Monday, February 24, 2014
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,
The plangent voice
Blots out all I am,
Because it has some being.
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
Of a mansion built on postage stamps,
The conga lines are drawn
In the sand, beneath the man-made clouds.
In smoke on endless oceans.
All that's left in the mausoleum
Is "Hell is other religions"
To touch its form devoid of form
Bring too much life along with breath
To coax the gold to truth.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Saturday, December 28, 2013
All of life
In goldfish eyes
As we lie
Inside of time --
Because we need to
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
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
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Our food is filled with tumors,
all the obligations
of this spray line of lithium trails that veils our world.
but time flies for no dude.
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
a meta-amphetamine meta-languaging
Rodriguez the Sugar Man
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
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
We need protection.
We call it justice.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
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
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
The nice blue dice rolls paradise,
Thursday, October 3, 2013
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
in whatever it is we
The dream of a better and larger world
shows the world of death as a dead world
that has no hold
for in our dreams we are Gods
and it is only in our dramas
we are not.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Monday, September 30, 2013
bears to uncertain destinations
to tend unknowable brains
while the sun maintains transparence.
The maddest of poets lives in the squarest of houses,
presides like some rooftop vagabond
as the children squeal "Malatesta"
in long shadows of the lawn.
"Summertime" by Abbey Lincoln plays
at the neighborhood hot dog stand.
Birds above the trees are crying.
Life is for me, and me alone.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Saturday, September 28, 2013
The house of Doliber the Cordwainer on Brimblecomb Hill
is black now with pewterpurple doors.
The seagulls are white as sailcloth and make sounds
like the creaking dock.
The smell of blue striper and fried clams is as faint as a memory.
The sun peers down the carved-rock cat walks etched
through the hills of Old Town.
All of it reminds me of my childhood home at the edge of the sea.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
Sunday, September 22, 2013
And what it's saying—is only—what we hear
What I hear—in fantasies of sharing—in dreams of knowing something
It might be a reply—a gurgling yes or no
To teach me what I know already—in my confined world...
There's something there—I know there is—although it's not
Yet touched—a voice not heard—still beckons
All my love—although it dies—without a sound
I hum its gentle murmur