While we were too busy asking "who am I?" instead of looking at the sky, they filled the casinos with Sacagawea gold, and voided the Waxsaw rake from the current sea, for he hated native races as much as he hated foreigner's money, made Tubman Mississippi the new capital for the poor, 2 large become the Tub nickel, to be passed around like pennies used to be, see - that's me.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Monday, April 4, 2016
a thousand yellow points to be adored,
a vibrancy too large for just one heart,
it burns one's eyes, how everything is yellow
except on the edges of the hillside,
where purple's like a hue that's not
supposed to be; it takes over,
for being stranger and rarer and braver.
The yellow is now nothing at all.
Saturday, April 2, 2016
on the dry river bed:
that swims with the sand
and keeps it secrets hid so well
it seems ever at one
with the mallards and killdeer,
lawn chairs and golf balls,
the stick nest springing in the tire.
The sun shines on all of them equally,
there's no way this
in the desiccated strand
of cat tail and thistle,
where muskrats still hide in coyote tobacco,
ping pong balls
in the transient cliff side,
but an eye
can see them all, a mind can choose to judge
the unresolved past
of coffee cup plastic,
and Natural American Spirit packs
The birds behind blinds
of milkweed and castor bean
chilling at home
don't pay it no mind
until we come to claim it
like a stone on a sluice
and they run, to the endless air,
their voices, for once, breaking.
Monday, March 28, 2016
in clear air
whether it nurtures
or explodes to the call
of the all-pervasive idea
with one voice
clover and cactus
like lovers entwined
bulging like a jungle apple
in clusters of blossoms
pinpricks of white
it's the source of all our wounding
we’re protected from
then the sun drips in the sky
and mustard flowers fall into my hair
as if I’ve learned there’s truth
in all our meaning
Friday, March 25, 2016
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Monday, March 14, 2016
Saturday, March 12, 2016
and therapy pillows, hibiscus nests
and fountains of sway,
a guitar beside the riverside
by the light of a girl gathering cones.
There's no distinction
between the wind and your breath,
the shine of the land and your eyes.
You are the earth embodied and disrobed.
Your bangles click as you touch my hair.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
working out the fantasy of world integration in one's mind,
tossing tissues at outstretched hands,
shaking a thick mane of hair, grabbing empty
and squirrels on the ground bow in honor to,
but it seems to us like pretty lights,
in the swirl on the surface of the world
God gave Costa Ricans the land
because they had such a pure heart.
in front of a home without windows
strung, like the blue schools,
in the fountains of Mango Park.
seem hopeless, where one is free
from lords and mercenaries,
the great white culling,
the prison wire like theatre lights
and think of pride, the monkey's eye
there's nothing to fear,
the earth moves every day
and every day some people die
then clears to blue cerulean
like time-lapse moons,
have been nibbled down to stems
for the Gods who do not know they roam the earth.
Of walking palm to beak an eel, a honeycreeper flutes,
as it grapples with the implications
"Welcome," said the boarded up shed
cotton-candy pink, Esmerelda Poett's
Lost Iguana Hotel, Macrobiotica, Microcervezia,
Eco-boutique, Ferreteria, Discomovil and internet café.
She offers us 12 New Year's Eve grapes and Coyol wine,
so we'll be drunk again the next day with the sun,
and a taboret beneath the ear tree, symbol of equilibrium.
Just be careful of the duck police, the vicious
beaches, the cold killer eyes of ennui
on the crocodile uncomfortable in its own leather.
We're the largest exporter of coffins,
Rain Forest Notes
Everything moves but the waterfall,
Red crabs on the forest floor,
the distant marimba of monkey music.
Above it all, in endless sky,
and alcoholic despots
everything on the maps,
in the mind,
but not, oh no,
on the ground.
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.
Friday, February 19, 2016
And still the only, — or has time not passed?
As you are queen — first or final? — are you
King too? The one lover or only the last? . . .
The love from the sole one tenderly flows;
She is death — or the dead ... O delight! O curse!
The hollyhock she holds is a rose.
Rose violet heart, Saint Gudula's lantern;
Did you find your cross in the desert skies?
Fall, phantoms white, from heaven that burns:
— The saint of the void's more holy to my eyes!
Et c'est toujours la Seule, - ou c'est le seul moment:
Car es-tu Reine, ô Toi! la première ou dernière?
Es-tu Roi, toi le seul ou le dernier amant? ...
Aimez qui vous aima du berceau dans la bière;
Celle que j'aimai seul m'aime encor tendrement:
C'est la Mort - ou la Morte... Ô délice! ô tourment!
La rose qu'elle tient, c'est la Rose trémière.
Sainte napolitaine aux mains pleines de feux,
Rose au coeur violet, fleur de sainte Gudule,
As-tu trouvé ta Croix dans le désert des cieux?
Roses blanches, tombez! vous insultez nos Dieux,
Tombez, fantômes blancs, de votre ciel qui brûle:
- La sainte de l'abîme est plus sainte à mes yeux!
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Man! Free thinker - you think alone, you think,
In this world where life bursts from everything:
The same force you wish your freedom to be,
But of all your advice the universe is free.
Each flower has a soul blooming in it;
"Everything is sentient!" - And your being is mighty!
That attaches a verb like a prayer ...
Don't let your service be the unholy kind!
An eye awakes in covers of eyelids
As pure spirit grows under the stone's rind!
Translated from the French of Gérard de Nerval (1808-1855):
"Eh quoi! tout est sensible!" - Pythagore.
Homme! libre penseur - te crois-tu seul pensant
Dans ce monde où la vie éclate en toute chose:
Des forces que tu tiens ta liberté dispose,
Mais de tous tes conseils l'univers est absent.
Respecte dans la bête un esprit agissant: ...
Chaque fleur est une âme à la Nature éclose;
Un mystère d'amour dans le métal repose:
"Tout est sensible! " - Et tout sur ton être est puissant!
Crains dans le mur aveugle un regard qui t'épie
A la matière même un verbe est attaché ...
Ne la fais pas servir à quelque usage impie!
Souvent dans l'être obscur habite un Dieu caché;
Et comme un oeil naissant couvert par ses paupières,
Un pur esprit s'accroît sous l'écorce des pierres!
Friday, February 12, 2016
Walks wide-eyed through Union Station
Having lost all hope
Of catching the long-delayed train to Reno.
But children wear tattoos
And empty their lives into silent walkie-talkies.
Still, not much has changed;
The women still have breasts.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Cross the baby shower sky
While frogs sing cricket key
And the river turns calligraphy
In river light that could save us from the demons
But it's only not yet emptied sky
For we refuse to see
Of patterns and God as machine
Monday, January 25, 2016
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Saturday, January 16, 2016
work the data mines
for hopelessness seems
close to the solution
in a world that's hope-bereft
Students still read Paradise Lost -
it gets simpler
with each passing year -
we, sinners all
still shake our fear crosses
Still people build their houses
outside of corruption
albeit they're aglow
with all the reports of it
from some central dispensation
And even the clouds
and the bodies sometimes
take the poison
It's enough to call it
chaos, but that's a word
that they use
for something else, a thing
that gives them power
But are we not controlled,
who shift so numbly to
the side of all we see?
Is the thought of freedom
the illusion we are free?
Do we listen to a Satan
omnipresent and eternal,
or is the voice just too
Yes the symbols are embedded
in every program that we see
but we thumb our noses
at all that, riffling the dial,
blinking as our heroes
genuflect before it,
That's their deal, see,
not mine, you know,
I still can dig an orgy
but not if there's too much
The yearning's secret
in every heart
beyond that power,
something one can actually hear
in the wind and the birds
and the streams, life is real
and death is a rumor,
and anyone with half a mind
can read that gossip rag
with names like Milton,
Blake and Shelley,
who still work
in Satan's mills,
as if they haven't changed.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
And all of this
To watch us glow,
To track our
Though we're deathly afraid
That they keep us
By dimming the sun,
Ending the world,
None of which counts
In the instant of life;
All their smart dust
Just a button we push.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
The world recedes
There is no sound
Left of his breathing
We might believe
If there could be
An end to reading
Each tiny thing
But there is never
Would have it be
Meaning glows like glass
Monday, November 16, 2015
Friday, November 13, 2015
in a broken world,
like a smile on a busted toy.
God shines whole through every
weathered Camel pack
strewn in depot pebbles.
Still we make of Art our God
to salve a wound
too deep for even knowing,
take such comfort from the false
because it can only condemn
The earth has been more patient
than the sunset ever shows,
it waits with solace for our
when we recognize there is no
roof above us, there are no
stones inside, the concepts that we
trade like food are vapor
in the void.
The voices in the wind,
the faces in the shade,
speak always of the one
— the alone is the only thing —
it is all.
Saturday, October 31, 2015
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Friday, August 28, 2015
Riding with the dogs
In the ruff curl as it rips
And the twilight surfers
Taste Catalina embers
And people sit on beach chairs
In irridescent shadow
As walls of burly wave thrash
And the dashing full moon glow falls
On a pink bikini tossing a frisbee
And night anglers tieing flies in front of a tiny TV
The dogs and gulls and children squealing
"This is a day to be happy."
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
There is no man on a walker asking me if there's anything's wrong,
No wheelchair panhandlers
Or bums for hire with dog.
No luxury excavations beside the shopping cart clan
Or jewelry stores where Navajo security guards stand.
Or John Fante Square.
There is only a feeling that won't go away
When I looked in that one man's eyes.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
The osprey in the bare tree sees:
Crabs perambulate to keep the world
In front of their testing claws;
Insects that use every joint and leg
To circumnavigate quivering leaves;
Steel-eyed rabbits glisten in camouflage
Waiting for cover of walking humans to move;
Schools of fish in furious slalom run
Silver scale shine in the sun...
It is enough, this choice, to make a bird
Feel humble, to gather its wings
In will and prayer
For the holiness of being worthy.
Thursday, August 6, 2015
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
They seem so real, so fully formed,
as if I know their stories and their smells,
have lived their lives for them already,
eager to learn what illusions to believe,
what losses to sense, what fragments to call whole,
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Its fuel blurs into purples
Inside the turning fires
Which consume what’s recognized:
All that the dream says is true.
When light breaks through this prism
The monster in the middle
Will glisten instead of roar;
The forms it sought to merge in
Can’t clothe the invisible
Any more. It’s now too raw
For the world and its people
— Grid of junk calligraphy —,
And everything kept at bay
Becomes a God who’d acted
As acolyte in bow down
To saints from miracle clay.
What have we to show this God
So patient and forbearing?
Only prayers it finally can
Reveal itself without us.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Passed around by bums in cups like wine spod-ee-odie,
The way that cigarettes are currency in the pen,
The pits like butts scraped down to the hard end,
So close that those who haven't bitten
Can't really say they've lived.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Saturday, July 11, 2015
And everything they are doing -- from eating sushi to tying balloons--
is just the amused moving of the universal mind,
And out of that forms vast conceptual structures to explain
existence through all of its facets,
A sea of patterns we can always love into coherence but as models
they collapse because they only refer back to me
Who doesn't exist.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Monday, July 6, 2015
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
In this place without sanction,
Where discomfort's like breathing
And conflict is as common as rain.
Still we persist in smiling,
In trying to be admired
Or, failing that, appearing admirable.
So sometimes it is hard to raise our hands and say
And even the smallest pleasure has an itchy catch.
Of recognition of us in its eyes. It seems to flicker
If only we were better, righter, more sure,
So our new gears spin, more reasons applied to unreason,
To salve with savage comfort a sense, at least, that we
Created this morass of ill will and sickness
Try to be patient as the place explodes with rage and stupidity,
Write out our hopes for a peace we have lost already.
What else can we do?
Of an empty ball bouncing through it:
Things to do, tempers to manage, thoughts to suppress.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
I have no memories of reality
But of dreams the backlot set's intact,
still kodak lit:
A second-story rare Elysium Books,
Cocktails in neon at the Tic Toc Club,
Ballroom Dancing at the Empire Hotel,
Then a closet-sized candy store where happiness and meaning are unwrapped from jars —
This is where the thunder hits
And the stormcloud sunsets go to die.
Paradise Island, Bahamas
The Atlanteans return
On summer break
For the blue lights
And the white sand
And the palms still unconstrained
Like ancient breasts
The blacks of many colors
Keepers of its keys
Who stayed in the wake
Of their apocalypse
Point their rhyming fingers
At the illuminated towers
And tell of Judgment for the lack
Of any morality
The world is not just
This imagined diorama
Of the once and future empire
It is here in the living shadows
Of the palm leaves on stone
And in the cloudwoman's tears
That bring new life for the failures
Of free will made every moment
And in the notes
Of the breeze
Afraid to say
What it knows
Saturday, June 27, 2015
There's no getting around this wall,
With its glittering codes
That lock out all souls from its sea-bed cities.
I strain and I cry, only to find
That I am the city, breathing.
The only way through: the blue liquid of truth
Drifting like ink to something alive.
The more airtight the explanation,
The more unassailable the fact,
The more wrong it is,
Because there's a power in it then
To be right, to sweep away
The pain and the wrong on this dark side
Of the world
With a clean beam
People turn to stone like coral too
Their faces remembered
And forms preserved,
But the force that was their living
Is still elusive,
The poison of the anemone, still,
Is seen as less than its ambrosia.
We are in pain.
We can't let go.
There must be something separate
To hold onto.
The poetfish glisten in such a way
One thinks that they are mirrors
Or something seen right through
But they are only large and thin
And swim with a certain sway.
Their inscrutable faces — star eyes,
Rarefied frowns — come alive in contempt,
Because they are seen
And because they are not.