Wear the right clothes and no one knows
right away how far you've gone
say the right things and enough truth rings
right into left brain making sense rein
down muddy truth but nothing you can sink
your teeth into overnight and better not
to investigate or shed light on what wasn't right
when we've got the left hopeful and everyone dopeful
and momentum chugging downhill fully freighted
a few elated mostly related clans and blood brothers
who's druthers are the free expression of economics
without any ethical or moral constraints
that's the first amendment we bloody well die for
no amends necessary to those harmed their sacrifices
are glorified as the poor boys and girls like lemmings
over the cliffs go to their demise group mind despite
what's in front of our eyes
Someone said conspiracy theory can't be right
they're too stupid to do it right without fucking it up
so then Conspiracy is the word
that lays the turd to bury with the dead
and words are worked like the right clothes to cover
the rotting evil corpses of the military economic corps
that fears no evil, sees no evil, hears no evil
exchanging words to turn life upside down, make heads spin
the other direction in the Northern Hemisphere as they are flushed
with fiction with excellent American and BBC diction
the Western world is so full of itself the buttons are popping
off it's shirts and there's still money to be made and there's still
enough votes bought and paid for to keep nice coats hanging
in the family closet where one nation under God decisions are made
and right to your face they'll tell you
they Will go to any lengths to kill
health care, and kill work programs and education
because the taxes are killing us
don't you know and you don't know what you'll never know
just how out there it has all gotten
that politicians in blue suits and white collars
gave the nod to rough shod reasons to go to war
to look too stupid to be able to speak proper sentences
too incompetent to save 1600 people from a hurricane
all the gray and blue suits getting busy signals
dismal plays of avoidance impossible to imagine
evil could be that intentional, systematic
and that controlled, well dressed, well oiled.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Melted Rubber
Company is coming and the house
needs cleaning for the hostess to be seeming
all intact. She does in fact feel better
when its done and this device is one
that works to move her when one to many
weeks have passed and the miles of piles
have outlasted her will to rise
to the occaission of cleaning and still
she'd distract herself with some other obsession
her wasted time could fill miles or mountains with little
to show for all she did without the pressure
of having guests to bring all the pressure to bear
somewhere to start and then lost in the miles
of piles hours pass in the rediscovered
archives of life, the unfinished,
the way laid till there is time
or presence of mind to tackle that task
that note, that filing, that bill paying
that sorting of images, that review,
that research, that phone call, that thought
it is a time of reckoning
no shoulds, no coulds, the time now is of will
or won't it goes in the kill pile
or the do it now or next pile and after awhile
there's a need for food and coffee
and a trip to the store for preparing
the meal to be shared and returning home
a little late to be starting the meal and still
needing to vacuum and clean away the last
of the clutter which takes precedence over
prepping the decadence and half way through
the vacuuming the fringe on the rug gets caught
in the twisting spinning brush and there's
that nauseating smell that she knows all to well
means the last belt in the house has broken
the vacuum has spoken - forget it -
who were you really kidding anyway?
But progress was made this day
with the miles of piles and now
to the cooking and the emptying
of all the concerns and hassles
to make room for smiles and the reception
of guests and so the meal is in motion
and the house smells savory for the first time
in recent history and evening approaches
the warm light not highlighting the unvacuumed
after all...thank goodness it broke when it did
to break the chain of obsessing on the endless
self-centeredness of not good enough
of the multi-generational compensation
of old shame resolved, redirected
and repackaged by way of cleaning
at the expense of being available to be
human and just simply among friends.
needs cleaning for the hostess to be seeming
all intact. She does in fact feel better
when its done and this device is one
that works to move her when one to many
weeks have passed and the miles of piles
have outlasted her will to rise
to the occaission of cleaning and still
she'd distract herself with some other obsession
her wasted time could fill miles or mountains with little
to show for all she did without the pressure
of having guests to bring all the pressure to bear
somewhere to start and then lost in the miles
of piles hours pass in the rediscovered
archives of life, the unfinished,
the way laid till there is time
or presence of mind to tackle that task
that note, that filing, that bill paying
that sorting of images, that review,
that research, that phone call, that thought
it is a time of reckoning
no shoulds, no coulds, the time now is of will
or won't it goes in the kill pile
or the do it now or next pile and after awhile
there's a need for food and coffee
and a trip to the store for preparing
the meal to be shared and returning home
a little late to be starting the meal and still
needing to vacuum and clean away the last
of the clutter which takes precedence over
prepping the decadence and half way through
the vacuuming the fringe on the rug gets caught
in the twisting spinning brush and there's
that nauseating smell that she knows all to well
means the last belt in the house has broken
the vacuum has spoken - forget it -
who were you really kidding anyway?
But progress was made this day
with the miles of piles and now
to the cooking and the emptying
of all the concerns and hassles
to make room for smiles and the reception
of guests and so the meal is in motion
and the house smells savory for the first time
in recent history and evening approaches
the warm light not highlighting the unvacuumed
after all...thank goodness it broke when it did
to break the chain of obsessing on the endless
self-centeredness of not good enough
of the multi-generational compensation
of old shame resolved, redirected
and repackaged by way of cleaning
at the expense of being available to be
human and just simply among friends.
The Things They Carried
Mind draws blank hours
before therapy anxiety towers
giant walls between facts and feelings
talking of things unanticipated reeling
in lives and lines of history, herstory
where does it all come from this allegory
carried 24/7 unbeknownst to thine own eye
Secrets carried, secrets promised
till the day they die expressed
as blown out knees, ruptured discs, fatty liver
busy lives, busy minds, self-neglecting awesome giver
guilt says you don't deserve any better
denial says you can't remember why your guilt was sent
Its just been that way forever - forever.
In meditation open throat she cries
it springs from some unknown place,
no lies no knowledge of it
and no catching the throat
not making it stop
the way she usually does won't
hurt a thing, really
its scary at first and then a marvel
to behold and the same with shows of tenderness
she'll travel to the place of emptiness
that fills with acute longing
or when the native drum beats while singing
tears interrupt her strong voice keening smoothly
till all that is carried is handed over soothed
by vibration cleansing and clearing never nearing
knowing for sure if what is carried there
is hers or theirs or if the witnesses too
are bearing each drum beat airs all knowing
carrying each heart another mile beyond burden
till all singing brings on dancing
feet moving all transforming
all that was carried shape shifts
to spirit feasting on slights and griefs
till only ecstasy and communion carries each
to the great beyond again.
before therapy anxiety towers
giant walls between facts and feelings
talking of things unanticipated reeling
in lives and lines of history, herstory
where does it all come from this allegory
carried 24/7 unbeknownst to thine own eye
Secrets carried, secrets promised
till the day they die expressed
as blown out knees, ruptured discs, fatty liver
busy lives, busy minds, self-neglecting awesome giver
guilt says you don't deserve any better
denial says you can't remember why your guilt was sent
Its just been that way forever - forever.
In meditation open throat she cries
it springs from some unknown place,
no lies no knowledge of it
and no catching the throat
not making it stop
the way she usually does won't
hurt a thing, really
its scary at first and then a marvel
to behold and the same with shows of tenderness
she'll travel to the place of emptiness
that fills with acute longing
or when the native drum beats while singing
tears interrupt her strong voice keening smoothly
till all that is carried is handed over soothed
by vibration cleansing and clearing never nearing
knowing for sure if what is carried there
is hers or theirs or if the witnesses too
are bearing each drum beat airs all knowing
carrying each heart another mile beyond burden
till all singing brings on dancing
feet moving all transforming
all that was carried shape shifts
to spirit feasting on slights and griefs
till only ecstasy and communion carries each
to the great beyond again.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Unscripted
Living life live
moving all moments
into how it is now
mind opened free of past
habits gone like sand
slips through fingers
free of all self-consciousness
completely available
for what does or doesn't come
of anything or anyone.
No pretensions all
possibilities exist within -
the laws of nature
keep every atom in it's orbit
dependably no need to worry
every pattern in nature discernible
to pattern readers
yet the variety of circumstances
brings creative complexity
even lawlessness shows a pattern
predictably unfolding forward
so what chance is there really
of failing so miserably at anything
all that lives, lives till it dies
some wheat lives browning at it's crown
a long, long time - no rains come
and for others the lush green blue
lives for you - for your bread
and cows as you walk waist deep
singing songs from some soul force
forever unscripted that emerges
while musing crossing streams
between fields entering and exiting
the stage, percussive under bare feet
houselights dark, stage spots hot
as she casts out her fiery lines
shaped by distance and intimacy
stories of love and war in her neighborhood
and among her own kin
she spits out stones of damned indignation
sliding into long velvet gloves
of glory day-dreams
like a slide projector changing images
entire gestalts projected out of her
unscripted lines of rhymes, punctuated
by foot stomps and giggles and the occasional
moment of silence as the world hangs turning
strobe lit into solid technicolor
you recall yours too in those moments
unscripted in which the dance of life
unfurled you beyond the shelter
of your porch and that kitchen
those towns people and the dog that sleeps
under the truck into the high
rise job interview, into vows, into apologies,
into love letters. into newscasts, into poetry,
into every choice that is this day
becoming this night becoming this week,
this month, this year, yesterday, last week,
last month, years ago.
Epitaph: unscripted lines left open
lilac drifts by just now.
moving all moments
into how it is now
mind opened free of past
habits gone like sand
slips through fingers
free of all self-consciousness
completely available
for what does or doesn't come
of anything or anyone.
No pretensions all
possibilities exist within -
the laws of nature
keep every atom in it's orbit
dependably no need to worry
every pattern in nature discernible
to pattern readers
yet the variety of circumstances
brings creative complexity
even lawlessness shows a pattern
predictably unfolding forward
so what chance is there really
of failing so miserably at anything
all that lives, lives till it dies
some wheat lives browning at it's crown
a long, long time - no rains come
and for others the lush green blue
lives for you - for your bread
and cows as you walk waist deep
singing songs from some soul force
forever unscripted that emerges
while musing crossing streams
between fields entering and exiting
the stage, percussive under bare feet
houselights dark, stage spots hot
as she casts out her fiery lines
shaped by distance and intimacy
stories of love and war in her neighborhood
and among her own kin
she spits out stones of damned indignation
sliding into long velvet gloves
of glory day-dreams
like a slide projector changing images
entire gestalts projected out of her
unscripted lines of rhymes, punctuated
by foot stomps and giggles and the occasional
moment of silence as the world hangs turning
strobe lit into solid technicolor
you recall yours too in those moments
unscripted in which the dance of life
unfurled you beyond the shelter
of your porch and that kitchen
those towns people and the dog that sleeps
under the truck into the high
rise job interview, into vows, into apologies,
into love letters. into newscasts, into poetry,
into every choice that is this day
becoming this night becoming this week,
this month, this year, yesterday, last week,
last month, years ago.
Epitaph: unscripted lines left open
lilac drifts by just now.
Fast Pitch 2
She was on her third drink in the second hour
at Charlie's place where it was crowded on the dance floor
and the DJ was bumping steady house rhythm, irresistible
as it was for moving she was still on her stool at the bar
contemplating, wishing and dreading what might or might not
be walking through the door any minute now but she'd lost
track of time after the second drink and was no longer
even hearing those thrusty bass lines, she was in her head
repeating the last conversation they'd had over and over
and so she was almost jolted off her seat when
Mr. Slick slid up behind her, hands on her shoulder
index finger on her lips, looking her over, there was no
fast pitch going on here - the move was already working
the whole dynamic into antilogic love madness, she knew...
at Charlie's place where it was crowded on the dance floor
and the DJ was bumping steady house rhythm, irresistible
as it was for moving she was still on her stool at the bar
contemplating, wishing and dreading what might or might not
be walking through the door any minute now but she'd lost
track of time after the second drink and was no longer
even hearing those thrusty bass lines, she was in her head
repeating the last conversation they'd had over and over
and so she was almost jolted off her seat when
Mr. Slick slid up behind her, hands on her shoulder
index finger on her lips, looking her over, there was no
fast pitch going on here - the move was already working
the whole dynamic into antilogic love madness, she knew...
There is both
Not enough love
and the kindness of strangers
not enough time
and things taking too long
not enough freedom
and boundaries that are too loose
no end to it
and certain death
not enough money
and I just ate very well thank you
not all of you
and almost enough of you
my emptiness
and my fullness
cold dark spring rain
and warm joyful spring sun
Mom's brain cancer
and stereoscopic radiation surgery
long full stressful days
and short not enough sleep nights
moving all of my stuff again
and sitting still right now
politics, spin and divisiveness
and coming together once in a while
too much bureaucracy
and a need for regulations
endless ways to lose ourselves
and plenty of signs and directions
more than both, duality
and all the in-between.
and the kindness of strangers
not enough time
and things taking too long
not enough freedom
and boundaries that are too loose
no end to it
and certain death
not enough money
and I just ate very well thank you
not all of you
and almost enough of you
my emptiness
and my fullness
cold dark spring rain
and warm joyful spring sun
Mom's brain cancer
and stereoscopic radiation surgery
long full stressful days
and short not enough sleep nights
moving all of my stuff again
and sitting still right now
politics, spin and divisiveness
and coming together once in a while
too much bureaucracy
and a need for regulations
endless ways to lose ourselves
and plenty of signs and directions
more than both, duality
and all the in-between.
Pathetic
All of me yearns
aches to stay open
to love
By way of need
is always a path
to love
Resenting so much
need disappearing is the path
to love
Tending to give
too much not enough left
to love
Expecting to be betrayed
my back turned
to love
Tears fall in spring
here's to life other than
to love
This turn of the wheel
the fates find us lost
to love
In a tragic film the Great Actress,
Great Goddess settled for less
to love
"I did what I had to do" - she says
there are no mistakes made
to love
Adored is not loved,
young is too shallow
to love
Love and death
Death and love
Love to death
Death to love
and still I ache
to love
My heart broken early
significant damage
to love
Still love with a limp
struggle to keep up
to love
Frequently fall behind love
miss the bus of love
experience love foreclosure
homeless heart
wanders, wonders
and regardless, here - here is
to love.
aches to stay open
to love
By way of need
is always a path
to love
Resenting so much
need disappearing is the path
to love
Tending to give
too much not enough left
to love
Expecting to be betrayed
my back turned
to love
Tears fall in spring
here's to life other than
to love
This turn of the wheel
the fates find us lost
to love
In a tragic film the Great Actress,
Great Goddess settled for less
to love
"I did what I had to do" - she says
there are no mistakes made
to love
Adored is not loved,
young is too shallow
to love
Love and death
Death and love
Love to death
Death to love
and still I ache
to love
My heart broken early
significant damage
to love
Still love with a limp
struggle to keep up
to love
Frequently fall behind love
miss the bus of love
experience love foreclosure
homeless heart
wanders, wonders
and regardless, here - here is
to love.
Bodymusic
From the contrast
of no touch
and used to it
to the recognition
of all that was missing
registration opens
oceans of deep letting
in as your body presses
the length of mine
hands gliding skin smoothing
rounding rolling muscles
tugging articulations
elbows shoulders hips sinking
into bony hollows
soul doorways to the big
exhale sometimes sighing
moaning breathing into it
no, not sexual yet
sensual all sensual
all senses on
listening in
the tactile kinesthetic world
eyes closed to go
further no more thinking
the world is somewhere
who cares when goose bumps are
rising behind the gentle
glissade of tuned tips hitting
all the right notes
bodymusic entrained
relaxed rhythm
as primal as oceans
and evolutions
of the sun this feeling
of being held and brought home
to these bones safe
and familiar
old new friend
timeless for right now.
Fertile Moon
Full moon fathers follies
fertile women rage
like the swollen spring river
the momentum pushing
laboring women to birth
new babies, new selves
girls become women
ready or not
full moon fertile women hot
and locked in the tower
take their daily walks
broke slipping baby things
into pockets, no one kept
them forever worn in lockets
they are a sheltered scattered lot
some sweet and innocent, some not
some mama instict strong
some Mama stuff severed and gone
so try again and again
phantom baby pain
never goes away
always feels like its still there
so who's crazy, who's lazy
who cares today; some go to jail
some go back to violent lovers
some stay in the tower
till rescued by themselves
many moons later.
fertile women rage
like the swollen spring river
the momentum pushing
laboring women to birth
new babies, new selves
girls become women
ready or not
full moon fertile women hot
and locked in the tower
take their daily walks
broke slipping baby things
into pockets, no one kept
them forever worn in lockets
they are a sheltered scattered lot
some sweet and innocent, some not
some mama instict strong
some Mama stuff severed and gone
so try again and again
phantom baby pain
never goes away
always feels like its still there
so who's crazy, who's lazy
who cares today; some go to jail
some go back to violent lovers
some stay in the tower
till rescued by themselves
many moons later.
Business and Pleasure
That the joy of sex
leads to childbirth wrecks
so many marriages
in the years of carriages
for those who are challenged
with business and pleasure
balanced askew
business weighing down
heavy not much sexy now
lots of frowns around here
unless the heart can steer
past the myriad of lists
and the lover inside insists
and persists to pursue and woo
the diamond hidden away too
precious and wasting its light
because beauty seen right
creates a lust for stealing
moments and looks and feeling
so right and ripe for the taking
dawn sparks love-making
before the kids are waking
and will hear how with tears
love has come with sex and years
of loving diamond hardened strong
and nothing here is really wrong
and business and pleasure
one’s carriage holds together
and the joy of sex
makes all the better.
Restless Soul
Always moving
Nomad woman
there's no place
like home
is where your heart is
sweep the hearth
wash the dishes
return there
after dark
alone
this temple
to thine own self
be true
a construction
an assemblage
of moves
Gypsy on the fly
portable alters
truck full, pots clanging
plants, cat, me
adjusting again
finding North for my pillow
each time
big mother E
is where I'll lay
in the end
final rest home
nomad soul
will move on.
Nomad woman
there's no place
like home
is where your heart is
sweep the hearth
wash the dishes
return there
after dark
alone
this temple
to thine own self
be true
a construction
an assemblage
of moves
Gypsy on the fly
portable alters
truck full, pots clanging
plants, cat, me
adjusting again
finding North for my pillow
each time
big mother E
is where I'll lay
in the end
final rest home
nomad soul
will move on.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Spring in Burlington
Spring in Burlington
blossoms and fragrance
so beautiful it’s painful
pent up deliberation
warmth and deliverance
so urgent, so delightful
thawing confusion
unfurling destiny dance
so rich with potential
growth is vocation
a calling, a romance
so certain, so natural
green field explosion
clean new expanse
so forgiving, so impartial
Spring in Burlington
maybe one more chance
so opening, so hopeful.
blossoms and fragrance
so beautiful it’s painful
pent up deliberation
warmth and deliverance
so urgent, so delightful
thawing confusion
unfurling destiny dance
so rich with potential
growth is vocation
a calling, a romance
so certain, so natural
green field explosion
clean new expanse
so forgiving, so impartial
Spring in Burlington
maybe one more chance
so opening, so hopeful.
Wait it Wasn't Real Leather
Those first cowboy boots at about fifteen had a stacked heel
nicely tooled, deep brown, but wait they weren’t real
leather, they were just like me – all persona
Like Naugahyde back in the 60’s and 70’s
like Frank Zappa’s plastic people
it had all gotten so unreal, so unnatural
That one month stay in the psych ward in ‘72
they had real leather in the arts and crafts room
I laced cigarette cases and fashioned myself
a large brown leather satchel
I started to get real
It was just an initiation
that same year what got real was so unreal
I still can’t figure it out all these years later
But I do know the difference
between being it and wearing it
Wait – I don’t want to tell this same story now
maybe its not real leather means nobody died
that year – no sacrifices had to be made
for me loved or outfitted or seated
in reality – comfortable and styling. A good idea!
But – he is dead its true though it seems unreal
It’s a weight, a secret and a mystery that I hold
and I’m not waiting to meet him in Heaven or Hell
the scene was faked and they never will tell
My suspicions don’t fit with the story I was told.
It broke my heart, and nothing seemed real
dissolving blow by blow - no love left in me
I took your bodies for your company
and gave you mine if you had lines,
till the trading deficit left a poverty
that made faux leather boots seem fine and haughty.
No wonder people climb the material ladder
trying to get back up
but I’d rather one nice broken in real thing
I’ve learned to work and cry and laugh and sing
I’ve been fooled and stung and loved and blessed
since then a son and much of life has come and gone
I’m not a cowgirl, those aren’t my boots
no need to blow it all up any bigger than it really is,
these poor old lines are fine enough, they’re really mine.
nicely tooled, deep brown, but wait they weren’t real
leather, they were just like me – all persona
Like Naugahyde back in the 60’s and 70’s
like Frank Zappa’s plastic people
it had all gotten so unreal, so unnatural
That one month stay in the psych ward in ‘72
they had real leather in the arts and crafts room
I laced cigarette cases and fashioned myself
a large brown leather satchel
I started to get real
It was just an initiation
that same year what got real was so unreal
I still can’t figure it out all these years later
But I do know the difference
between being it and wearing it
Wait – I don’t want to tell this same story now
maybe its not real leather means nobody died
that year – no sacrifices had to be made
for me loved or outfitted or seated
in reality – comfortable and styling. A good idea!
But – he is dead its true though it seems unreal
It’s a weight, a secret and a mystery that I hold
and I’m not waiting to meet him in Heaven or Hell
the scene was faked and they never will tell
My suspicions don’t fit with the story I was told.
It broke my heart, and nothing seemed real
dissolving blow by blow - no love left in me
I took your bodies for your company
and gave you mine if you had lines,
till the trading deficit left a poverty
that made faux leather boots seem fine and haughty.
No wonder people climb the material ladder
trying to get back up
but I’d rather one nice broken in real thing
I’ve learned to work and cry and laugh and sing
I’ve been fooled and stung and loved and blessed
since then a son and much of life has come and gone
I’m not a cowgirl, those aren’t my boots
no need to blow it all up any bigger than it really is,
these poor old lines are fine enough, they’re really mine.
Uninhabited Woman
Empty.
Running on empty.
The lights are on
and she’s orbiting Epsilon
but nobody’s home
her cell circuits roam
she’s on the take
on the make, all lies
taking you in
with her distant eyes
Empty.
Running on empty.
She’s a goddess
She’s a star
Whatever you say she is
right you are
a muse, a nymph, a mystery
she’s running from her history
her body paradoxical
show stopping sexy
amazing, metaphorical maybe
for you
but for her
it is a distant hunting ground
seen from a ridge
through too much time
to make it out or bridge
from body to heart
head to toe
uninhabited woman
no way to know
how to live in her skin
or be warmed by the sun
or be loved in safety
or to have run and won...
Not yet.
Running on empty.
The lights are on
and she’s orbiting Epsilon
but nobody’s home
her cell circuits roam
she’s on the take
on the make, all lies
taking you in
with her distant eyes
Empty.
Running on empty.
She’s a goddess
She’s a star
Whatever you say she is
right you are
a muse, a nymph, a mystery
she’s running from her history
her body paradoxical
show stopping sexy
amazing, metaphorical maybe
for you
but for her
it is a distant hunting ground
seen from a ridge
through too much time
to make it out or bridge
from body to heart
head to toe
uninhabited woman
no way to know
how to live in her skin
or be warmed by the sun
or be loved in safety
or to have run and won...
Not yet.
Seeing in the Dark
The attraction to photography
is about its reversed paradoxes
the negative is what you strive for
a good negative makes a good positive
these concepts were lost on me, metaphorically
till recently...
hanging out there a long time
you see that you can see in the dark
that it too has information
that can register as helpful and orienting.
We strive for having details in the shadows
a little something in the clear thin parts
of the negative.
One of my favorites is that you need
a dark cloth to see
to focus with the 4X5
too much light, normal light –
and you can’t see to focus at all
and with the 35mm you really
can’t focus well in the dark...
I love shooting at night
and learned to give myself
depth of field
to focus by knowing
rather than seeing
Its stuff like this
that taught me how to survive
the impossible logic
of my complicated family.
Delivered by a visiting mailman
a stack of the undeliverable
a new world of perception
arrived suddenly the year the music died.
I needed to make friends with the dark
because that’s where I lived for a time,
eclipsed.
It wasn’t that I was locked in the cellar for years
to live like an animal by my crazy parents exactly
but there was the month in the psych ward
and being grounded for a year and a half
for trying to escape my entrapment
up on the mountain at Field Stone Farm
which says just how fertile that place wasn’t
growing up an oxymoron
with alcoholic annihilating sadist
shadow masculine
and the requisite passive aggressive feminine
not what I respected, expected
in my coming – of age.
I came to having walked around entombed
in the fortress of myself for years and years.
From behind the polished ground glass and hard metal body
I could meet you, tolerate my proximity to you
have some control over how it would look
how things would develop between us.
I could handle seeing you in two dimensions.
I could start to see what was really going on
but my images lacked emotion
had a flatness, a detachment
that made it something other than art -
which requires feeling.
I loved
the technical aspects
machine printing...processing
the magic of chemistry
in tanks, trays and in my blood
customizing titrations for the right effect...
got me by for the next dozen years or so...
and then it all stopped working...
Light, dark, chemistry, mechanics,
all paradox and false imagery for a while.
Years later it’s a different world.
Heart opened, self restored, revised
strength and knowing
in touch, listening, vibrational fields.
I still love the light, the textures,
the raw beauty of the physical world
am all the more curious
about the dynamics of proximity
the movement between souls
between times in life
dancing the cycles of the year,
seeking only love and truth.
Freedom is to move about and among.
Eye to eye, seen and seen, known and known
selective internal armor
only when necessary, not all the time...
Seemingly secure and self possessed
Secretly to this day preferring to walk about at night
Inconspicuous, quiet, less stimulating, less invasive
leaving more room to enter and perceive the world
compared to the bright busy light of day
that is just so full of itself...
so exposing, illuminating, of everything.
is about its reversed paradoxes
the negative is what you strive for
a good negative makes a good positive
these concepts were lost on me, metaphorically
till recently...
hanging out there a long time
you see that you can see in the dark
that it too has information
that can register as helpful and orienting.
We strive for having details in the shadows
a little something in the clear thin parts
of the negative.
One of my favorites is that you need
a dark cloth to see
to focus with the 4X5
too much light, normal light –
and you can’t see to focus at all
and with the 35mm you really
can’t focus well in the dark...
I love shooting at night
and learned to give myself
depth of field
to focus by knowing
rather than seeing
Its stuff like this
that taught me how to survive
the impossible logic
of my complicated family.
Delivered by a visiting mailman
a stack of the undeliverable
a new world of perception
arrived suddenly the year the music died.
I needed to make friends with the dark
because that’s where I lived for a time,
eclipsed.
It wasn’t that I was locked in the cellar for years
to live like an animal by my crazy parents exactly
but there was the month in the psych ward
and being grounded for a year and a half
for trying to escape my entrapment
up on the mountain at Field Stone Farm
which says just how fertile that place wasn’t
growing up an oxymoron
with alcoholic annihilating sadist
shadow masculine
and the requisite passive aggressive feminine
not what I respected, expected
in my coming – of age.
I came to having walked around entombed
in the fortress of myself for years and years.
From behind the polished ground glass and hard metal body
I could meet you, tolerate my proximity to you
have some control over how it would look
how things would develop between us.
I could handle seeing you in two dimensions.
I could start to see what was really going on
but my images lacked emotion
had a flatness, a detachment
that made it something other than art -
which requires feeling.
I loved
the technical aspects
machine printing...processing
the magic of chemistry
in tanks, trays and in my blood
customizing titrations for the right effect...
got me by for the next dozen years or so...
and then it all stopped working...
Light, dark, chemistry, mechanics,
all paradox and false imagery for a while.
Years later it’s a different world.
Heart opened, self restored, revised
strength and knowing
in touch, listening, vibrational fields.
I still love the light, the textures,
the raw beauty of the physical world
am all the more curious
about the dynamics of proximity
the movement between souls
between times in life
dancing the cycles of the year,
seeking only love and truth.
Freedom is to move about and among.
Eye to eye, seen and seen, known and known
selective internal armor
only when necessary, not all the time...
Seemingly secure and self possessed
Secretly to this day preferring to walk about at night
Inconspicuous, quiet, less stimulating, less invasive
leaving more room to enter and perceive the world
compared to the bright busy light of day
that is just so full of itself...
so exposing, illuminating, of everything.
Love You To Death
Love you to death darling, Promise!
Death to you love, Cheers!
Some love death, difficulty, discord....
not much left for love life
the star of your own death-life production company
a cult of the gothic neopathetic...
Long live cutting flesh and malnourished bones
rotting teeth under beautiful new caps
face botoxed to kill off the nervy lines of pain
pain erasers essential for this cult of beauty
Beautiful death, beautiful pain.
Love you to death darling, promise
there’s no room for you to live with my love
my love deadly, never leaving you ever...
Don’t bother trying to run honey...
you can’t out run this love
that keeps wraps on you
and has your back.
Death to you love, Cheers!
Your deadly love killing me daily
killing off whatever I would or could be
so you can be in your love cult with me
loving to the point of obliteration,
out of obligation so as not to offend
those who raised us to love and honor commitment...
I love you to death darling, Promise!
Our love feasts infused with unintended poisons,
no rage, no ruffled feathers, no resentments
look at what a great couple we have always been
and will always be, right darling?
We’ll consume each other’s damned, sweet offerings
our self - neglect invisible behind facades of looking good
we’ll be cheery and polite as we cut
each other down to bite-size bits
to maintain the status quo
the hours, days, weeks and years roll by
neither of us ever really lived
but we loved each other to death
didn’t we darling? Cheers.
Death to you love, Cheers!
Some love death, difficulty, discord....
not much left for love life
the star of your own death-life production company
a cult of the gothic neopathetic...
Long live cutting flesh and malnourished bones
rotting teeth under beautiful new caps
face botoxed to kill off the nervy lines of pain
pain erasers essential for this cult of beauty
Beautiful death, beautiful pain.
Love you to death darling, promise
there’s no room for you to live with my love
my love deadly, never leaving you ever...
Don’t bother trying to run honey...
you can’t out run this love
that keeps wraps on you
and has your back.
Death to you love, Cheers!
Your deadly love killing me daily
killing off whatever I would or could be
so you can be in your love cult with me
loving to the point of obliteration,
out of obligation so as not to offend
those who raised us to love and honor commitment...
I love you to death darling, Promise!
Our love feasts infused with unintended poisons,
no rage, no ruffled feathers, no resentments
look at what a great couple we have always been
and will always be, right darling?
We’ll consume each other’s damned, sweet offerings
our self - neglect invisible behind facades of looking good
we’ll be cheery and polite as we cut
each other down to bite-size bits
to maintain the status quo
the hours, days, weeks and years roll by
neither of us ever really lived
but we loved each other to death
didn’t we darling? Cheers.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Possession 1/09
Possession
You come
dark as the night
bright as the rising sun
looking to instigate, incubate
seeking and seeding psychic change
open up the mind gates
via spontaneous passion
and pose the question
framed in a memory
“I remember what you said got you to stop -
you said it was when it just wasn’t fun anymore.”
And you’re thinking, hoping
maybe this time you have finally arrived
at this realization for yourself,
that the last couple of times
were definitely not fun
that this shit is getting old
and you’re getting to old for this shit...
Possession is 4/5ths of the law.
Possession requires exorcism.
Possession is how tight
that complex holds you
till you negotiate
fighting and surrender.
Even though this has happened over and over
since the beginning of time
it’s still like the first fight between lovers.
Addiction is complex
complex is possession
Add- iction
the kind of adding that gives for a while
then takes away till you’re used up
not just empty but in soul debt
a complex mathematics
of self annihilation
then when it’s taken everything
or taken enough for now
enough again this time...
Not adding that thing
gives more and more.
Complex – exorcism
breaking the spell of possession
in the worst cases may take extreme measures.
Life as you know it may come to an end
but often by now it already has.
New shoots and leaves appear
poking up out of the shit pile
or the smoking embers.
That’s a fact of life,
as long as you are still alive
and not currently dying.
Sometimes it’s really simple
and sometimes quite mysterious.
It’s always the silver bullet of truth.
Perhaps it was the prayers of the old women, your ancestors
lighting votives every day for the stricken. For you.
It may become your own
obsessive prayers, new steps, new everything
using the opposite hand for all mundane tasks
brain retraining, rewiring, new habits
so when the head says “to the left my brotha’s to the left...”
well heeled feet go right this time.
Complex. A captivating entity
with its own protective defenses,
bent on keeping itself alive
mistaking itself for the real you,
and that part of you thinks it can only live
the way the complex spins it.
All can be going very well
and suddenly you are aware it has happened
realize you were just caught up
possessed by innocent invisibles-
a certain light of day
the smell in the air, the season
the way the forbidden lover
tilts their head and holds your gaze
the music, the jazz
entrainment, hypnosis...
we join engine and caboose
because now suddenly one plus one
makes no sense
and all that you’ve worked for
is instantly cut loose
till a part of you that’s seen it all before
remembers how it’s going to go
heart whispers “NO!”
and the ancient reptile at the lowest seat
in the back of the great theater
grumbles...mumbles “that’s enough...”
This wise old turtle speaks in low subtle tones
and that complex is always in a big hurry
wants what it wants
and what it wants
is always so urgent.
Part trickster extraordinaire -
may have even saved your ass before -
but the next thing you know
it’s loose in the hen house of your soul
and so good at distraction and ruse
smoke and mirrors obliterating
all concerns of any self deception
and concealing from you the theft
of your own golden eggs
and the old subtle wisdom
that you left in your haste
and keeps getting over on you
till some part of you realizes
that you’ve just been robbed
while you were mesmerized by the
I wants of that wily player
that is also you.
When trickster sleeps
as we all must do
well heeled feet having practiced
go right this time
to a safer place, a different space.
Meanwhile, that Complex feels
and acts like a disappointed
hundred some odd pound little kid
feels like its gonna fall apart
and for spite throws the full blown tantrum,
still wants what it wants right now
like the stubborn wayward child that it is.
It can’t let go, obsesses and won’t be redirected...
It hates those well heeled feet
It makes such a scene
that it’s hard not to get caught up in it,
and give in to it, to sooth
it’s seemingly inconsolable raging
only to find out that it settles right down
when given what it wants but the price we pay
for cheating ourselves out of real sustenance
is poison and emptiness – and so we love
our children and ourselves to death
and hope trickster will wake up soon
so we don’t have to see it or feel it
because we don’t know how else to do it.
The bad parent part of ourselves says hurtful things,
does violence to the beloved/wretched thing,
maybe tries to kill you off
but not have it really look that way
by failing to protect you
or setting up dangerous situations.
The good parent part still loves you,
knows that you’re just a child
and patiently contains those big scary feelings
and consistently redirects you
to do the next right thing:
take a nap, eat something healthy,
sweat at something constructive,
till the energy is spent,
makes you do your chores
and your homework
does their best to raise up
a well healed self.
So - while trickster sleeps or eats
or is otherwise enchanted with itself
the old reptile turtle parent part of yourself
annoyed but unphased
takes you by the hand or the scruff of the neck
to a meeting, to therapy, to a healthy friend
to a warm sunny rock
or if it’s raining,
takes shelter under a protective ledge
listening, watching, meditating
and eventually it shifts!
In the light, it’s alright again
and it’s like it never happened
like another life time
a different person, different planet.
The paradoxical truth is: that you –
even after all that you have fucked up
are worthy of life
of being conscious
that beauty does balance the ugly
that spring ends the winter
dawn ends the dark night
that love heals pain
the math gets simpler
you become more whole
more at peace
more alive -
then - you can keep it simpler.
Complexes fade with inattention
unwatered they dry up.
If you don’t enact the spell
you don’t call the complex into being.
If you find yourself already in it
just step back out
come out from behind the curtain,
leave the levers, smoke and mirrors
and admit who you really are.
The spell is the complex,
the child and the parent
are just the child and the parent.
Break the spell.
Water your heart and soul
let well heeled feet watch your steps
catch the lie, listen loud and wait
for the low slow cadences
of your own old wisdom
and really live before you die.
You come
dark as the night
bright as the rising sun
looking to instigate, incubate
seeking and seeding psychic change
open up the mind gates
via spontaneous passion
and pose the question
framed in a memory
“I remember what you said got you to stop -
you said it was when it just wasn’t fun anymore.”
And you’re thinking, hoping
maybe this time you have finally arrived
at this realization for yourself,
that the last couple of times
were definitely not fun
that this shit is getting old
and you’re getting to old for this shit...
Possession is 4/5ths of the law.
Possession requires exorcism.
Possession is how tight
that complex holds you
till you negotiate
fighting and surrender.
Even though this has happened over and over
since the beginning of time
it’s still like the first fight between lovers.
Addiction is complex
complex is possession
Add- iction
the kind of adding that gives for a while
then takes away till you’re used up
not just empty but in soul debt
a complex mathematics
of self annihilation
then when it’s taken everything
or taken enough for now
enough again this time...
Not adding that thing
gives more and more.
Complex – exorcism
breaking the spell of possession
in the worst cases may take extreme measures.
Life as you know it may come to an end
but often by now it already has.
New shoots and leaves appear
poking up out of the shit pile
or the smoking embers.
That’s a fact of life,
as long as you are still alive
and not currently dying.
Sometimes it’s really simple
and sometimes quite mysterious.
It’s always the silver bullet of truth.
Perhaps it was the prayers of the old women, your ancestors
lighting votives every day for the stricken. For you.
It may become your own
obsessive prayers, new steps, new everything
using the opposite hand for all mundane tasks
brain retraining, rewiring, new habits
so when the head says “to the left my brotha’s to the left...”
well heeled feet go right this time.
Complex. A captivating entity
with its own protective defenses,
bent on keeping itself alive
mistaking itself for the real you,
and that part of you thinks it can only live
the way the complex spins it.
All can be going very well
and suddenly you are aware it has happened
realize you were just caught up
possessed by innocent invisibles-
a certain light of day
the smell in the air, the season
the way the forbidden lover
tilts their head and holds your gaze
the music, the jazz
entrainment, hypnosis...
we join engine and caboose
because now suddenly one plus one
makes no sense
and all that you’ve worked for
is instantly cut loose
till a part of you that’s seen it all before
remembers how it’s going to go
heart whispers “NO!”
and the ancient reptile at the lowest seat
in the back of the great theater
grumbles...mumbles “that’s enough...”
This wise old turtle speaks in low subtle tones
and that complex is always in a big hurry
wants what it wants
and what it wants
is always so urgent.
Part trickster extraordinaire -
may have even saved your ass before -
but the next thing you know
it’s loose in the hen house of your soul
and so good at distraction and ruse
smoke and mirrors obliterating
all concerns of any self deception
and concealing from you the theft
of your own golden eggs
and the old subtle wisdom
that you left in your haste
and keeps getting over on you
till some part of you realizes
that you’ve just been robbed
while you were mesmerized by the
I wants of that wily player
that is also you.
When trickster sleeps
as we all must do
well heeled feet having practiced
go right this time
to a safer place, a different space.
Meanwhile, that Complex feels
and acts like a disappointed
hundred some odd pound little kid
feels like its gonna fall apart
and for spite throws the full blown tantrum,
still wants what it wants right now
like the stubborn wayward child that it is.
It can’t let go, obsesses and won’t be redirected...
It hates those well heeled feet
It makes such a scene
that it’s hard not to get caught up in it,
and give in to it, to sooth
it’s seemingly inconsolable raging
only to find out that it settles right down
when given what it wants but the price we pay
for cheating ourselves out of real sustenance
is poison and emptiness – and so we love
our children and ourselves to death
and hope trickster will wake up soon
so we don’t have to see it or feel it
because we don’t know how else to do it.
The bad parent part of ourselves says hurtful things,
does violence to the beloved/wretched thing,
maybe tries to kill you off
but not have it really look that way
by failing to protect you
or setting up dangerous situations.
The good parent part still loves you,
knows that you’re just a child
and patiently contains those big scary feelings
and consistently redirects you
to do the next right thing:
take a nap, eat something healthy,
sweat at something constructive,
till the energy is spent,
makes you do your chores
and your homework
does their best to raise up
a well healed self.
So - while trickster sleeps or eats
or is otherwise enchanted with itself
the old reptile turtle parent part of yourself
annoyed but unphased
takes you by the hand or the scruff of the neck
to a meeting, to therapy, to a healthy friend
to a warm sunny rock
or if it’s raining,
takes shelter under a protective ledge
listening, watching, meditating
and eventually it shifts!
In the light, it’s alright again
and it’s like it never happened
like another life time
a different person, different planet.
The paradoxical truth is: that you –
even after all that you have fucked up
are worthy of life
of being conscious
that beauty does balance the ugly
that spring ends the winter
dawn ends the dark night
that love heals pain
the math gets simpler
you become more whole
more at peace
more alive -
then - you can keep it simpler.
Complexes fade with inattention
unwatered they dry up.
If you don’t enact the spell
you don’t call the complex into being.
If you find yourself already in it
just step back out
come out from behind the curtain,
leave the levers, smoke and mirrors
and admit who you really are.
The spell is the complex,
the child and the parent
are just the child and the parent.
Break the spell.
Water your heart and soul
let well heeled feet watch your steps
catch the lie, listen loud and wait
for the low slow cadences
of your own old wisdom
and really live before you die.
All Boats are Sinking 2008
All Boats Are Sinking
All boats are sinking
everyone is dying
all the time
all bets are off
everyday the sun sets
we’re all going down
all planes are landing
or crashing
gravity and death
always do what they do
drunk at the bar
numb in our cars
a regatta of the broken hearted.
All hearts are sinking
and some days
my heart sinks with them
down and down and down
breathing lower and lower and lower
past the tears
past the tightness in my chest
my gut
my sexual place
my feet
down further
into the deep subterranean place
that awaits
till everything previously known
and believed in has fallen away.
Coming back up
it is never midnight forever,
just for that moment)
I consider
sinking down into a hot bath
steam rising, tension lifting
and relaxed, refreshed
sinking down into your arms
down into you
the lushness of sinking
into the perfect nest of my bed
of sinking into sleep
into dreamtime
into nothingness
into everything.
All boats are sinking
everyone is dying
all the time
all bets are off
everyday the sun sets
we’re all going down
all planes are landing
or crashing
gravity and death
always do what they do
drunk at the bar
numb in our cars
a regatta of the broken hearted.
All hearts are sinking
and some days
my heart sinks with them
down and down and down
breathing lower and lower and lower
past the tears
past the tightness in my chest
my gut
my sexual place
my feet
down further
into the deep subterranean place
that awaits
till everything previously known
and believed in has fallen away.
Coming back up
it is never midnight forever,
just for that moment)
I consider
sinking down into a hot bath
steam rising, tension lifting
and relaxed, refreshed
sinking down into your arms
down into you
the lushness of sinking
into the perfect nest of my bed
of sinking into sleep
into dreamtime
into nothingness
into everything.
Blue Hour
Its election season
the big money is swinging
heads turning this way and that
the blue light
of TV’s flashing
blips of spin
strobing its secret
subliminal code
into living rooms
bedrooms and bars
around the world
all hours of the day and night
blurring my senses
as my bodymind entrains itself
to that strobing pulse
I come down
into nether sleep
then suddenly realize
after hours of mindless possession
that I can’t stand
the weight of the cat on my legs
one more minute
can’t stand
one more senseless observation
of the he said “she said what she said
because he said what he said
someone else said that she said”
even though the speech writers
for her fund raisers
say what she says
and she says it
stay on message
stay on message
stay on message
the reporters saying too much
about what was said
not reporting what happened
the real deal is eclipsed
vanished in partisan hyperbole
in full view, in hot studio lighting
in too much make-up
histrionic rhetoric ushers in
the blue hours of consciousness
and the part of the message
spun over and over
strobing flashes of light and sound
effectively bluing out
all natural thoughts
all questions and curiosity
till finally tossing off the cat
and turning it all off
the TV blue
the lights
the chatter
feeling numb and irritable
in desperate need
of an attitude adjustment
I go about
the dependable rituals
of bathing in candled moon light
sipping the muses mead
eating two of Santa’s cookies
making amends to the cat
praying for a wisdom
a will to intervene
that is loving and helpful in light
of our collective
self-centered stupidity
that will help us see it as worth while
to confront our own short-sightedness
amend our corruptions
and enable us to find
the resources and fortitude
to work our way through
these difficult blue times
of a strange dream
we can’t wake from
followed by the insomnia
of another long restless night
awaiting clear morning light
with its pinker yellower hues
a new day begins
let’s skip the morning news
and rejoice that there are still birds
and some milk for our coffee
as we head out
into the living room or the world
trying to focus on the tasks at hand
in a world where politicians
balk at taking a solid stand
and if they do they are marginalized
distorted, destroyed by the strobing blue
lights till bored by lies aimed more
at leaving us annoyed and resigned
than outraged - they disappear
back into the void of forgotten history
and those left talking the talk
might as well be the one’s left running
and voting is picking
the lesser of two evils
if there is one
or the favorite darling
of the last two puppets dangling
angling with our hopes
and let’s face it
they see us as dopes,
duped and doped
that’s how we roll
that’s how we vote
if we do
and so it goes
in these blue hours
of American history.
Coffee 2006
Coffee
Post butter making
there’s no cream
for today’s coffee
just the thin skim
watery grey milk.
Its like the coffee
politely accepted
at the home
or campsite
of strangers
dreaded then unexpectedly
much enjoyed.
Post butter making
there’s no cream
for today’s coffee
just the thin skim
watery grey milk.
Its like the coffee
politely accepted
at the home
or campsite
of strangers
dreaded then unexpectedly
much enjoyed.
Complacency 2007
Complacency
In my oppression
I am tired and complacent
working too hard
to lift my head up
speak up, push up against it.
At times the oppressor
the two percent of the world’s wealthiest
people running governments
and business and guns
dictating the use of resources
and creating little wars
to settle scores
mafia-like familia tantrums
seems inescapably, densely complex
powerful, uninhibitable
invisible yet omnipresent
running the whole show backstage
while we act on the stage
of our lives, working, worrying,
showing up for war duty
taking our orders
passively surrendering
losing the freedom, the liberty
to edit the script
rewrite the lines, alter destiny.
But why worry?
Yin to Yang. Yang to Yin.
May take 300 years - maybe less.
In nature it is never
high noon or midnight
longer than that moment.
A reassuring and terrible thought.
In my oppression
I am tired and complacent
working too hard
to lift my head up
speak up, push up against it.
At times the oppressor
the two percent of the world’s wealthiest
people running governments
and business and guns
dictating the use of resources
and creating little wars
to settle scores
mafia-like familia tantrums
seems inescapably, densely complex
powerful, uninhibitable
invisible yet omnipresent
running the whole show backstage
while we act on the stage
of our lives, working, worrying,
showing up for war duty
taking our orders
passively surrendering
losing the freedom, the liberty
to edit the script
rewrite the lines, alter destiny.
But why worry?
Yin to Yang. Yang to Yin.
May take 300 years - maybe less.
In nature it is never
high noon or midnight
longer than that moment.
A reassuring and terrible thought.
Down to the Bone Fall 2008
Down to the Bone
Down to the bone
bereft and alone
no stone left unturned
my heart singed and burned
still beats out its optimism
as eyes look with pessimism
about the possibilities
left for love.
How many times have I given up
on looking for love, still wishing
it would interrupt
the rhythm of my days, insisting
on itself – after all, no one would
look away from love
but one too many broken hearts
can turn a heart to stone or wood.
Stone endures and wood will burn
still something there that’s solid and warm
after all, still more to learn
some part of me longs to go arm in arm
down streets and through time
not that I can’t go it alone
but it’s a crime to miss out on the sublime
harmonics and timbre of love’s tone.
Down to the bone
bereft and alone
no stone left unturned
my heart singed and burned
still beats out its optimism
as eyes look with pessimism
about the possibilities left for love.
Down to the bone
bereft and alone
no stone left unturned
my heart singed and burned
still beats out its optimism
as eyes look with pessimism
about the possibilities
left for love.
How many times have I given up
on looking for love, still wishing
it would interrupt
the rhythm of my days, insisting
on itself – after all, no one would
look away from love
but one too many broken hearts
can turn a heart to stone or wood.
Stone endures and wood will burn
still something there that’s solid and warm
after all, still more to learn
some part of me longs to go arm in arm
down streets and through time
not that I can’t go it alone
but it’s a crime to miss out on the sublime
harmonics and timbre of love’s tone.
Down to the bone
bereft and alone
no stone left unturned
my heart singed and burned
still beats out its optimism
as eyes look with pessimism
about the possibilities left for love.
Dreamtime in a Parallel Universe - prose
Dreamtime in a Parallel Universe
In the reverie of writing, its like I’m dreaming it, as if I actually believe in fact it is possible, could be possible to be understood; that the words could fit together in streams of concise consciousness that are understood by everyone, anyone, easily accessible – even if not agreeable and that once awake one would remember the revelations or little tidbits of useful stuff and use it somehow to live, like food eaten, it would be taken in and transformed into what comes next and what’s not useful is let go of and so it goes.
In the reverie of reading Its like I’m dreaming it, as if I experience in fact that its not possible, impossible to be understood, that the words despite their lovely brilliant arrangement, their rhymes and rhythms, everyone nodding along enchanted but the words though concise streams of consciousness are not in fact understood by everyone, anyone, maybe and especially not even me, as I turn each phrase 15, 30 or 90 degrees and it alters the meaning of before and after, the revelations that come or little tidbits of useful stuff were like that time coming down from tripping when Cerise said “Oh God, I can see it all so clearly now – if only I still knew what it was!” And so it is unusable, ungraspable, can’t get it cross that blood brain barrier, dissolves like water running through my fingers I try to hold onto it and despite my best efforts it alludes me, alludes my listener, my reader and so there is nothing useful or nourishing to take in. Like the movie Ground Hog Day where the drama repeats, repeats, repeats and is forgotten. I and the whole human race remember and forget, repeat and forget... The reading part of me says – there, it’s in those journals and note books and history books – unopened, forgotten, I mean really, history’s boring.
The reveling writing part of me says quiet now, quiet, Ok...GO – and from somewhere, comes either truth or distortion depending on the universe I’m in and when I look at it - it can be discerned - but it has to be looked at, heard, attended to – and often, in the reading universe the attention span, mine, yours, ours is too pressed to pay attention.
Jesus said stay awake with me! Won’t anyone stay awake with me?! But no, he was surrounded by readers who drifted off as we do in our reading reveries.... Buddha says awaken to your own true nature, breathe in and know that you are breathing in, breathe out and know that you are breathing out – and sometimes I am in that world and knowing it and next thing I know I’m not. I’m not knowing and have forgotten even this simple pure thing.
Normally after thinking like this for a while – this too is boring and my attention wanes to something in the next stuff of consciousness. All day today – since last night it has troubled me that these are the limits of my attention in either world.
C. H. 1-22-08 Burlington Writers Group at Parima, Burlington, VT
In the reverie of writing, its like I’m dreaming it, as if I actually believe in fact it is possible, could be possible to be understood; that the words could fit together in streams of concise consciousness that are understood by everyone, anyone, easily accessible – even if not agreeable and that once awake one would remember the revelations or little tidbits of useful stuff and use it somehow to live, like food eaten, it would be taken in and transformed into what comes next and what’s not useful is let go of and so it goes.
In the reverie of reading Its like I’m dreaming it, as if I experience in fact that its not possible, impossible to be understood, that the words despite their lovely brilliant arrangement, their rhymes and rhythms, everyone nodding along enchanted but the words though concise streams of consciousness are not in fact understood by everyone, anyone, maybe and especially not even me, as I turn each phrase 15, 30 or 90 degrees and it alters the meaning of before and after, the revelations that come or little tidbits of useful stuff were like that time coming down from tripping when Cerise said “Oh God, I can see it all so clearly now – if only I still knew what it was!” And so it is unusable, ungraspable, can’t get it cross that blood brain barrier, dissolves like water running through my fingers I try to hold onto it and despite my best efforts it alludes me, alludes my listener, my reader and so there is nothing useful or nourishing to take in. Like the movie Ground Hog Day where the drama repeats, repeats, repeats and is forgotten. I and the whole human race remember and forget, repeat and forget... The reading part of me says – there, it’s in those journals and note books and history books – unopened, forgotten, I mean really, history’s boring.
The reveling writing part of me says quiet now, quiet, Ok...GO – and from somewhere, comes either truth or distortion depending on the universe I’m in and when I look at it - it can be discerned - but it has to be looked at, heard, attended to – and often, in the reading universe the attention span, mine, yours, ours is too pressed to pay attention.
Jesus said stay awake with me! Won’t anyone stay awake with me?! But no, he was surrounded by readers who drifted off as we do in our reading reveries.... Buddha says awaken to your own true nature, breathe in and know that you are breathing in, breathe out and know that you are breathing out – and sometimes I am in that world and knowing it and next thing I know I’m not. I’m not knowing and have forgotten even this simple pure thing.
Normally after thinking like this for a while – this too is boring and my attention wanes to something in the next stuff of consciousness. All day today – since last night it has troubled me that these are the limits of my attention in either world.
C. H. 1-22-08 Burlington Writers Group at Parima, Burlington, VT
Fifty 2007
Fifty
Fifty feels like the heats turned up on life
so much to do and say about life and so little time
Fifty feels like there’s no room for any bullshit,
just get out of my way, get out of my face
and don’t waste my time
Fifty feels like I’m not settling, I’m not peaceful,
not passive and not depressed
Fifty feels like a betraying body could undermine my plans
and force a hand I didn’t mean to play
Fifty feels like a different planet from thirty
and after 20 years of being clean and sober – at
Fifty I’ve grown up to about 30 now –
and no longer have to be so in-control to prove I’m not out of control
Fifty feels like love’s still possible
and lovemaking is even more divine, more direct, more intense,
more natural than in my 30’s and 40’s
Fifty feels like a devotion to beauty is blooming perpetually
in my senses, gestures, being
Fifty feels like it happened so suddenly
this more salt than pepper hair still startles me when I see it
Fifty feels like its gotta be just right or better or I’m not interested
so I moved my home 4 times this year and my office twice.
Fifty feels like the world is open and I can just go in if I want
Fifty feels like the hard work, the pain and suffering
the competency established in the daily practice of living
affords me some legitimacy and credibility
Fifty feels like I’ve had enough hard time in the school of life
I’m broken in like my favorite pair of boots
Fifty feels like there’s finally some substance, some weight, some gravity
that the laws of physics apply even to me.
I’m not terminally unique or invincible just a regular gal
Fifty feels like it’s OK that it has been what it was and is what it is
and it’s necessary to grieve or be glad for what wasn’t or isn’t and after grieving I’ve been glad to still live and love more
Fifty feels like grasping the fact of my own nature and yours and honoring it and making it all the more so is one of the big mystery keys
Fifty feels familiar with dancing with destiny
and the good and evil actors upon us and within us
and refining our true nature means doing this dance with both discipline and practice to get the moves down just so and then abandoning all that and letting the world music move my heart and soul as it will and trust that even in the dance trance of abandon there’s still consciousness pulsing aplenty
Fifty feels glad for friends who are still older and wiser
Fifty feels OK playing the fool now and then and isn’t mortally wounded by your disapproval anymore
Fifty feels OK playing anything now and then once in a while –
can slip off the regalia, the encumbrances for at least a few minutes here and there
and loves to be invited to play
Fifty feels pretty sure that humans personify God
and that’s where mistakes have been made -
that human minds hearts and souls
channeled the Bible, Koran, Torah, Sutras
and the highest of human beings are indeed
the most direct channellers of human wisdom
but they still convey it through human language
and it suffers from human projections –
but it’s the best and all we have
for archetypal wisdom books to study and reflect on
Fifty feels the truth is always recognizable
whether it contains dread or relief –
it’s like the tumblers of a big lock
all aligning and opening – a clear opening
Fifty has been beyond the horizon
and though it looks like it goes on and on forever
knows it’s just a round ball after all
and if you follow it you come back to right here
Fifty knows that theses are all just ego concerns –
nothing more and that ego concerns are necessary
for living well while incarnated in a body
that still makes use of the world
Fifty knows that when the body
can no longer make use of the world
none of this or that will matter,
and if I can’t let it go as the death road approaches
mercifully dementia will loosen my grip.
Fifty feels like the heats turned up on life
so much to do and say about life and so little time
Fifty feels like there’s no room for any bullshit,
just get out of my way, get out of my face
and don’t waste my time
Fifty feels like I’m not settling, I’m not peaceful,
not passive and not depressed
Fifty feels like a betraying body could undermine my plans
and force a hand I didn’t mean to play
Fifty feels like a different planet from thirty
and after 20 years of being clean and sober – at
Fifty I’ve grown up to about 30 now –
and no longer have to be so in-control to prove I’m not out of control
Fifty feels like love’s still possible
and lovemaking is even more divine, more direct, more intense,
more natural than in my 30’s and 40’s
Fifty feels like a devotion to beauty is blooming perpetually
in my senses, gestures, being
Fifty feels like it happened so suddenly
this more salt than pepper hair still startles me when I see it
Fifty feels like its gotta be just right or better or I’m not interested
so I moved my home 4 times this year and my office twice.
Fifty feels like the world is open and I can just go in if I want
Fifty feels like the hard work, the pain and suffering
the competency established in the daily practice of living
affords me some legitimacy and credibility
Fifty feels like I’ve had enough hard time in the school of life
I’m broken in like my favorite pair of boots
Fifty feels like there’s finally some substance, some weight, some gravity
that the laws of physics apply even to me.
I’m not terminally unique or invincible just a regular gal
Fifty feels like it’s OK that it has been what it was and is what it is
and it’s necessary to grieve or be glad for what wasn’t or isn’t and after grieving I’ve been glad to still live and love more
Fifty feels like grasping the fact of my own nature and yours and honoring it and making it all the more so is one of the big mystery keys
Fifty feels familiar with dancing with destiny
and the good and evil actors upon us and within us
and refining our true nature means doing this dance with both discipline and practice to get the moves down just so and then abandoning all that and letting the world music move my heart and soul as it will and trust that even in the dance trance of abandon there’s still consciousness pulsing aplenty
Fifty feels glad for friends who are still older and wiser
Fifty feels OK playing the fool now and then and isn’t mortally wounded by your disapproval anymore
Fifty feels OK playing anything now and then once in a while –
can slip off the regalia, the encumbrances for at least a few minutes here and there
and loves to be invited to play
Fifty feels pretty sure that humans personify God
and that’s where mistakes have been made -
that human minds hearts and souls
channeled the Bible, Koran, Torah, Sutras
and the highest of human beings are indeed
the most direct channellers of human wisdom
but they still convey it through human language
and it suffers from human projections –
but it’s the best and all we have
for archetypal wisdom books to study and reflect on
Fifty feels the truth is always recognizable
whether it contains dread or relief –
it’s like the tumblers of a big lock
all aligning and opening – a clear opening
Fifty has been beyond the horizon
and though it looks like it goes on and on forever
knows it’s just a round ball after all
and if you follow it you come back to right here
Fifty knows that theses are all just ego concerns –
nothing more and that ego concerns are necessary
for living well while incarnated in a body
that still makes use of the world
Fifty knows that when the body
can no longer make use of the world
none of this or that will matter,
and if I can’t let it go as the death road approaches
mercifully dementia will loosen my grip.
Financial Security 2008
Financial Security
I’m not quite broke
and have most of what I need
in debt to meet the gaps
and living week to week
nervous as a bunny
trying to make
enough money
The rituals of work
on a good day
seeds some hope
in humanity
sorting sacred
from profanity
high aspirations from vanity
truth from insanity
While the commercial world spins
deals, seals fates
digitized porn
in the absence of dates
computers interface
communicate, transmit
stimulate, data entry
spreadsheet, spread my legs
what’s my rate?
wanna date?
tell me then-
what’s your credit score?
you can have more
if your lookin’ good
they bleed you less
let me tell you
its expensive to be poor
in the trap
in the vortex
in the death grip of greed...
To meet my basic needs
I have to outsmart
the smart mouths
that tell me
till my ears bleed
what I need
to have a chance
to seem OK, to feel relief
to find romance
that I gotta have this
that I really want this
better fill my cart
better fill my empty heart
give my kids a head start
fill my empty head
fill my empty bed
reward myself with pleasure
work myself to death
starve my soul
ignore my nature
make my money
Hey! Maybe I can
make it smart
make money art
I work for beauty
I work for love
that’s what I treasure
that’s how I measure
that’s how I feel
it’s a spiritual deal
I’m keeping it real
as best I can.
And if it all goes down
and all the banks collapse
from the emptiness of greed
and inflation’s loss of substance
means money disappears
in ether mists of corporate losses
What did you expect?
And when the market is leveled
things will be more real
hunger, thirst and homelessness
will make it pretty clear
which they will use as terror casting
so bail them out in fear.
What if the giant money movers
had to reap what they sowed
they’ve gone to daddy
and cried like babies
about losing their bonuses
and their big profits
should we treat them
like they treat us
if we make a late payment
and raise their interest rates
to the max allowed by law
enjoy the finance charges
then tell them
Oh, by the way you can’t
declare bankruptcy anymore
when your all strapped like this
because wasn’t it you
that changed the laws
so drowning people
could only ever stay under???
Sorry - you don’t get to go home
and reinvent yourself
you gotta drag your ass around
and keep up those payments...
What? Now that we’ve garnished your salary
you can’t pay for food and daycare???
Gee that’s a problem
but you owe us this
money and you earned this
interest rate by being too poor
to pay your bills on time...
Gotcha!
Greedy mother fucker’s
just a gang of instigators
getting rid of regulators
legalized organized crime
should be in jail with no bail
for all they did to undermine
the public good
and the cohesion of the nation.
Anyway,
we’ll either take it on
like grown-ups
and take our medicine ourselves
we’ll get real about our means
and pay our bills at least to the
local businesses we have ties to
cause if we act like them
and there’s no face or name to that
debtor and that loaner
it will feel like it doesn’t matter
if we keep on getting over
So, we’ll make it right
or we won’t
and the world
will keep spinning round
regardless of this mess
and whether we have more or less.
I’m not quite broke
and have most of what I need
in debt to meet the gaps
and living week to week
nervous as a bunny
trying to make
enough money
The rituals of work
on a good day
seeds some hope
in humanity
sorting sacred
from profanity
high aspirations from vanity
truth from insanity
While the commercial world spins
deals, seals fates
digitized porn
in the absence of dates
computers interface
communicate, transmit
stimulate, data entry
spreadsheet, spread my legs
what’s my rate?
wanna date?
tell me then-
what’s your credit score?
you can have more
if your lookin’ good
they bleed you less
let me tell you
its expensive to be poor
in the trap
in the vortex
in the death grip of greed...
To meet my basic needs
I have to outsmart
the smart mouths
that tell me
till my ears bleed
what I need
to have a chance
to seem OK, to feel relief
to find romance
that I gotta have this
that I really want this
better fill my cart
better fill my empty heart
give my kids a head start
fill my empty head
fill my empty bed
reward myself with pleasure
work myself to death
starve my soul
ignore my nature
make my money
Hey! Maybe I can
make it smart
make money art
I work for beauty
I work for love
that’s what I treasure
that’s how I measure
that’s how I feel
it’s a spiritual deal
I’m keeping it real
as best I can.
And if it all goes down
and all the banks collapse
from the emptiness of greed
and inflation’s loss of substance
means money disappears
in ether mists of corporate losses
What did you expect?
And when the market is leveled
things will be more real
hunger, thirst and homelessness
will make it pretty clear
which they will use as terror casting
so bail them out in fear.
What if the giant money movers
had to reap what they sowed
they’ve gone to daddy
and cried like babies
about losing their bonuses
and their big profits
should we treat them
like they treat us
if we make a late payment
and raise their interest rates
to the max allowed by law
enjoy the finance charges
then tell them
Oh, by the way you can’t
declare bankruptcy anymore
when your all strapped like this
because wasn’t it you
that changed the laws
so drowning people
could only ever stay under???
Sorry - you don’t get to go home
and reinvent yourself
you gotta drag your ass around
and keep up those payments...
What? Now that we’ve garnished your salary
you can’t pay for food and daycare???
Gee that’s a problem
but you owe us this
money and you earned this
interest rate by being too poor
to pay your bills on time...
Gotcha!
Greedy mother fucker’s
just a gang of instigators
getting rid of regulators
legalized organized crime
should be in jail with no bail
for all they did to undermine
the public good
and the cohesion of the nation.
Anyway,
we’ll either take it on
like grown-ups
and take our medicine ourselves
we’ll get real about our means
and pay our bills at least to the
local businesses we have ties to
cause if we act like them
and there’s no face or name to that
debtor and that loaner
it will feel like it doesn’t matter
if we keep on getting over
So, we’ll make it right
or we won’t
and the world
will keep spinning round
regardless of this mess
and whether we have more or less.
Foreigh Affairs 6/08
Foreign Affairs
The oil derby is on...
and here they are now folks
and comin’ around the bend,
it’s the US with a sizeable lead
when all of a sudden out of nowhere
it’s the European Union,
No! Wait! On the inside rail it’s
China moving up fast
and don’t look now but
here comes Russia closing in,
the US fatigued by her deficit
and a recent round of dirty politics
doesn’t seem to be able to regain the lead...
Pity the little countries
that have oil
or anything else “of interest”.
The Big Boys of the World Banks
and their puppet girls (like Conde?)
set the traps
stage the infidelities
and will divide and conquer,
by mediating the tribal divorces
the natural consequences
of the he said she said,
this one’s in bed with that one...
at home and abroad,
spinning enough drama
so nobody will realize
how they got ripped off
till the next chapter
of history is written.
Now there’s some
foreign affairs for ya.
Civilized nations make
themselves out to be
educated, elegant, refined
free from such gross moral impurity
as we have seen of late
as we agitate the middle east
to weaken cartels
over UN feasts
of feigned disagreement
they poo pooed Iraq
but it was our turn again
because we’ve got the power
and will invest the dollars
without shame
we’ll risk lives
kill civilians to make it so
but they too
like vultures will hover
above those desert sands
looking for deals in tents
that will play out over time
and the countries that hold
what is needed
whether oil or gold
may survive or not
not much has changed
in these primitive times.
Well, regarding this
competition for oil
Wanna bet
that the lofty G8
can’t negotiate
or make do with less
in a civilized manner?
What alignments will
eventually be
made and what will the moral
arguments be
to divide the world
to keep the us and them
differentiated enough
to project shadow enough
to create fear and hatred enough
to feel justified and OK enough
to take theirs.
Or them ours.
It’s all the same
unless its
not all I – Me.
It’s Us - We.
Wanna bet
that in a hundred years
all foreign policy
will be domestic policy
in an ever smaller world
When the ice melts
the land shrinks
the food can’t grow
the fresh water is salty
and we all gotta squish
together like over crowded gerbils
you wanna bet
its gonna be tough
to be civilized
unless we run
a different kinda race.
Human nature will prevail
but my bet is it won’t be pretty
cause its happening right now
be we don’t see it
We’re still all in
in the wrong race
and losing not just our face
but our place
busy little children that we are.
Rigidly focused on the shiny toy
and unable to let go
or see the big picture
of what’s coming
and what could be.
Unless it’s not all I- Me
It’s Us We.
The oil derby is on...
and here they are now folks
and comin’ around the bend,
it’s the US with a sizeable lead
when all of a sudden out of nowhere
it’s the European Union,
No! Wait! On the inside rail it’s
China moving up fast
and don’t look now but
here comes Russia closing in,
the US fatigued by her deficit
and a recent round of dirty politics
doesn’t seem to be able to regain the lead...
Pity the little countries
that have oil
or anything else “of interest”.
The Big Boys of the World Banks
and their puppet girls (like Conde?)
set the traps
stage the infidelities
and will divide and conquer,
by mediating the tribal divorces
the natural consequences
of the he said she said,
this one’s in bed with that one...
at home and abroad,
spinning enough drama
so nobody will realize
how they got ripped off
till the next chapter
of history is written.
Now there’s some
foreign affairs for ya.
Civilized nations make
themselves out to be
educated, elegant, refined
free from such gross moral impurity
as we have seen of late
as we agitate the middle east
to weaken cartels
over UN feasts
of feigned disagreement
they poo pooed Iraq
but it was our turn again
because we’ve got the power
and will invest the dollars
without shame
we’ll risk lives
kill civilians to make it so
but they too
like vultures will hover
above those desert sands
looking for deals in tents
that will play out over time
and the countries that hold
what is needed
whether oil or gold
may survive or not
not much has changed
in these primitive times.
Well, regarding this
competition for oil
Wanna bet
that the lofty G8
can’t negotiate
or make do with less
in a civilized manner?
What alignments will
eventually be
made and what will the moral
arguments be
to divide the world
to keep the us and them
differentiated enough
to project shadow enough
to create fear and hatred enough
to feel justified and OK enough
to take theirs.
Or them ours.
It’s all the same
unless its
not all I – Me.
It’s Us - We.
Wanna bet
that in a hundred years
all foreign policy
will be domestic policy
in an ever smaller world
When the ice melts
the land shrinks
the food can’t grow
the fresh water is salty
and we all gotta squish
together like over crowded gerbils
you wanna bet
its gonna be tough
to be civilized
unless we run
a different kinda race.
Human nature will prevail
but my bet is it won’t be pretty
cause its happening right now
be we don’t see it
We’re still all in
in the wrong race
and losing not just our face
but our place
busy little children that we are.
Rigidly focused on the shiny toy
and unable to let go
or see the big picture
of what’s coming
and what could be.
Unless it’s not all I- Me
It’s Us We.
Good People
Want what we have
hate how we get it
on the backs of many
who sweat and bleed
for nothing
that’s how we get
what we need
we can’t afford
to pay a price
that’s not robbing
somebody, somewhere
caught in the mad web
of making ends meet
there’s a split
we can’t help yet
the veil is opaque
the pattern complex
the organized chaos
the choices made for us
the spin that directs us
to want and need what we have
to go into debt
and struggling to pay it
too distracted
to look around
that’s how it goes down
and no one vote we cast
will get us past
this global mega-boss
getting scroogier by the day
Most Americans can’t yet say
When – How did this happen?
We were so on top of our game
but like an uh oh - check mate
we’ve been tamed
we’ve been played
and the rules have been changed
allowing money to make laws
elect puppets, hide evidence
wear down foes
to keep it the same
till the people in numbers
feel enough of the pain
not to just mask it
not to stay lit
but to actually call out
and take care and get fit
and with a feverish pitch
call themselves to order
in towns, cities and states
even though it seems late
to force the players
in the House and Senate
to negotiate
till votes and laws
are the people’s again and
honest is legit
and money and people
are more joined than split
and shared the way
good people can do.
Good people make
deals that are sweet
and care for each other
and it isn’t a bother
and the motivated
may be richer
but not by
robbing or raping
the land or our neighbors
of their oil or whatever
the some bodies everywhere,
caught like most of us
no kidding,
in the mad web
of making ends meet.
Lonely and Longing for You Angel 2008
Lonely And Longing For You.....Angel
I’m lonely in a peculiar kind of way
for a particular kind of attention
I’m so demanding in my tastes
I ask too much, so much.
And when it comes together just right
it’s so satisfying, so good
and it can happen, does happen
but not all the time, not every time.
Like trying to live and work in a creative state -
is there some alchemical mix
of food and drink, light of day,
fragrance, music in the air
of people milling about and of solitude,
of movement of the bodymind and stillness,
of movement through the moods
that brings the change of dynamics?
I’m longing in a peculiar kind of way
to give a particular kind of attention.
Oh..... the necessity of loving
of having a place to put that energy
ask of me what you will
but don’t ask too much
so much of me every time
but yes, sometimes
I do miss wearing my heart on my sleeve
and I do love the spectacle of carrying the torch.
I’ll run with my torch to you – and light your fire
and we’ll run our torches to you and you and you
and the people of the land in relay will not tire
and the words pronounced upon arrival we’d want to inspire
in that peculiar kind of way
and get a particular kind of attention
as we each one grasp the message of the day
and are moved to make things right upon reception.
And making things right is asking so much.
Too much?
Is there some alchemical mix
of food and drink, light of day,
of fragrance, of music in the air
of words and actions that are true
that gives us the heart and conviction
to get things started and keep it right by me and you
Does the mood of fairness require protection?
So fragile a state this better side of us
What angels can we call upon
to help us hold it day and night
this particular state of creative sight
of heart full of might, that falters not
of fear or insight
and helps us hold dear
the victory of that runner with the light
and not mistake the tower of shattered mirrors
as a sign to kill the messenger
during the dark of night...
and to guide that messenger with words of style
surprise, rhythm and delight?
I want to feed and bless those angels
that wear their hearts on their sleeves
that carry torches, lighting fires of desire
and who speaking truth will inspire
more conviction and compassion
move the bodymind and woo the moods
that brings the change of dynamics
the alchemical mix, the creative sight
that wills strength to live and do what’s right.
.
I’m lonely in a peculiar kind of way
for a particular kind of attention
I’m so demanding in my tastes
I ask too much, so much
but when it comes together just right
it is so satisfying, so good
all seems right in the world
for a few moments and I
find myself somewhere
in the divine intersections
beyond you and I
beyond worry
beyond loneliness and longing
even for you - angel
and it reminds me just how big
the cosmic repertoire really is
that acts upon us
as we spiral through
our times of these times
since the beginning of time
there was no beginning of time
and it does happen, it can happen,
but not all the time, not every time.
I’m lonely in a peculiar kind of way
for a particular kind of attention
I’m so demanding in my tastes
I ask too much, so much.
And when it comes together just right
it’s so satisfying, so good
and it can happen, does happen
but not all the time, not every time.
Like trying to live and work in a creative state -
is there some alchemical mix
of food and drink, light of day,
fragrance, music in the air
of people milling about and of solitude,
of movement of the bodymind and stillness,
of movement through the moods
that brings the change of dynamics?
I’m longing in a peculiar kind of way
to give a particular kind of attention.
Oh..... the necessity of loving
of having a place to put that energy
ask of me what you will
but don’t ask too much
so much of me every time
but yes, sometimes
I do miss wearing my heart on my sleeve
and I do love the spectacle of carrying the torch.
I’ll run with my torch to you – and light your fire
and we’ll run our torches to you and you and you
and the people of the land in relay will not tire
and the words pronounced upon arrival we’d want to inspire
in that peculiar kind of way
and get a particular kind of attention
as we each one grasp the message of the day
and are moved to make things right upon reception.
And making things right is asking so much.
Too much?
Is there some alchemical mix
of food and drink, light of day,
of fragrance, of music in the air
of words and actions that are true
that gives us the heart and conviction
to get things started and keep it right by me and you
Does the mood of fairness require protection?
So fragile a state this better side of us
What angels can we call upon
to help us hold it day and night
this particular state of creative sight
of heart full of might, that falters not
of fear or insight
and helps us hold dear
the victory of that runner with the light
and not mistake the tower of shattered mirrors
as a sign to kill the messenger
during the dark of night...
and to guide that messenger with words of style
surprise, rhythm and delight?
I want to feed and bless those angels
that wear their hearts on their sleeves
that carry torches, lighting fires of desire
and who speaking truth will inspire
more conviction and compassion
move the bodymind and woo the moods
that brings the change of dynamics
the alchemical mix, the creative sight
that wills strength to live and do what’s right.
.
I’m lonely in a peculiar kind of way
for a particular kind of attention
I’m so demanding in my tastes
I ask too much, so much
but when it comes together just right
it is so satisfying, so good
all seems right in the world
for a few moments and I
find myself somewhere
in the divine intersections
beyond you and I
beyond worry
beyond loneliness and longing
even for you - angel
and it reminds me just how big
the cosmic repertoire really is
that acts upon us
as we spiral through
our times of these times
since the beginning of time
there was no beginning of time
and it does happen, it can happen,
but not all the time, not every time.
Muddy Waters, Clear Skies 2007
Muddy Waters, Clear Skies
I love the metal legs of that table
in the window near the sun
lions feet in ribbons of metal
not about to come undone
writing in coffee shops
now includes a voice that harps
how pretentious, how vain and purposefully eavesdrops
while coaxing out that inner voice with it’s flats and sharps.
The music in coffee shops
helps guide the brain flows beyond
the stubborn gaps of stalled movements then hops
synapse to synapse, lyrics and conversation, good props
passers by the lion’s feet beyond the glass
characters of a life entertained, a mystery
to me and so I love to watch the class
as much as the teacher, read their faces, learn their history.
In the clear afternoon light its like watching movies
projected on a brilliant screen of the downtown wildlife
a company of strangers in the comfort of strangers, these reveries
in this home away from home - a brief hiatus from strife.
This is one of the places I haunt – where I find in once in a while
that precarious balance of comfort and angst, focus and interruption
that bumps the mind through stuck points and influences style
and hanging out in the neighborhood gives my soul a little traction
‘cause I’m living here in the Queen City with and without resignation
still feeling a step removed the way one does when showing
up alone but is not alone in a dark room no need for a reservation
to get a good coffee and an anyday B-town viewing.
beats staying at the office stewing
about what I think it is I’m doing
with this precious life I’m living feeling
on hold and at the same time screaming
time streaming, mind reeling, death nearing -nothing new about that one –
but the urgency welling like that orgasm you just barely miss sometimes - fading
and next you find yourself wondering about that next line, a little undone
in feeling and in life. How long have I been here - at the window writing.
I love the metal legs of that table
in the window near the sun
lions feet in ribbons of metal
not about to come undone
writing in coffee shops
now includes a voice that harps
how pretentious, how vain and purposefully eavesdrops
while coaxing out that inner voice with it’s flats and sharps.
The music in coffee shops
helps guide the brain flows beyond
the stubborn gaps of stalled movements then hops
synapse to synapse, lyrics and conversation, good props
passers by the lion’s feet beyond the glass
characters of a life entertained, a mystery
to me and so I love to watch the class
as much as the teacher, read their faces, learn their history.
In the clear afternoon light its like watching movies
projected on a brilliant screen of the downtown wildlife
a company of strangers in the comfort of strangers, these reveries
in this home away from home - a brief hiatus from strife.
This is one of the places I haunt – where I find in once in a while
that precarious balance of comfort and angst, focus and interruption
that bumps the mind through stuck points and influences style
and hanging out in the neighborhood gives my soul a little traction
‘cause I’m living here in the Queen City with and without resignation
still feeling a step removed the way one does when showing
up alone but is not alone in a dark room no need for a reservation
to get a good coffee and an anyday B-town viewing.
beats staying at the office stewing
about what I think it is I’m doing
with this precious life I’m living feeling
on hold and at the same time screaming
time streaming, mind reeling, death nearing -nothing new about that one –
but the urgency welling like that orgasm you just barely miss sometimes - fading
and next you find yourself wondering about that next line, a little undone
in feeling and in life. How long have I been here - at the window writing.
Muse I 2007
Muse I.
Wars, fighting, bleeding
death, mayhem
distruction, grieving
craziness
whether purposeful
or faking it
till you make it.
Greed machine
moves trillions.
Fear, numbness
resignation rules
weighing down many
minds and hearts
the selling of souls
takes its toll.
Enter the Muses
USO
traveling show
girls, free beers, laughs
Bob Hope?
big bands blast
past tears in eyes
tears in skin, wounded
beyond sight.
Back home they’re
working at keeping it
all going
going out Saturday nites
fine tuning TV
Ipod minds, NOT Musing!
going, going, gone
so nobody knows
anymore
not even you
what trouble
you’ve seen.
Wars, fighting, bleeding
death, mayhem
distruction, grieving
craziness
whether purposeful
or faking it
till you make it.
Greed machine
moves trillions.
Fear, numbness
resignation rules
weighing down many
minds and hearts
the selling of souls
takes its toll.
Enter the Muses
USO
traveling show
girls, free beers, laughs
Bob Hope?
big bands blast
past tears in eyes
tears in skin, wounded
beyond sight.
Back home they’re
working at keeping it
all going
going out Saturday nites
fine tuning TV
Ipod minds, NOT Musing!
going, going, gone
so nobody knows
anymore
not even you
what trouble
you’ve seen.
Muse II 2007
Muse II. Invoking the Muses: Some Unsolicited Advice
First off- you’re supposed to:
Work hard. Play hard. Do what’s right.
Fight the good fight.
Feed and raise the kids.
Be an interested, patient and generous lover.
Pay bills. Pay taxes. Volunteer after work,
be a good neighbor, bring in the wood
get the news, remember to vote,
read something useful, change the oil in the car,
weed the garden, take the trash to the dump,
answer the phone and e-mail, collect the eggs,
walk the dog, get the stray cow back in,
do the laundry, fix the broken, clean the dirty,
and put in the hours to invoke the creative genius
to write, draw, paint, carve, pot, sew, sing, play music,
study, invent, design, cook, theorize, philosophize,
politic, mediate, organize, attack, surrender,
deconstruct, reorganize, police, pacify, obfuscate,
agitate, motivate, evaluate, medicate, doctor,
hawk, cop, wrench, fix, build, fund,
meet, drive, pray for the world,
and all the other 10,000 things
that makes for a rich and rewarding incarnation,
then get ready for work tomorrow,
hope bombs don’t fall tonight…..
Carry on with conviction.
Next thing, is to be a little bad and do nothing, spaciously.
Let the senses be
up front timelessly
if just for a little while.
Now let the mind relax and spacious be
as nature there flows endlessly.
The Muse’s mind spring
knows the words
to all the songs
the Universe can sing
and will make perfect use
of your destiny and give direction.
Sleep soundly. Dream. Dream. Dream.
Then dream up the dream
in words and images each morning.
Ply psyche’s gifts of wisdom, warning,
correction and affirmation.
Live accordingly. Pay attention.
These simple things one needs to know
for a balanced life and creative flow.
But its one thing to say and know alright,
another to live each day and night.
Too much work or too much play
It’s OK - vacancy or pain
will point the way to correction.
And another thing -
for this unsolicited advice
is almost spent for now.
Though your work might be
rough before it’s elegant and nice
you’ll be blind and deaf to her inspiration
if too busy obsessing about perfection.
Just live and love well enough.
Just begin it, let yourself be teachable
evolve, and pass it on
to whoever’s waiting in the wings.
Be used up gladly by the end.
Does it matter if you’ll be worm food,
invisibly enlightened,
and loved that way
or famously celebrated by your people
or publicly crucified
and readied for resurrection?
Historically, the wise ones have said
look, here is how it works:
If you work hard and are industrious,
and you also take time out for Musing,
The Muses will inspire you,
energize and direct you
in the execution and delivery of your passions.
And remember -you never get to BE the Muse,
It doesn’t come from you it comes through you.
Even if you are the greatest channel
of Muse seductive genius,
it all disappears if you start thinking
you have in fact become that divine yourself.
One has to make the proper offerings
to the Muses, remain in correct relation
to receive their benevolence
because history has shown
if you directly put your own greatness
to the challenge of any god or goddess
Muses included - you miss the point
and you and your inspiration
will die miserably – no exceptions.
So bring mead, bread, milk and honey
to her alter in the lush green fields
near the bubbling springs of the wood.
Meander, day dream and play there
in the midst of all of your works
and your best work
will be all of your life.
May it be so - and amusing too.
First off- you’re supposed to:
Work hard. Play hard. Do what’s right.
Fight the good fight.
Feed and raise the kids.
Be an interested, patient and generous lover.
Pay bills. Pay taxes. Volunteer after work,
be a good neighbor, bring in the wood
get the news, remember to vote,
read something useful, change the oil in the car,
weed the garden, take the trash to the dump,
answer the phone and e-mail, collect the eggs,
walk the dog, get the stray cow back in,
do the laundry, fix the broken, clean the dirty,
and put in the hours to invoke the creative genius
to write, draw, paint, carve, pot, sew, sing, play music,
study, invent, design, cook, theorize, philosophize,
politic, mediate, organize, attack, surrender,
deconstruct, reorganize, police, pacify, obfuscate,
agitate, motivate, evaluate, medicate, doctor,
hawk, cop, wrench, fix, build, fund,
meet, drive, pray for the world,
and all the other 10,000 things
that makes for a rich and rewarding incarnation,
then get ready for work tomorrow,
hope bombs don’t fall tonight…..
Carry on with conviction.
Next thing, is to be a little bad and do nothing, spaciously.
Let the senses be
up front timelessly
if just for a little while.
Now let the mind relax and spacious be
as nature there flows endlessly.
The Muse’s mind spring
knows the words
to all the songs
the Universe can sing
and will make perfect use
of your destiny and give direction.
Sleep soundly. Dream. Dream. Dream.
Then dream up the dream
in words and images each morning.
Ply psyche’s gifts of wisdom, warning,
correction and affirmation.
Live accordingly. Pay attention.
These simple things one needs to know
for a balanced life and creative flow.
But its one thing to say and know alright,
another to live each day and night.
Too much work or too much play
It’s OK - vacancy or pain
will point the way to correction.
And another thing -
for this unsolicited advice
is almost spent for now.
Though your work might be
rough before it’s elegant and nice
you’ll be blind and deaf to her inspiration
if too busy obsessing about perfection.
Just live and love well enough.
Just begin it, let yourself be teachable
evolve, and pass it on
to whoever’s waiting in the wings.
Be used up gladly by the end.
Does it matter if you’ll be worm food,
invisibly enlightened,
and loved that way
or famously celebrated by your people
or publicly crucified
and readied for resurrection?
Historically, the wise ones have said
look, here is how it works:
If you work hard and are industrious,
and you also take time out for Musing,
The Muses will inspire you,
energize and direct you
in the execution and delivery of your passions.
And remember -you never get to BE the Muse,
It doesn’t come from you it comes through you.
Even if you are the greatest channel
of Muse seductive genius,
it all disappears if you start thinking
you have in fact become that divine yourself.
One has to make the proper offerings
to the Muses, remain in correct relation
to receive their benevolence
because history has shown
if you directly put your own greatness
to the challenge of any god or goddess
Muses included - you miss the point
and you and your inspiration
will die miserably – no exceptions.
So bring mead, bread, milk and honey
to her alter in the lush green fields
near the bubbling springs of the wood.
Meander, day dream and play there
in the midst of all of your works
and your best work
will be all of your life.
May it be so - and amusing too.
Muse III 2007
Muse III.
Memory Mom made Muses.
Muses, meliorists make moxie - mirth mix
mollifying madness.
Muses make men magnificent
madams maenadic
moments mythic.
Meaning maybe moving mourning masses
milking minds, muscles mending,
meandering, mesmerizing, marveling
merely musing...
Meaning maybe music marries movement
melody, maieutic mind,
memory makes marvelous moods...
Meaning maybe manic meddling
mediating mayhem, misery
might meet merry muses
making monumental majesty
mixing moxie mirth
mollifying madness, mythic moments...
Meaning maybe merely
musing mints masterpieces.
Memory Mom made Muses.
Muses, meliorists make moxie - mirth mix
mollifying madness.
Muses make men magnificent
madams maenadic
moments mythic.
Meaning maybe moving mourning masses
milking minds, muscles mending,
meandering, mesmerizing, marveling
merely musing...
Meaning maybe music marries movement
melody, maieutic mind,
memory makes marvelous moods...
Meaning maybe manic meddling
mediating mayhem, misery
might meet merry muses
making monumental majesty
mixing moxie mirth
mollifying madness, mythic moments...
Meaning maybe merely
musing mints masterpieces.
Playing Me 8/08
Playing Me
Last night , as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvelous error!- that I have a bee hive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures. Antonio Muchado
He said:
ummmm baby, you look so......
I mean you just feel so.....
you are so.....
there's so I much I want to talk about.....
so much I want to do with you.....
the way you.....
just saying it makes me feel so......
moves me deep down inside so......
you mean so much to me....
we're going to be ok, we really are....
She said:
Darling -
your technique is flawless
so much precision and passion
you play me
like a Stradavarious
the way you hold me firmly in place
your fingers on my heart strings
teasing out, slamming down,
urging thru engaging,
finding, calling out
playing every emotion
and I deliver
a tone, a breathiness
a resonance
my action
the tension
the vibrational distance
just right
to glorify the way you slide and glide
and punctuate each note
the vibrado sustaining
those heart wrenching dynamics
quiet little meditations
foot stomping door slamming tantrums
rampaging furies
angelic soarings
hearts raised
beyond the sun
to the cosmos
sudden turns of motion moving
from outer orbits
to deep inner chambers
to the labyrinths
of all human experience
from the beginning of time
till the well
anticipated finale and rest.
All this in your words, your poetics.
You con me into opening again and again.
Darling -
these are dangerous incriminating words
words that feed a soul hunger so beautifully
words that queens inhale
as they proudly walk to their beheadding
if they weren't made to her by her king
if the king was a walking deadman
who thanks to her
infidelity is finally enlivened
enflamed again by jealousy
not that it returns anything kind to her now.
All of us who have been deceived
know words like these
can not be sent
without infatuation's captivating spell
hook, line and sinker
we take it
run with it
then fight for our lives -
some of us break the line
but are hooked for life
when you're starving
you take the bait -
thats just how it is.
Possessed by demon, angel or daemon?
A cycle of seasons sheds light.
Regardless -
its fed the hungry lions
of my soul for now
and they rest in that warm sun
that is breaking out in my heart
that hasn't noticed
it has rained every day all summer.
Last night , as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvelous error!- that I have a bee hive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures. Antonio Muchado
He said:
ummmm baby, you look so......
I mean you just feel so.....
you are so.....
there's so I much I want to talk about.....
so much I want to do with you.....
the way you.....
just saying it makes me feel so......
moves me deep down inside so......
you mean so much to me....
we're going to be ok, we really are....
She said:
Darling -
your technique is flawless
so much precision and passion
you play me
like a Stradavarious
the way you hold me firmly in place
your fingers on my heart strings
teasing out, slamming down,
urging thru engaging,
finding, calling out
playing every emotion
and I deliver
a tone, a breathiness
a resonance
my action
the tension
the vibrational distance
just right
to glorify the way you slide and glide
and punctuate each note
the vibrado sustaining
those heart wrenching dynamics
quiet little meditations
foot stomping door slamming tantrums
rampaging furies
angelic soarings
hearts raised
beyond the sun
to the cosmos
sudden turns of motion moving
from outer orbits
to deep inner chambers
to the labyrinths
of all human experience
from the beginning of time
till the well
anticipated finale and rest.
All this in your words, your poetics.
You con me into opening again and again.
Darling -
these are dangerous incriminating words
words that feed a soul hunger so beautifully
words that queens inhale
as they proudly walk to their beheadding
if they weren't made to her by her king
if the king was a walking deadman
who thanks to her
infidelity is finally enlivened
enflamed again by jealousy
not that it returns anything kind to her now.
All of us who have been deceived
know words like these
can not be sent
without infatuation's captivating spell
hook, line and sinker
we take it
run with it
then fight for our lives -
some of us break the line
but are hooked for life
when you're starving
you take the bait -
thats just how it is.
Possessed by demon, angel or daemon?
A cycle of seasons sheds light.
Regardless -
its fed the hungry lions
of my soul for now
and they rest in that warm sun
that is breaking out in my heart
that hasn't noticed
it has rained every day all summer.
What is it about that kind of love? 2008
What is it about that kind of love?
What is it about the kind of love
that is vitalizing not vampiring
where lovers are nourished but no one is consumed
both are fed, feasted even
and neither has the childish hollow leg
or gaping black-holeness of never enough
so that a natural satiation happens
and when that feeling comes
of I’ve had enough of you for now
it’s mutual and if not-
its recognizable, savored, enjoyed
that there’s satisfaction in knowing
one has taken in all they need of you
and you have lavished
in their myriad of offerings of self
and if not completely over flowing
are not always seeing your own gold filled goblet
or chipped mug as half empty or worse
and regardless of the degree of satiation
when the time comes to back away
from the feasting and do the dishes of loving
and each of you puts away your own leftovers
and retreats to digest and absorb all that has just happened
there is- like in my grandmother’s time
perhaps a brief nap or a savory smoke
and then back to one’s work or activities
one’s own life – however merged or separate
where one both replenishes and exhausts
is diminished or pushed
to evolve, whether alone or in the world
and this is what we bring back to the banquet of love
The kind of love that gets filled during fasting
the kind of love that gets renewed, returned and revived
when the two are not always one
but are always two
and when together is secure enough
not to always have to be together
and when the two can be distinct enough
solid enough to not merge,
not disappear, not cease to be real.
Otherwise its a different kind of love
in which the other is always being
consumed, exhausted, spent
and eventually all that it holds up to you
is a mirror of yourself
and you find yourself longing to see them
trying to touch them
but its flat and unresponsive
that mirror is impenetrable
it waits for you to do all the talking
for you to act, you to chose, you to decide,
it waits for you – but it’s nothing.
there’s only an image of love.
What is it about the kind of love
that is patient and generous
capable and imaginative enough
to love someone while facing the emptiness
the vacancy of self – talking them
into collecting moss,
fixing the foundation and walls, waiting patiently
for them to figure out their own favorite colors
helping discover and replace the boundaries of self –
repairing all the broken fences and windows, busted in doors,
and revising the outer meeting places of the soul as well,
the porches, yards, garden gates,
street corners and cafe’s of the self –
and to co-create this with destiny
and make them not just useful
but beautiful and easy to love.
What is it about that kind of love?
What is it about the kind of love
that is vitalizing not vampiring
where lovers are nourished but no one is consumed
both are fed, feasted even
and neither has the childish hollow leg
or gaping black-holeness of never enough
so that a natural satiation happens
and when that feeling comes
of I’ve had enough of you for now
it’s mutual and if not-
its recognizable, savored, enjoyed
that there’s satisfaction in knowing
one has taken in all they need of you
and you have lavished
in their myriad of offerings of self
and if not completely over flowing
are not always seeing your own gold filled goblet
or chipped mug as half empty or worse
and regardless of the degree of satiation
when the time comes to back away
from the feasting and do the dishes of loving
and each of you puts away your own leftovers
and retreats to digest and absorb all that has just happened
there is- like in my grandmother’s time
perhaps a brief nap or a savory smoke
and then back to one’s work or activities
one’s own life – however merged or separate
where one both replenishes and exhausts
is diminished or pushed
to evolve, whether alone or in the world
and this is what we bring back to the banquet of love
The kind of love that gets filled during fasting
the kind of love that gets renewed, returned and revived
when the two are not always one
but are always two
and when together is secure enough
not to always have to be together
and when the two can be distinct enough
solid enough to not merge,
not disappear, not cease to be real.
Otherwise its a different kind of love
in which the other is always being
consumed, exhausted, spent
and eventually all that it holds up to you
is a mirror of yourself
and you find yourself longing to see them
trying to touch them
but its flat and unresponsive
that mirror is impenetrable
it waits for you to do all the talking
for you to act, you to chose, you to decide,
it waits for you – but it’s nothing.
there’s only an image of love.
What is it about the kind of love
that is patient and generous
capable and imaginative enough
to love someone while facing the emptiness
the vacancy of self – talking them
into collecting moss,
fixing the foundation and walls, waiting patiently
for them to figure out their own favorite colors
helping discover and replace the boundaries of self –
repairing all the broken fences and windows, busted in doors,
and revising the outer meeting places of the soul as well,
the porches, yards, garden gates,
street corners and cafe’s of the self –
and to co-create this with destiny
and make them not just useful
but beautiful and easy to love.
What is it about that kind of love?
Sacred Suffering 2008
Sacred Suffering
Its hard to write about psychotherapy
in a soulful tongue.
Its hard to listen during psychotherapy
for soul expressing itself.
Psychopomps turned psychotherapists.
All caught up in the trappings of thinking
and of what comes to mind
and the mechanics of bandaids on pain
forgetting how rich and potent mining pain
can be for getting to the essence of things.
Pain is where we all struggle to maintain
integrity under attack, duress, and loss.
Its counter intuitive to stay with it
stay in it. A rite of passage we neglect now.
So soul initiates by making messes of our lives
hardly anyone remembers the rituals,
stories or songs for getting through it.
So we reinvent it over and over but don’t get it.
We just want it to stop and go away.
But we also need it or love it and want it to stay
like the drinking and drugging and puking and cutting
the 10,000 ways of acting out
all triumphs and tribulations made mundane and profane
unconscious, unfeeling, unguided, unimagined
out of relationship to time, to history, ancestors, place.
So we make a holy ground of the psychotherapy space
where the sun and the moon are seen in the soul of self
and the solitary centers are filled with being
and the empty and full is exchanged in every breath
and becoming human is just being real
in the company of someone else who sees you,
and keeps an eye on things so you can go there,
till you learn the way
and can go there and back on your own
and creates language and hears the story of your healing
and watches for the time of new budding
and knows that you are now well rooted,
your trunk strong and with the right degree of flexibility
and welcomes you home to yourself
and then says good bye
go in peace and with love.
Its hard to write about psychotherapy
in a soulful tongue.
Its hard to listen during psychotherapy
for soul expressing itself.
Psychopomps turned psychotherapists.
All caught up in the trappings of thinking
and of what comes to mind
and the mechanics of bandaids on pain
forgetting how rich and potent mining pain
can be for getting to the essence of things.
Pain is where we all struggle to maintain
integrity under attack, duress, and loss.
Its counter intuitive to stay with it
stay in it. A rite of passage we neglect now.
So soul initiates by making messes of our lives
hardly anyone remembers the rituals,
stories or songs for getting through it.
So we reinvent it over and over but don’t get it.
We just want it to stop and go away.
But we also need it or love it and want it to stay
like the drinking and drugging and puking and cutting
the 10,000 ways of acting out
all triumphs and tribulations made mundane and profane
unconscious, unfeeling, unguided, unimagined
out of relationship to time, to history, ancestors, place.
So we make a holy ground of the psychotherapy space
where the sun and the moon are seen in the soul of self
and the solitary centers are filled with being
and the empty and full is exchanged in every breath
and becoming human is just being real
in the company of someone else who sees you,
and keeps an eye on things so you can go there,
till you learn the way
and can go there and back on your own
and creates language and hears the story of your healing
and watches for the time of new budding
and knows that you are now well rooted,
your trunk strong and with the right degree of flexibility
and welcomes you home to yourself
and then says good bye
go in peace and with love.
Save it for the Paper 11/08
Save it for the Paper
Please, spare me the details keep your news
I don’t have the time, all I got I could lose,
would lose gladly if it freed me from the likes of you...
There are thoughts that are better left unspoken, saved for paper
saved for that private sacred space, not to be intoned or articulated
or allowed to take on a life in thin air, metamorphosed into neural memory
and passed around till distorted and taken out of context and then spat at you, or painted on your house or hey maybe even news for the local paper...
I don’t want to be held accountable for every thought. I don’t want to read my journal at poetry readings – as if it were art, as if- it were beautiful, artful, well-worked, worked out, word – thought – feelings – images-as if it were news, as if it were important, even to me.
And sometimes it’s all so important to me, it’s so important I’m struck with the necessity of taking it to paper – to hold it still long enough to lure the lines into burning arrows of insight or cool flows of relief or warm languid layers of truth that set all the tumblers of the locks to open and we get released again, for as long as we can remember it – this time. Maybe it turns into my permanent transformation till impermanence collects it’s final due – our undoing, when no news matters, though we do write obituaries – they do seem to matter that week and then they don’t – we save them for the paper
And we save the paper, the bags of recycling for pick-up or for starting the wood stove – up in smoke – up into the ethers where all news goes whether spoken or written eventually.
Cultural genocide, book burnings, political posters plastered incognito in the dark of night, Che Gravera on my bright red t-shirt in stark black block print, that t-shirt now falling apart, long after any conversation of the movement, who cares? Who remembers? Who want’s to know?
It’s election day. We all wait in anticipation of the news, the pundits pontificating their spoken word into our personal and collective ethers, like breath that comes and goes. Tomorrow the special edition election headlines will tell us our fates from the newspaper boxes on street corners, they’ll be left on diner counters, with coffee cup rings and worn edges. The paper sits there quietly waiting to be read, it may have bold glaring headlines but you can always look away. The pundits all spinning, making the most of a historical event – and I can’t help but think that even with 40 channels spinning it 24/7 we won’t really know what’s going on anyway...
Please, spare me the details keep your news
I don’t have the time, all I got I could lose,
would lose gladly if it freed me from the likes of you...
There are thoughts that are better left unspoken, saved for paper
saved for that private sacred space, not to be intoned or articulated
or allowed to take on a life in thin air, metamorphosed into neural memory
and passed around till distorted and taken out of context and then spat at you, or painted on your house or hey maybe even news for the local paper...
I don’t want to be held accountable for every thought. I don’t want to read my journal at poetry readings – as if it were art, as if- it were beautiful, artful, well-worked, worked out, word – thought – feelings – images-as if it were news, as if it were important, even to me.
And sometimes it’s all so important to me, it’s so important I’m struck with the necessity of taking it to paper – to hold it still long enough to lure the lines into burning arrows of insight or cool flows of relief or warm languid layers of truth that set all the tumblers of the locks to open and we get released again, for as long as we can remember it – this time. Maybe it turns into my permanent transformation till impermanence collects it’s final due – our undoing, when no news matters, though we do write obituaries – they do seem to matter that week and then they don’t – we save them for the paper
And we save the paper, the bags of recycling for pick-up or for starting the wood stove – up in smoke – up into the ethers where all news goes whether spoken or written eventually.
Cultural genocide, book burnings, political posters plastered incognito in the dark of night, Che Gravera on my bright red t-shirt in stark black block print, that t-shirt now falling apart, long after any conversation of the movement, who cares? Who remembers? Who want’s to know?
It’s election day. We all wait in anticipation of the news, the pundits pontificating their spoken word into our personal and collective ethers, like breath that comes and goes. Tomorrow the special edition election headlines will tell us our fates from the newspaper boxes on street corners, they’ll be left on diner counters, with coffee cup rings and worn edges. The paper sits there quietly waiting to be read, it may have bold glaring headlines but you can always look away. The pundits all spinning, making the most of a historical event – and I can’t help but think that even with 40 channels spinning it 24/7 we won’t really know what’s going on anyway...
Pearl 4/29/08
Pearl
She blinked those big, round, blue
eyes her milk face and sharp black
eyeliner a thing to behold
and somehow in the din of the diner
light she glowed
like a goddess, no one finer
no one seemed to notice
the run in her stocking or
the strawberry stain
on her white dress.
She was all business
and that guy from out a town
never saw it coming
like he was hog tied and laid down
by her shy smile and the endearing
ways she served him what she’d made
and what looked like innocence
was actually her stock and trade
something that had only made sense
to her as she realized
what she had just done.
She had caught his eye and surprised
by her interest this long lost son
found himself alive and well
his internal compass rising up
he knew it might be trouble and still
shook his head in humor thinking yup
here we go then jumped in the game
and asked “So girl, what’s your name?”
And she smiling, head cocked said
“Pearl.”
She blinked those big, round, blue
eyes her milk face and sharp black
eyeliner a thing to behold
and somehow in the din of the diner
light she glowed
like a goddess, no one finer
no one seemed to notice
the run in her stocking or
the strawberry stain
on her white dress.
She was all business
and that guy from out a town
never saw it coming
like he was hog tied and laid down
by her shy smile and the endearing
ways she served him what she’d made
and what looked like innocence
was actually her stock and trade
something that had only made sense
to her as she realized
what she had just done.
She had caught his eye and surprised
by her interest this long lost son
found himself alive and well
his internal compass rising up
he knew it might be trouble and still
shook his head in humor thinking yup
here we go then jumped in the game
and asked “So girl, what’s your name?”
And she smiling, head cocked said
“Pearl.”
First Entry
I've been wanting to learn to do this for a while. I like the idea of sharing ideas, images, evocations, inspirations, reflections - having a vehicle for casting them out to the universe...like exhaling...what does it matter? Who knows.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
