Friday, May 24, 2024

The Peanuts Delivered to the Door

A shadow in my own house,
Only the railings hum my name,
The candelabra's dripped in sadness
But it's at the void, not me,
There's nothing left of that, some strange
Undisclosed condition of witnessing.

I am at best a bird looking in,
At worst a service monkey
Looking for tips and kept from thievery
By the very love that enslaves me,
The need to value what is not mine
And never will be.

Enter the Great American Con Man
Who no longer has to say I'm invisible
Because I did not whistle loudly enough
How it's the amount of evil used to acquire power
That is the only standard of right in the universe,
So my value is non-existent, he says,
And he only keeps me around because of all men
(He of course would never say this) I can give him
The most with the least disagreement, and
Offer the highest percentage of my soul,
Most of which, the part with no opportunity for ridicule,
He will indifferently leave there, or spit out, or throw 
In disgust on the floor, sometimes laughing, 
Sometimes stamping it out in his spats like George Raft
Doing Al Capone doing Caligula.

But even I know I'm not kept around for that, I am kept
To keep his protector from unrelieved misery.
He would, he claims, acknowledge my existence
If what I said had any relevance. The collected teachings
Of the ages I didn't keep to myself. I raised a lip, 
A brow, an objection of any sort one too many times,
He calmly informs me, or would if these bones were real.

What will he do
When I take away his car, his room, his home, his food,
His family, and send him out with nothing into the world?

I've pondered long and hard this difficult question
And realize my torments will finally end only when
I can honestly, happily, blissfully, with all the heart
Of the cosmos, say, final answer, "I will be free."

Thursday, May 23, 2024

More About Bats

The shaman trains as hanged man in the darkness,
Suspended in a chrysalis of inwardness
To invert what he believed in, about himself,
To learn how the opposite is equally true.

It's not to die the hero's ego death, but know
Who he is, from the other side, sonar, not flight,
The path — before all the bones that crack to the sound.
He's wrapped like a snake Caduceus around the pole

Because he has remembered himself, and he wants
Nothing more than to hold the center that can't hold,
For all is love, at the end of each silver cord.
So the spiral snake wends the needle, to recall

As illusion the error ways, where the not love,
The golden dream, could finally be realized
Via one's chosen hallucinatory loop,
Maelstroms we call them, because it is always fun

To be the victim, suffering is what we choose
Every time. Is it a sin to say we prefer it?
How could we not choose lives of gluttony lust and
Purgatory, for the sheer joy of it, to see 

How far away fair love can appear to be
Like we would compass the stars for a sense of awe.
All the vastness and perfection and cohesion
Love extends, what better vantage point than below?

Wednesday, May 22, 2024

Demonseed

The bat on the window
Laughs at the insects
Large and in charge at
The Sigler residence,

They way they cavort,
The tones they use,
How play turns to blood
So quickly

And flight
Only flits back
To cold
Electrical distances,

But, then, the bat
Thinks the place is his,
It welcomes his guano
After all,

His heart and soul,
Its rafters a net
For companionship and safety,
Harmony, a steady diet of flies,

And would swoop upon 
Its kitchen meats
As freely as he
Shrieks.

That's the way at least that 
The shadows look at it,
The never having,
The never having enough.

There are no rules,
Except what can be heard
In the exclusive caverns of ears
And, being heard, transmitted.

Ah, but the globe is breaking
From the weight of
What is wasted, and most of it
Throbs in the ethers

Like fat in a candle flame
Humming the house.
The crickets only know
How to sing it.

After the Addendum

"La plus commune façon d'amollir les coeurs de ceux qu'on a offensez, lors qu'ayant la vengeance en main, ils nous tiennent à leur mercy, c'est de les esmouvoir par submission à commiseration et à pitié. Toutesfois la braverie, et la constance, moyens tous contraires, ont quelquefois servi à ce mesme effect." - Michel de Montaigne

So I tolerate the intolerable
Because compassion cuts off wisdom
Whenever two lanes merge to one.
That's just science. What irks
Is this belief I could exist outside of it,
That, when the smoke rose, and the pawns
Were left on the board, it would be
Like I'd been there. Even those who try
To disappear need external validation, I hold
As I bear that last candle over the threshold
Not to see, but to know it won't go out
After the million lips have mistaken its flame
For an invitation to darkness.

There's too much light, until there is no more,
As truth must fold completely into lie
For what just happened to be revealed,
As curtain opened on an empty stage --
It's what's best for the patrons, they say,
When it's the actor himself
Who demanded the chairs be empty
For the performance of his life,
Only then to know that everything he did
Deserved applause.

Tuesday, May 21, 2024

Convo

The endless talk
Of drafts and draws
To give the others the squeeze
And then the slip
In knots of condemnation 
Webbed like a lace
That can be blown like birthday cake,
The laughter at the shame
Somehow the fuel
For further power moves
To wrench control of some detail,
Some small remote console.

But the dogs lie down to sleep
And the shame just arrives like fleas
As morning beckons like a train.
There's only so many ways
The rooster comb
Can brush the corpse's hair
And there's only so many beers
In the fridge
And none of them are cold.

All battles have already been fought and lost, 
All winners will be beaten with a stick.

The Pink Bench and the Great I Am

In the park
Where things happen without time
Sounds connect, seeds fall, nations rise.
Each stem holds a world to the sun.
There is no one like anyone else
But we are all one.

In fact,
The Temple from beyond
The Jacaranda blue
That strokes its amorous bell
To get through
Is just the whirr of birds
— It never did exist.

The Band Aid Can on the Yacht

The empty must be rusted,
Just a slant of light let through 
This plexiglass opaque curtain
— Once people suffered here, on some
Lint-lunged, mangle-handled contraption 
To make fashion affordable to the masses
Long extinguished in the current rages
That's long since blown through now,
Home to feral cats and all that keeps them
Alive in the dark, with ever-vigilant eyes.

It could not become a parking lot
Or boredom-making office park
Like the other would-be Pinocchios—
It must stay free of all ennui ...

The wait is inexorable 
For enough to be forgotten
To raze the rafters down
In hopes we will remember
What haunts us like the China in the shed.

Monday, May 20, 2024

The Invisible Turns Motionless

The rust on the rooster-crown roofs
Of still fans in sultry gray,
There's no wind to ruffle the Santa Ana grasses
Finally present with the moment
Soulful with emptiness.

Children's worlds of plastic swings
And suspended upturned trikes
Lie like still lives in the barbed backyards
With no reason to do anything but live
—Something we can do outside of them,
Finally free as jays.

Even the paper debris is free
To collect itself in peace
By whatever fences once held them still,
Wherever their trestles ended up,
What we now may call real.

Container cars whose emptiness
Reminds us how much holier it is
To be an echo
Than whatever can't be seen
In endless carriage tracking west
Under the collective judgment of stars.

And then the messages flash
In slick black Liquitex
And incandescent Krylon
—Not to be understood or even seen,
It is the urge of the eye merely
That connects to what they know,
The chimeras of what once seemed realized.

Like the plastic bags in shopping carts
In the cul de sac beside the freeway,
Once they were as lithe as dreams
And now they dream alone
With the free people motionless now
In dust shrubs peering over kingdoms of waste
That were never anything but places they could go
And not be discovered.

All of us want that
But the all-seeing eye
Must peek inside the packages
Now stranded on the tracks,
Savor the last 
Morsel of liberty.

As the train winds upstream
Some answering currents
Flow back to what might have been
And what never was lies ahead,
A gleaming city of blue!

The root of all sadness 
Is cutting oneself off
From love.

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

The Rivers Between Commerce

The scrapyard beckons,
The dark art of light refraction,
Where we pile on our dissatisfactions
As if they own us,
As if their price will go up
This time, if only this one time
Then we're flush
As the skies that promise nothing,
Nothing to deny us.

We list between piles of bitter complaint
That the one we have left,
Our mythical selves,
Can't compete
With the sleaze and light victories
Pulled like gills to the gulls
From warm polluted holes,
White gulls with otherworldly eyes,
Yet they pluck the lotus for shit
As does Quan Yin herself as well,
Have the choice to see heaven or hell,
Or maybe the blue only knows its own kind,
Learns nothing from all of the lies.

I have poured out as diurnal ritual
The barrels of measurable shit and urine,
Made microadjustments to
The indefensible
Dysfunction
Hoping my time was enough
Of a sacrifice
For the pleasure of seeing
Everything break,
Everything die and get taken
Apart,
All rationales slide down an icy crevasse
Where the Self as we pictured it
Can't be said to exist anymore
And nothing of goodness escapes
To the light ...

That trickery flickery always throws relief
Onto the shade,
In patterns of steel 
Glittering blade
Like Venetian blinds ...
— Is it the light or the dark
That binds us?
Who knows?
The pipes always churn out
The waste with ease
After this many rained-out days. 

Thursday, April 11, 2024

This Day in Buffalo Bills History

They were named for a vaudeville show 
Because the Buffalo Bisons were already spoken for,
But that hardly explains one Elbert D. "Golden Wheels" Dubenion 
From miniscule Bluffton College to be beckoned in black face
To the first playbill will call for a casting coach named Buster
With Carlton, Wray; Torczon, LaVerne; Fowler, Willmer; Yoho, Mack ...
Impossible names all, even for vaudeville 
When they shuffle off the mortal coil
Of Buffalo's defunct and defiant ghosts of football.

They never knew they were dead, you see,
Always thinking they were in it when they weren't.
It's not the same to beat the shit out of the other pigskin misfits
As ride the golden steeds of the football gods,
As merciless and clean as they were sexy, as this crew --
Archie and Butch and Booker and Stew --
The penitents of Lou -- most assuredly were not.

And then there was Cookie, washed out with the Argonauts
For his too-cool-for Canada's dry three goose wings down,
Proof you can liquefy a cookie, to minstrel show juice.
He came with Ernie Warlick - a name I didn't make up -
To try their luck down South in the impossible TV snow
That brought light to Niagara's honeymooner cabins
And the arc welding eyes of the Lackawanna Poles,
The factory negroes, the Erie Irish, the Alsatians
Who came in on the wind. They agreed on nothing 
But the Bills, how truly disappointing they were,
And how they still prefer Pepsi 2 to 1 to Coke and think
The Bavarian creme pies on the East Side are the best in the world.
The world. Yes they want a taste of the misery of glory but
No one had anything to give, only the glory of misery.
Still they took so tiny a slot in the prime time machine,
They only took, even from the mythical Buffalo, the urge to run.

That's where Cookie came in, never crumbling,
Even at contract time, when Buffalo wingback payback
Made it apparent at last just how far Buffalo's light had cast,
The first Tesla-electrified city so they say,
And he was cast to the woeful Bronco winds 
As was Daryl "the Mad Bomber" Lamonica
Presented for peanuts and a harmonica
To the Al Davis monkey vendor, as Jack the quarterback 
Became, because he could not be the hero of this play, 
A Republican intellectual who ran for President
On an "I'm a quarterback" plank, but no one by that time
Even remembered him.

                          What travelling show can't encompass such tragedy?
Their brothers in guerilla war rode the bouncing Super Bowl
To respectability and riches while they still
Stirred the cream of a post-Cookie apocalypse.
They changed their stadium from War to Rich
After the types of sweets at the sponsor's bakery.

And no one was ever sweeter than the man they called OJ,
The rich rookie who raced through the house that Cookie built
And whose father was the souest chef in Frisco Bay,
And if it wasn't for the love of his son, not able to be
White man cool like his heterosexual celebrity dad,
Carrying his pig-skinning chef knives to maul his great white stepmother,
We would be able to remember him,
The juice in the Electric Company, a light on TV,
The way he made us forget, for a moment,
That it mattered he was black.

Thursday, March 28, 2024

Maundy Thursday at the Avenue A Swimming Pool in Saskatoon

Jones and Nyro approached lyrics from the standpoint
                         of the streets
As overheard by the ghost captain of riverboat sails,
                         which spooked him,
And the choir seemed somehow to offer food,
                         quite confusing
                                                   for a cool cat
This mission burning down thing, in the southern wing
                         of confederate rock history,
Wee hee hee hee sal on the other hand
                         of the white white boy's school
                                                   would be catnip
To go on a tightrope with impeccable poise
                                 like the ghost in our catnap.

She bailed at Monterey, thought herself too fat,
       didn't perform again until 1971, but she did,
Holy shit, Poverty Train, to half of America's high schoolers
      in their CIA-sponsored communal acid bath.
Clearly the hippies were not ready 
                          for a blue ray starseed
Who needed, at 19 years old, a 7th dimension to cover her songs! 
Who could twirl every carnival wheel within wheel til it popped,
      like a Russian savant reassembles a clock,
               refusing to settle for the real to feel
                          or any better place than dismal bliss,
                                        refusing to accept any fear in fact
      at the Stoney End of all sin-based redemptions
               that prophecy a different morning,
Who admitted to every conceivable sin in her songs
               yet each one was a mystical prayer
                         in the shadow that all light reaches for,
                                         the lunar nigro,
                         for art is in those shadows,
The eclipse observed thus pulled into creation.
                         The Spanish call it duende.
                                         We call it the blues.

There's that point where time and space are violated
                                         and cease to be.
Time stops and space dissolves to one point
                                         of eternal consciousness
                                                        mind goes on
       in Bach's Heisenberg uncertainty variations
                                          in the eternity ward
                          until a question comes again
To ground me into time and space, from an eagle,
      who says it is the only one:
                          are you free or enslaved?
Poison, it appears, is not written in the stars,
                          Blue Orpheus was ...
The choice is always ours
       to attach or not,
                        as a regular ritual
                                         like [fill in the blank].

Tuesday, March 26, 2024

The Creature No One Saw

Something is rotten in Ferry Bar Park.
Is it the mothman? Does he play this?
Or was it just a hologram like the moon,
Impossible to live with or miss?

Now the chromium flows, the crabs have come home to roost
At Sparrows Point, that sings its no-more secrets
Of Bethlehem Steel, on the day that Judas
Took down the Roman pig iron figurine.

Even the wedding dress and roses on the cake were blue 
And the ring bearers dressed as men in black
On the bridge where it happened in 1966,
Reports the Berkshire Eagle, on highway 36,

The same number of people who died on the Silver Bridge
Before they changed it to 37 on Wikipedia ...
And then there's Bonnybridge, "Scotland's Roswell",
In the Falkirk Triangle

And the Bridgeville UFO Festival, Bridgefest, you guessed it,
On a bridge. And there's that well-documented UFO boat
Floating by the now-singing ("wind retrofit") and Keyless
Golden Gate Bridge.

Brawny can't clean up this spill, the decades as they've festered,
Its non-union concrete crew the only supposed casualties.
Why they weren't warned like the lunar eclipse cars
Is just the most unasked of many mysteries

But I am much more interested in the "dolphins"
Placed specifically to protect said bridge from exactly this,
As pointed out by the incredulous structural engineer
Who poured the slab in 1974,

50 years ago, like clockwork tinker toy war spoils,
The third largest continuous truss bridge on the globe
Felled by a three-year old's tantrum ...
But there's so much not to make sense of:

Why in the 2012 movie Battleship did the aliens take bridges,
What no one on Reddit can figure out.
Or what really happened in High Bridge, New Jersey,
The site of irrefutable, unburiable fact,

As when in full view of Manhattan on the Brooklyn Bridge
People were pulled up one day into the sky,
Aligning such undefined choiring strings
As no allowable theory can contend.

Why, I ask, did the light beam blue avian blue,
And why was London Bridge sung to fall down
And is now on Lake Havasu?
What symbols can we use?

The Mayday Bridge like its namesake's namesake F. Scott's most
Famous story? Google won't tell you, its AI
Makes me admire how tight the Federation of Light has to be
To keep the veil as black as we need it to be.

The one incontrovertible fact in that whole Mothman business
Was that a bunch of real West Virginians saw him in 1966,
Although his eyes were like chrome reflectors not red,
And no one ever called him the Mothman, 

That's just what some AP copy editor said, 
And it wasn't even the figure but the fact
It was foisted on the consciousness 
Of Pleasant Park's unwittingly empathetic

Through some advanced blue light technology 
Presided over by actual men in black
Driving Cadillacs over the bridge
That undeniably went down,

And undeniably
Emil Roedel, Nazi Germany's most famous spy,
Was there, in West Virginia, before the bridge toppled,
As was Indrid Cold, an impossible name 

With a hard-to-conceive-of tale, like Indra the Hindu
God of fire, cold fusioned into dragon
Who appears as a vampire, or as spangle of stars
On any given red, white and blue bridge to nowhere.

It was an attack, a personal pearl harbor I suppose,
On what I was, on Grizzly and the miniature
Row homes of Curtis Bay, and the aforementioned
Ferry Bar Park, where, indeed, Homey Didn't Play That.

And the name of the cargo barge, with its captain called in
Like Jim Morrison's admiral dad for all the headline
Bridge apocalypse operations, was that book
That both of us magically have

On the surrealist Dali, from Dahlia as in the Blue,
Who drew a broken bridge he called it
To dream, but it was fully constructed
To the point it had to cross something, anything, to connect.

The locals never knew the bridge was at stake
When they saw that full-of-holes moth, 
Their accounts never quite connected,
As anonymously famous as they became.

The whole eastern seaboard is now unexpectedly 
Unhinged, as Apple buys up nuclear power plants
And the only transport pipe for waste on the whole
Eastern seaboard has ghosted us.

The Patapsco River now floods its banks
With the flow of the great mind, and we see clear 
In the blue beam to Northumbria
Without ever having to talk.

Friday, March 22, 2024

If You Don't Ask, the Answer is Yes

There's a consequence for everything you ask 
Though the odds of one and one dictate
You may carefully be given what you say,

Another chance to decide, if feeling lucky
Means another has to give you a prize
That turns, it always does, into resentment,

For you carry the weight of the thing
That assumes for a time 
The proportions of the world

What you innocently wanted
Vs. what you innocently thought
You could have.

It's not like it's a compromise, a negotiation 
On which your savvy is judged. You are the only God,
The one who decides what your sun shines on.

No Rolling Stones Gather in Jerry Moss Plaza

The spring confetti swirls in Fibonacci spirals 
Over the hard concrete
As I disappear between worlds
At the end of the day.

I am for others and others are for me
But we have nothing in common otherwise,
Just the situation, where agreements were made,
Our names are our own, signed, but, really

We have no inkling of why we are here
Or who needs to use us to speak.
So the crack seems almost natural,
The place for all the cool people to go

To not be seen. The world outside our senses
Turns to gold decorative foil, hard to peel away
But once the edge is found
There's no limit to how much can be removed.

Wednesday, March 20, 2024

Gaza with a Z

Mayor Mensch declared all Civil Disobedience
Safe and even sacred, even in Sacramento 
Before a city council hung like a rooster weathervane
Out to dry, in the balance.

"We will wait all night to hear everyone speak,"
He declared, sad he could not do more 
For the olive trees and branches and cocktails
But the audience of one, the photojo in the free speech zone 
Had left when pandemonium and arrests arrived
To such a carefully contrived chaos.
What is it but love everyone sought?

Fish-eyed, she had gazed for hours into Gaza,
Eyeless, thanked for bearing witness 
To someone else's land and crime and truth
In the militarized zone of zealots
She once had been the queen of, telling the truth
To allow the seeing. Righteous of the word
She went beyond the pink sea's endless partings
In her rebellion of peace, the church key lady
Who lit a candle in the dark, for those who risk their lives
So she didn't have to, a fellow traveler 
Photojo who had worn the fur.

But this resistance is all suffering
And darkness is the holding space.
Light is what she uses to speak
Thus walking in hell is walking in sunshine.
The banks close in on the border river, both are judgements
But the river is not, it is only the flow  of light
Zero giving of fucks. To avoid too much photojo with the salt
She had to leave her ego at the checkpoint Charlie door.

Everyone has love as a weapon,
Everyone sees only light
Yet look how much seems aligned against it
To sell the illusion that it has no power.
The photojo looks for the clarity just out of range,
The detail that reveals it as a prop 
On a manufactured stage on which
Our very real yearnings burn.

In the dream of a third opinion they give her 
A wide berth, to be invisible enough to see, 
But she renders no voice not her own, 
That's the thing about the voiceless 
She takes on, to fling upon the primal scream,
They make no sound.

She dreams of Lady Nada, how she sparkles in the pink spring
Like the light means something.

Tuesday, March 19, 2024

Signs of G_d 3.14

The twin tarot towers fall into their footprint 2 to 1
Like eternal clocks unwinding to perfection
And wound again so we may accomplish
What is already there
And perhaps understand the limitlessness of love,
For that, after all, is its only limit.

I'm aware of you, vescica blue,
And thus conscious of eternity,
Your pi hole in the middle of the rings of Guinevere
The sacred door, the portal,
The sweet g-spot of creation,
God, geometry, the Great arf-arf Seal,
The elusive guess and guest,
Grand Architect, a kind way of saying it:
Gimel Gamma Gamal,
Gematria's perfect triad
Taught by Gamaliel on down
As the harmony when opposites manifest in trine,
As kindness allows in from the choice to give or take
In free will, such generosity twins the contraries,
Merging soul and mind, earth and spirit, into heart,
The G force of G source,
The zero point of everything where nothing creates something,
The key of gratitude that unlocks the gooey, living void

And we all sincerely call for the truth of love
But it's the blue mirror that makes a geometry real
As a spinning funhouse, like the one where the Germans
Lost the War but are still in control ...
Germania, an ancient place of unknown origin
Named by the fiesty Celts for the Romans
To trine the Goths and Gaul as neighbors
For germination and germ warfare
Like 33.3 Gs in the glove of St. Germaine.
The Romans liked to erase things
Like the Druids and the (wait for it) Gnostics.

Tuesday, March 12, 2024

Exit Ramp on the Van Allen Beltway

The problem with seeing people 
        Is sometimes you see them.
Every eye is a mirror
        And mirrors aren't real
Just a glint of nothingness 
        Retracing the retraction
Back to the eternal subject
        That has no shape or name
In the blind light

                               Where the school of heart knocks
         Tricks you away from dancing free
With a kicked on the way out door
         That can be opened more or less,
Each swing of transactional authenticity
         To learn how you resist one thing 
And the world coils ready to spring

         So say the walking fortune cookies
Who would have you hack the matrix by focusing ...
          How the looking glass magnifies
Before it turns the thing that's seen 
          To dust
Without a stop for popcorn
          Or the nit gnats of judgment
All mystics and Indians know
          Is a crutch.

Monday, March 11, 2024

Death Doula Villanelle

He coughs up blood like Kerouac.
She won't phone up her vegan Republican quack.
The caul is over us now.

Appetite has slowed to a bite
Though whisky still flows, potatoes kept from the light.
The caul will fall too soon.

Photos are gathered for post-it note chats
On the dog's sleeping lie once avoided like gnats.
The caul will fall too soon.

The Swede's scrapbook hung like a sail.
The Mick's napkin sketch what it's like beyond the veil.
The caul is over us now.

Charon's great ship with its white foam prow!
The caul has come over us now,
In the last sick light of the moon.
The caul always falls much too soon.

Saturday, March 9, 2024

Checking in on Cleo and Briscone

Baggage gone missing at the new moon
          On the spirals of progression carousel
That spin as one would peel back the toroid
          Of an onion
Off-balanced like a top our merkabah
          Tilted to the zero point
Where you would straddle the pole to recharge it
           Not at true horse North but blue.

I am in the center of you, unable to move
           Except closer
To the spiral of your chapter pages turned,
           Your ever-unpeeled onion leaves 
That leave me to cry for morsels,
            For the morsel horses, 
For the breadcrumbs to the morsel code,
             Point Zero Morsel.

But the world gets a little less straightened and chaste
             A little wiser as we
Become a little more free don't it Zephyrillis
             Or is it Etherea? 
We know each other 
             By so many names
We have become as fluid as Flood,
              For shape is optional, 

An excuse to lose myself, forget you,
              Always fun, seldom necessary, 
As memories of you crystalize my DNA,
             Conforming to me like memory foam
Squeezable as an inflamed sponge,
             A lemon ponied up
Off-world and off-the-hook at the Nature Lounge
             Naked Spirits bar.

Timelines tremble,
             Thoughts interstell.
The nothingness of pure light
             Manifests all things 
For the sake of illumination
              Nothing more.
But then we went quantum
              And truly lost time.

Thursday, March 7, 2024

The Oldest Chinese Restaurant in California

The rain drips in my bed.
The long-suffering house is finally crying.
It can no longer dance.
The main vein has been unreined
To memories fallen like mirrors.
The pillaging pillow bends like a willow
As the crisper fills with remedial rain.
 
The pea flower blue forbidden rice frog
Has many paddies to cross.
The lilies are the only things blooming
In the pea soup, blue velvet fog
That refuses to smoke out in a blaze of entitlement
Like flair-haired Jimmy the red-headed step head,
Roller of doobs for pubes 
But to evolve with each resolve,
To see the master's hand as my own
Pulling the black and blue down into the sky.

The only consistent thing in my life,
The panhandler at the cross-walk
Hits me up with an especially robust "spare today, spare today"
As he holds a few coins in his fingers.

Wednesday, March 6, 2024

Bus 69

My forlorn lonesome burn
For what's locked away in Folsom,
Your fulsome bosom blues
and their foregone conclusions.

Yet they somehow found their way
To the Ukrainian pray for rain party
At Open Heaven that went on all night
Keeping vigil like a light house,
A sigil for the ages where the buzzers and alarms
Go off instead of on
And Caspar the Jumping Ghost is on the struggle bus
But thankfully not thrown under
Like at the Mesmer school of Mnemesyne
When the Chicago School of lab rats and coats took over
And asked, famous artists style, "can you draw this blank?"

Oh my wing woman
For the sweet adelines
Swedes on treble cliffs
Wailing love language for dummies
From open source on the light web
Open all night
Wherever love is forbidden
Which interplanetary love always is
Everywhere but heaven
Open all night
Like the pickup truck that rides the LA River
Blaring Staying Alive with no way to disco duck it.

The doctors just say fuck it, face the hypnotist and dance.

Wednesday, February 14, 2024

Whisperings of the Way

The whole is the only individual.
The blue glass where we live our sunlit part
Asks only we stay quiet, for the murmur
Of what has transcended us, in common share,
The common's tragic end in keen elite listening,
To the white noise there, all the secrets
Burrowed in like grain for ancient rats.

It is so clean, the air, so crisp in execution
And weejun wax. We leave no trace,
For we touch no hands, at our best,
Let all success turn to failure
And failure our greatest success.
The clock that we keep measures the mind
Of the one, the living corporation
We incompletely fill.

                                      We are unreal
For most of the day, as the sunlight tracks
The Hollywood sign, descends into flame
Above Wilshire every single night...

The weather's unpredictable 
In Southern California, 
The micro-climates,
The infinite flow.

Sunday, February 11, 2024

The Space it Takes to Be Nothing

Somewhere in this garage is my new life.

Is it the green iguana heat lamp, for future movies
   as a figure of shadow and screen renown perhaps?

Or the toilet seat riser that no one will want, will it
           cling to me like the memory of an elephant?

The felt casters of a thousand broken chairs
                     and paint enough for a mausoleum,

The gardener will be gone, the mauve gloves will have 
                                                             slipped on,

There are never enough Goodwill runs to take
                      the finish off the hands

Of the disposable experience, that rests now next
    to the trash receptacles, in Zen balance.

The dragon sees the sky red
             and all of the leaves are crying.

Make of me what you wish, kind spirit, as you spin
          the fated fool's wheel like a Colt revolver

And the bated breath blows out to soil and solitude,
   small house with dog on the outskirts of Yuma,

And another family filed as a chapter in my saga,
           my postcards from another world

I pin to my heart of cork like a flag that is only the past
    and, therefore, proven wrong

But still stirring its lies in the pale light of fear
                                where absence once swam

And it's waiting again, the Swan,
             ever black as the night is long.

Thursday, February 8, 2024

The Fear Leaves

Silence is blue sky.
The words curl below.
They wait to exist as the wind deems it so.

But be always blows into do.
The others are filled with meaning
Then exhaled in a plume

To travel like birds
Over hills, without weight,
Shape or place to go.

The thousand years of rain
Can only be recalled
In the longing to be absorbed.

Wednesday, February 7, 2024

The Kings of Hollywood

Tornados in San Diego 
But the clouds all laugh at that.

They throw their weight around 
As if they owned these hills,

As if they're merely vapor
Not the massive moving anchor

That mottles the valley 
To robes of black and white

As lords of shadow
Under judicial blue review.

Sunrise Train after Rain

The windows are blue. The steam is like clouds.
Mountains rise white in Buena Park.
The snow came in from the Pleiades 
To say how far away the white is
Of our spirit.
                         The streets of Cascade Circle
Are encased in mirror.
                                         The grass
By Commerce Casino, enflamed by new sun,
Befriends the names left behind: Blaze, Shred, Spar
-- At large and now in charge on Isra Mi'raj --
The pebbles sun themselves 
Beside the Blisterpak storm drains
Where the world shines back 
As if it was all nothing,
The thing that plagued the sleep of orphaned children.

Light will make a mockery
Of the cold blue moneyed spires
-- Even the ties by Mission Tower glisten from home--
And will inhabit hobo chairs
Wet like redwood beside
The shiny tracks,
To view the passing
In a different white.

The river pours like a concrete truck,
Flowing wings, as birds arise
Unearthly bright.

Tuesday, February 6, 2024

Fire Horse

What can be done with the fire horse?
It can't exist 
Yet it does.

It won't burn
But there's flame
As far as the eye can withstand.

And the dirt and horizon
Have become
The same red,

The burning of blood
As a ritual act
In someone else's show.

Sunday, February 4, 2024

Ox and Goat in Rabbit Time

I.
Like clockwork we agree, to our broken clock
Twice a day -- the rest is a hiss
Of enmity and longing, pleadings for what can
Never be. Bliss, the critics say,
The horse on course will miss its whip and jockey.

A spirit must be broken like a spine
In the book of grievance, encased in ice
To encapsulate the noise. The silence,
Though occasional, is the gift for the soul,
A fair exchange on the planet of war.

In some schools I'm the hero for getting through
But tell that to the moon, whose narcotic milk
Won't feed the mouth deprived of bristols
To call one's own. We boys we do such sullen things
At the persistence of tyrants, the knife we draw
A pain we can call pleasure.

II.
I did agree to love. I did agree to fear.
I did agree to veil myself behind the silver mirror.
There are some things that I have learned in time
Of who I am and how I came to be,
And every single one of them's a lie,
The bite of that bitter apple the not me.

It is always someone else who does this,
The murders in my name. And, always, just by seeing,
I take all the blame. As victory,
For even that can hurt me, transcendent
As I am, a galaxy.

                                 It's how I'm known,
The rumor turned 3D, the murmur that becomes
A raging stream, and feeds so many capillaries
The trees start to believe that they are green.

III.
Where we have been is a mystery,
The future history.
The thing now's to take it all in
And turn it back like the cousin at the door
Sent packing.

                        Who are we, when the real don't talk
And the mauvaise-froid share the same heart?

The dancers stand with weapons drawn
As the back-beat shifts from the 2-step.
I take my ten-gallon of the possible off
From what she wanted, the impossible to fulfill.
Thus the shadow of the cattle hat fell across
The floor, like that holographic horse just appeared
Ununseeable, from that snow-blind winter scene. 

Saturday, February 3, 2024

1940

It's come to this, the zero degree
Where all urge of surrender has ceased,
The frozen moment, where leopards
Merely stare. There is a war somewhere.
You can hear it on the military bands.
But the war in here, does not give in
Its thaw. One waits coldly for a word
That is law.

                    Ah, but it was only story time
On that crackling pipe, all the ships to sea
A pale moonlit reflection of the words
I bore each day, of traumatizing fathers,
Zealot moms, cigarettes packed too tight
And an acid point of view on negroes, jews, jews.
Everyone could see it, no one did a thing,
At the Ashkenazi warlords command,
     Per the sane one knowing bravery
And the power of the radio
To garble.

                                  There's gold in Nome
And radar towers.
       And men who go on ships to quiet die
                      Smoking Santa Claus cigars
And bearing Jimmy Cagney to the skies,
Where they fly, regardless
Of life and death,
                                Mere adjustments in the dial,
The game of chess whose master
In Antarctica always wins.
The ice is too thick for human hearts
That burn for any shore.

                       Even the sane one fell victim.
Condemned as insane he went within, silent
As a radio at the thought he only took a hill
In his heart, where all that matters flows.

Tuesday, January 23, 2024

Signal after the Storm

The terror has poppycocked.
The peaks betray but few
Stray smoke pocks
On blue.

Irreducible the layers peeled
As far as feeling allowed.
The art of doing nothing
First must bear the fear
Of clouds.

Tuesday, December 5, 2023

Song of the Wheelchair

Even the crows talk of someone else,
Someone who matters
So I can release my great brace,
Smell the exhaust of squealing freedom
Squirrelled out one nut crack at a time,
The inordinate candor
To a squalor of truth
That still floats inside the blues 
Chased like bitters away,
To draw close to.

Friday, November 17, 2023

Incident in Norwalk

The lost angels have gone off the rails, Off tumbleweed reservations, one tweaker Kept 7 trains, 1000s of people, stranded For hours, all up the line to Bakersfield And everyone watches the system collapse, The inexplicable malfunctions In the way people love and understand As we watch our beliefs on the board go down. I’m a lucky one. I escaped the good fortune Of commuter rail suicides on either side of the drive And the bridge dive suicides. The 10 freeway Has fallen through! The hills are angry with smoke As we wait expectant but senseless, accepting But numb, the stoic SoCal cool where there would be Homicides in Gotham, third rail replies To the no explanations, not even, really, lies. It’s a party, in fact, a copa cabana in the club car, A conga line where everyone can sing Of their endless love and get hitched in, Laughing like the moon at jackals. The anonymous station we were deposited With only hope left in our pockets was once The scene of a town’s, any American town’s, joy As the freight rumbled through with a shudder. And when we finally move, it feels somehow historic, This epic fail, to withstand all the traps of time Placed in our way for us, and still be standing, as, At the end of the endless, you’re still there, intact.

Saturday, October 28, 2023

Mother For The Sky

The clouds are browned this morning
In a lightly hoovered stream 
That warps in woven frays
Refracting reds and purple 
On beds of wool minds laying
Contemplative as they conjure.
They coat the void as they float.

She was harder than that
Though she floated just as still
And promised hues of softness
No cloudwool can distill.
There was always something for herself
Not spread like rainbow ice among the crystal,
The only note that she could play
In such cold blue.

The air was much too thin,
The company too bleak ...
What happens to the best of us
As we spread too thin our fleece
Across the cling-charged flock
Too nebulous for love enough 
To uncurl ever their locks.

They will move much further on,
Acquire a bruised patina
As the offering of their play
That never ceases its spin
Away.

Saturday, August 26, 2023

del vino e delle rose

non è lungo, 
l'eternità 
i panorami che si aprono 
non sono mai la fine,
più paradiso, 
come se fosse tutto ciò 
che è mai 
esistito.

[it is not long, 
eternity
the vistas that open 
are never the end,
more heaven, 
as if it was all 
that ever 
was.]

Friday, August 18, 2023

Ode to Skip's Garage

A man needs a shed by the edge of the sea,
A shit ton of poly, jig band table saw three
To plane, sand and join like his home-building clan
And squirrel as many dowels as one man can

In library drawers stuffed of clamps to spools
As his voice still resounds "Who stole all my tools?"
For he needed each nail for the love he built in
To the furniture, the frames, the Skip-shaped kitchen.

A man built his house at the edge of the sea
For a loving wife and children three
Who dusty cup lift of old Andre's still stashed
To his dreams each fulfilled, lived largely.

Thursday, August 10, 2023

Moon

Captain Kirk
Has already shown us
The black broken hulk
Of a once-proud starship
Decimated by war
And put in orbit
To save a planet
That looks on it fondly,
Its sick light
Projected like a movie,
As source of all mystery,
All feminine lunacy,
As it makes birth regular
Instead of free,
The Van Allen tidal trance
Demagnetizes women,
Keeps them from control
Of the earth, her body,
Source of everything.

Monday, July 31, 2023

The Zucchini Unraveling

The roots are deep,
       leaves wide,
              flowers
                    edible,
You just want to bring them
       to your mouth
               and taste
Whatever bitterness
       has been distilled
               from feverish sun,

The one we circumscribe
      pulls free 
               from the fungus 
                          bed
Where death is daily turning,
      the crypt like a compost
               cylinder hard to spin
That burns out shoulders
       rocking endless 
                cradles.

There is no hope
      only consequence,
               all actions glide to
                            resistance,
The conflicted pair
      all knotted up
               and intertwined
With all one's nothingness,
      the play of the mind
               on what will happens

As the worms turn 
      the dirt
               and the sun massages
                             strawberries,
Who will one day too
      fall to seed,
               that thing
That our life seems 
      to wait for, rely on,
               the seed.

Sunday, July 2, 2023

Catullus 16


I will prick you, Aurelius,
Tongue and throat your noble boy toy Furius,
Until you say what you think of my poetry,
A little soft, a little sheathed?
For a pious poet ought to be clean, 
There is no need, in fact, for verses
When there's fleur de sel and rabbits on the grass;
Let the lines purr gentle and a little chaste
And if the hairs stiffen for an itch
It's for those whose loins are never moved. 
You, who cover all the bases,
Did you read me wrong?
Do you think I am a male? 
I will prick you, Aurelius.

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

Retro

Lavender farm to the sea
      in Hawaii,
The first one proposed, as the place
      to end all place 
And a few more were offered
      to the agil-e divinities:
      
Queen Charlotte Island accessible
       only by boat,
The Pismo barefoot lifestyle,
       the sofa 
Where the children were read to ...

Until the last one saw her home,
       Walpole, abode
Of the prison, the orangeade farm,
        the one road to the den
Of the lawless champion
        pitching razor blades.

Wednesday, May 31, 2023

Afternoon TV

The common caw
Of get involved with me
Rubs the entanglement ropes
The wrong way
And the puppet strings break
To free-fall flying through
What used to not be illusions
But palpable beads
Of crystal, the world 
Bounced up and down 
With somnolent echo
To efface the frack congress 
Of slack lackey flacks
On your behalf,
The ludicrous madhouse
Of plaints real
And remembered
In your vast entitlement writ
Of complaint
To steal everything outside
Into the hole you had to climb
Into, unrecognizable
To yourself
Just in time for a fade
Into a sunset no one sees
Or doesn't want to,
Your suffering neglected
Because it is taken on
For the collective, so they can
Look away
Or look so closely
They can't see what you 
Don't want them to see,
What you can't,
Librarian caught
In a classification scheme
Fit for priests 
Where emotion was spared,
Now needed 
A river of tears
As the sea recedes 

Thursday, February 16, 2023

Carmel Mission

I break the silence
With these words of love
As I broke the bread
Of silence
So long ago
In these echoing halls

When we were one heart
In all but name,
Touch, kiss,
The sacred word
Flowed between us
Beyond words, beyond God,
The place we knew
But could never land

So we landed here
Our pure white wings
In service to suds
And feathers and lace
And each other,
The look of learning
In each eye,
A key to who we were
And will always be.

Books of symbols compromised
By the lack of proximity
To us,
Lace all that is left
Of our hands
That should have touched,
Our silence that was wasted
On no kiss.

But that is the way
Of the pilgrim,
To find in absence
What would be too much ...
What you are right now
A hundred miles away
In my very core.

So we continue
Where we broke off,
Waves that never stop
Reaching the shore.

Monday, January 30, 2023

Another Carmel Apartment

There's a rainbow on the sea
Where our Penelope
Awaits her invisible,
Her pinned shot fading
In his cell
For posterity,
Still glistening
His might-have-beens
Of dream,
The descriptions of home,
Bedsheets flying
Due to clothespins,
Car returning in grey
To an empty garage
In glory every day.

Does he stand on the gangplank longing?
Or does he know all this
Will end
Only when the knot is tied
To dock
And not a moment before,
No matter how tremulous the waves
Or uncanny the shore.

There are houses, now,
Encased in mist,
Lost in their views
From the hill,
The love inside
Too vulnerable
To be spied even with
The drapes flung wide,
Would-be widows at windows
With eyes that only mirror
What they see,
Eternal grey
To pierce again from sky
Another rainbow.

It only appears
When you least expect it,
Like the ghost horizon ship
That stays away from port
Dredging and dumping
In menial breath
Some black stuff that holds
All its value
In arm hurl and sinew
Tightening
To serve it
At a reach

From where hearts are open
To receive,
By hearths that make quick work
Of it
In the name of things to burn
And share
And never run out
Of the need to share
It all.

The person there
Becomes whole
In the fire
Of give and take, 
Of nothing really,
Just a wish
That they would know,
In this case, the sea,
The impossible road
That lends itself
To nursery rhymes
Where serpents rescue nymphs
But goes silent
At the truth,

That no one rides
Its scales,
The heart is always
Somewhere else,
Frozen like an ice chunk
Under glass
Waiting for its maiden
Who will claim it
When the tide returns
What treasures the sea
Disgorges:
Some rope, some kelp,
A handful of shell,
The things that stay
In sitting rooms
Forever,
Memories of loss
And distance.

Wednesday, January 25, 2023

Trine

Western Union announces the birth of our daughter
29 years too late
But we're ecstatic anyway
Having finally left the sea
For desert shores
Where sun reports the afterbirth
To infinity,
Our carcass heaps
Happy as a dream
And still in a way that can only be
If each lives inside the other
Completely.

It has been a long day
Of striped harlequin watching
And compliment fishing
With the denizens of Purple Town
Who huddle now like we once did at bonfires
And make babies like balloons
To scream into indifferent skies
The glee of their disquiet ...

But that was many years ago.
Our cold hands never really touched,
Our eyes never locked despite
How much our fingers shook
And pushed whatever bilge came up
Back down. 
The sun just glazed the rinse repeating days
With radiance for tears
That never seemed to end 
And never really appeared.

What is left of what never happened 
Is in what did:
A father's love, earth placed here
To contain it,
So he can be the one who climbs the cross
Like crows the sunrise for love.

Saturday, December 17, 2022

Grief Trading Eights

How can the separation bring you closer?
The pain of love
Makes you see love
Is not pain
But a feeling 
That flows beyond all walls,
The very feeling
I came here for

And now I know what it means
To love what you don't get,
What you had.
Unbearable grief is the only way
Sometimes
To feel
The love
We are.

Sunday, December 11, 2022

The Jazz Baby

From Dirt for Sale, written August, 1991

Too many troubadours and no legitimate leader,
But the jazz baby can almost fly on his blue wing.

Every dream is owned by some unholy conglomerate,
But the jazz baby skreeks like the birds.

Rotted tyrants hold the Earth and its entire people hostage,
But the jazz baby will grab at anything he can reach.

The jazz baby hears in church bells things we'll never comprehend.

Every day more furniture is put out on the street,
But the jazz baby has a taste for everything left behind.

Discarded masterpieces float in the sewers,
But the jazz baby looks toward the blue in the skies.

When he looks at you, he smiles right through. 

Friday, December 9, 2022

Elegy for Jesse

What many would consider to be the greatest tragedy, to lose a son, is equally the greatest treasure, to know in my life the true meaning of his life.

The streets are too soft.
Forgiveness comes too easily.
The people of the sun are unredeemed in this world.
We cannot hear their screaming,
As they move past us like shadows,
Who think their pain isn't real.

That's where Jesse chose to be,
Enjoying his stay
In the trestles and the drains, in plain sight
Hiding places, the overpasses,
Squat homes owned by kudzu, 
Alleys colder than the truth 
Spanging coin from the wits of his guitar
And spent his spare, never-wasted time in 
Loaded club rooms where his monk-robed friends 
Gathered as men to watch football and other slow suicides, 
Or in his well-tuned blue Suzuki with his beloved country bride
And adopted feline Weenie of the streets.
He was living his dream
Of complete self-sufficiency,
People were too easy to hurt otherwise
If reliant on their kindness in any way.

He made heroin cool again in Lynn,
Slept on its beach in fisherman's ice,
Carved up his arms for the unbelievable kick of it,
The kick of jumping off the roof
Got him locked inside a fine rubber room and orangeade
Institution of Higher Crazy, where he shared
His joy at Pops the Sailor
And the usual cast of characters he spent his time
Befriending, learning from, but mostly being amused,
Like a moth to the light, forever flying,
Forever learning how to find love, or, rather, apply it
To the unbelievable darkness at hand, inevitably a broken soul,
Someone lonely.

With, just as inevitably, a guitar, 
As in Witch City Salem, where he made his living 
From humility. Or in the City of the Queen, 
In whose service he always wound up, 
Fighting a well-intentioned army 
For the right to be free, to make his living from the street, 
The closest thing to natural we can find. 

And in many rooms he was alone, actually scared,
Tho' you'd never see that behind his Negro-level cool
That always relayed everything was 'ight
No matter how much you'd fret, he made it feel better,
Laughed at it before anyone else got a chance,
Jesse, old goat, wise philosopher,
Master of the bad-ass Geronimo Effect,
Who would rather share himself
Than win another war, the old general who 
Saw, finally saw, the most hardened of souls
And made them all better, for being true,
His impossible glee 
In bleakness unimaginable
For weeks, months, years on end.
He'd shrug and laugh, and, to comfort, say
"Anything is better than that damn shelter, son 
Almost as bad as the Gideons. They're the worst."

He was born high, in fact, at some faster vibration,
Some immediate knowledge of what God wants
His Children to do, full of cartoons, complete designs,
More life than a roomful of people, a Saturn of aliens
With lives like our own, in ice cream frequency detail,
Everything, in fact, included, all plastic toys were filled
With stories and tunes and sound effects, a soundtrack 
Constant as bird song.
And Jesse was a bird, just a little higher from us, 
Looking downward in love and wonder
With his ever-present cry: "Light!"
Which was joy,
Which was life
Well-lived.

He would only consent to work for the birds.
As a boy, with a vision of his dream home
In McAlpine Creek Park, an old tree house 
In the woods, he saw as his key to freedom,
To grow green beans and peas
You can eat off the vines, to turn wood
Left for dead into doghouses for the poor,
And in time he became a scrap metal entrepreneur 
Who took only what was thrown away
In subdivision dumpsters 
And made it his own,
With the freedom from 
That he insisted upon,
To be an orderly with the blessed elderly, EMT, team leader
In the free people's union, and then be mechanic,
Roof mover, tattoo surgeon, 
Flying to and fro so effortlessly, as his heart not the man said
And you know who the man is,
The same one you once were and will be again
But this time, thanks to Jesse,
You will know how it feels 
To give love 
Without condition to his friends,
Everyone. 

He rose to his station to wash the dustiest feet,
Menial to the mendicants as always,
Shaman of the streets, who did not believe
He was any less than anyone, or more ...

                               But his sunny orange turned blue
When he discovered he felt much more than the others,
Expected them to act more like the Children of God, 
Disappointed at himself to be disappointed by them, by us, 
For the humanity he chose
To experience, in the guise of a bird, a spirit of rising
From the mud where he played long after others had found
A warm bed and clean sheets to live their lives asleep.

And as the world prepared their Sunday night faces
For another round of dreams
He went out to demonstrate his love.
As if he knew when he was gone, we'd finally feel it.
His Passion was on Brookshire, a Roman chariot
For a distinctly non-Roman messiah
With a Jesus guitar for a cross
On a roadside Golgotha 
In a chord of God
Our song, not even knowing. 
He insists we must be joyous
At this time, even inside this ribcage prison, 
With a love only violence can show,
Where all I didn't know
Or couldn't understand
Came radiating through 
The angels and their wings
On the darkest of nights,
Like so many he remembers,
So pitch black he could see the birth of light. 

Monday, November 28, 2022

The Only Tears Allowed are Tears of Joy


Jesse McCulloch Sigler, 8/23/91 - 11/27/22

The death of someone close 
Is not always a bed of roses,
Sometimes it's a highway crucifixion
On a Jesus guitar
At a roadside Golgotha 
Whose chord of God
We sound with our song
Not even knowing,
Merely joyous inside the prison,
As he insists, with the love
Only violence can show,
Where all I didn't know
Or couldn't understand,
The love at the center of the gift,
Black chariot and doomed messiah,
Winds back to teach me
What love feels like
As time solidifies.

And a most decidedly non-Roman Christ
Holds me strictly to happiness
In all that is left,
A few scraps of Metallica
From a happy metal scrapper 
Who would only consent
To work for the birds,
Whose dream home was a tree house in the woods ...

Ah but it veers into tears now
For the people he touched
And left no choice
But to accept him as he was
Walking round in circles
Over the mistakes you've made --
That toughest of pills to take
Has been waiting in my cabinet
For a long, long time,
Why he chose to set his joy
In the places people weep of
Trying to forgive, trying to understand
How bleakness unimaginable
Could spring such hope each day,
How those the most heroic
Had the fewest laurels of all...

I rested in his cool,
Though twists and turns unfathomable
Amid his constant laughter
Of compassion there to share
For we always knew, no matter how
Far apart, our hearts
Were one frequency of love
That came from that familiar place
That gets included here now too somehow
However thrown out with old sketches
To the lowest toy chest 
In the earliest room.

And as I understand him less and less
I feel released, to get it at last,
What he did for those he loved,
Which was everyone
Without condition,
His unblinking smile
Into a gaping hole,
A darkness so perpetual
One could witness the birth of light.

Sunday, November 27, 2022

Contrast of Light and Boysenberry Vine

To be a poet
With no time fr'it

In obligation's constant pull,
Something I agreed to

So unable to
Settle

Except for the bend of
Tendons

Angering my way
Through

Morning chores
As bells,

Evening chores
As prayers

And the numb
Unending plea

From every building
Burning

While songs await
Patiently

To share the sentience 
Of birds

Who seemingly belong now
To another world

As I look through glass
With occupied eyes,

Rag in hand,
Daring to clean.

Wednesday, November 23, 2022

Variations at Sunset

The imagined sun is no less real
Than the one we worship
But the hawk that comes close
Is more familiar.

~~
We who make the least etheric goods
Can afford to think our thoughts are less,
A quotient of air, a gradient of nothingness,
For what imprisons us we're proud to possess.

~~
A father dominates his daughter at hoops
But one would never know,
Nor the meaning feet deal to a soccer ball --
How heavy in the material must holiness go.

~~
We savor and wait for the pink
As ideal at the end of the day.
Is it real, we ask, knowing it's physical,
Colors still stable to unbelieving eyes.

~~
How dimly the world of thought
We come from filters in
To the neighborhood of hard-edged forms
And children spiraling with glee.

~~
The blue light dog, with a tennis ball 
In its snout, can only smile
At how we've made things simple,
Impossible to transcend.

Gift of the Balsamic Moon

We are limits, not bodies,
Punctured by edits ...
That's the way it has to be;
The thing's not real
Unless seen
In all its glory
By those eyes on every side
Worrying death to infinity.

What we call the real
Mere movie
To a ghost projector 
Who slips the loops
Through dust-mote light.
The proprietor hums
As the audience turns
Stone and blind.

I have always known this,
But now ... now
Its sound is a purr
That soothes the background clouds
To sleep.
The birds wake up,
Try to sound like it,
That is, like me.