Fast Pitch 1

Sitting in the box seats

for my first major league game

with my three year old son - too young?

For baseball?  For box seats?  Not possible...

We were right there

between home plate and first base

and for the first time

we watched every pitch.

Each pitch consistent yet different

and most clocking over 90 mph.

It was mesmerizing.

I found myself entranced

with the steady rhythm

of the pitcher's pattern

of feet roughing up the mound

chewing and spitting

looking to first and third

the throw to second to hold

the intrepid runner at first.

Hypnotic dynamics, the roaring organ

and the high volume announcers

shifting to talking low

during the feet roughing, chewing, spitting

coolly reporting the count of each pitch

trading stats and gossip up in the box

keeping up the background chatter.

Then, suddenly the volume explodes

the announcers, the crowd, loud

emotional and on the edge of sanity

during the scoring plays and errors

highlighting and replaying

the player’s record breaking skill

respectable hard earned athleticism

shameful loss of control

or poor sportsmanship.

The announcer, the classic organ

and ready to go band sound bites

the baseball anthems

and pulsing visuals

on the score board

guiding the full stadium

to ecstasy or let down

depending on which side

you are loyal to. 

Sometimes the play is so beautifully

executed and the team work so tight

you well up for the other side too.

By the second inning

nothing else in life matters.

It's all in the pitch.

I wonder if the pitcher's shoulders

look different under his shirt

if one is bionically muscled

and the other just regular

looking dwarfed in comparison.

It’s all the posturing out there

the nervous tics,  jaw tight, constantly chewing

and tongue packing his cheek,

hand adjusting brim backed hat

eyes moving with head not turning

suddenly between pitches

ball thrown to first

to hold back pandemonium

and this time he nails

that base stealer on the run.

I’m in awe, that nobody ever

misses the catch and has to go

running for it while the stealer

gets to 3rd or scores

like back in 5^th  grade softball.

The pitcher and catcher speak volumes

silently, in sign, in front of their balls

or their faces where nothing registers

while each batter is sized up

and strategies are set between them

such that the batter may or may not know

what's coming at him.

And so it goes

inning after inning

the patterns, tics, talks

practiced perfections and errors

the lone batter up against

the pitcher’s team machine

and it’s all him no hers.

It's still a man's world

and it all rides on a fast pitch.

Lily's Pad

Lily’s pad floats freely

tucked in neatly, flanked

by friend’s pads en-mass

circular, shiny, sun catching

dragon fly acrobats aeriel

tourmaline teal toast grey not shy

visit Lily’s pad in couplets

Lily’s pad a reliable oasis where

the brilliant meet and hang out.

That lily pad green much

like those first bell bottoms

big bold crisp green leaves on white

worn too many days of the week

the only ones I had

with desert boots way to big

to give me growing room

I would never need that much of,

often alone as a kid,

wading in silent reverie

in the tannic stream of life

but in good company.

Naturally, as it must always happen

brilliance fades in the summer dusk

grassy fields of darkening greens

disappear as the dewy night descends

and yes! Out pops our fire fly friends

beep beep beaming little green lights

reachable stars kids trap in jars

tangible first miracles

take us through

those early darkest nights

till morning’s light

calls for new adventures

ducking the neighborhood kids

slipping silently across the green fields

with her fresh spider webs and bee busy clovers

to be dazzled by my pals at Lily’s pad.

February 2011

Blue Spruce

Blue spruce blue Christmas

Pine, beer and turkey juices simmering

atmospheric steam building

Nana’s hot kitchen

only for the hard core

blue smoke twists off the end

of three cigarettes gathering in layers.

It pays to be short if breathing is necessary

while stealing date nut bread

and its cool cream cheese spread.

Black and blues neatly concealed

special cut glass sparkles, table shines

lifting porcelain reflections

to the sublime laid to rest for us on

crisp pure white table clothes.

Don’t fear spilled gravy

or deep red cranberry sauce

we eat to live here and live to eat

and afterward

black and blues disappear

as red knuckles wring out years

of excess pain

bleaching and rinsing,

starching and ironing

the linens, all of them

layered in tissue paper flat

put away in dark drawers

that smell of freshness.

Sitting around with coffee, cigarettes and cards

the women argue over what really happened

none of the men could handle it

my uncle, the youngest son

in his 68 blue corvette

drove me to the pines of Mount Grace

showed me things pure and true

like spruce seedlings starting themselves

in the cool moist safe place of his refuge

just before he moved out West for good.

February 23, 2011

Bittersweet Blindside

Overhead dim heaviness

hunkers handsomely draped

around hilly shoulders

all the land white wedding

ready, sparkling and pristine

no sharp edges today

all rounded corners

all dampened and silenced

no point in fighting it

something seeps into

soul system and weeping

would be right at a time like this

but all is static and dry

silently falling hope fleeing

like the dwindling woodpile

unnamable everything both

OK and all wrong

not OK and not all wrong

what does this blindside see

that lies without form or distinction

so silently covered in this

beautiful bittersweet moment

that lingers in the atmosphere

like the sultry wood smoke layering

its dusky hues in the

sparkling relief?

February 2, 2011

Extravagant

Extravagant is what gifts should be

Those lovely extras beyond the usual

functional necessaries

of a lean self-allowance.

The special chocolate or hand made salt from afar

the golden bees wax candles that smell of the hive

the fine design, the greatest of the small satisfactions

of still being alive

the catapulted sensory lift 

from the impacts of time, gravity

wear and tear

and mostly, of the mundane

In a world of plastic and polyester resin basics

extravagance is anything natural, elemental

non-composite, non-genetically modified

unprocessed, unfortified, unadulterated

In my world of paycheck to paycheck 

and hey, I’m grateful to have one,

extravagant is anything beyond my monthly bills.

Its the quality upgrade or the handmade, homemade

of extravagant hours submerged in creative productivity.

Extravagant will be that row of garlic next summer

bending in the breeze long after frozen fingers

and stiff joints packed them into their little graves

covering them for the long winter’s night

with their blankets of leaves.

Extravagant is the sensory world

when attention is grounded

the deep cleansing breath

the long sighing stretch

the simple life well attended.

The extravagant life is the antithesis

of mental poverty and superficial wealth.

It is what is fine, sublime, beautiful, comfortable, natural.

It is the luxury of time and presence

and the richest of it inherent in simply seeing, hearing, feeling 

and smelling the natural world and making something of it.

November 22, 2010

Personals

Websites for hunting and fishing

for lovers, for love

faces, images brought forward

self projections, protections,

multiple exposures

Who, what are you really

behind the shimmering

mirage of distance

Silicone valley of love

lies just further than here

Monsters can be blocked

profiles pulled for invisibility

but you have to show

yours to see theirs

available for everyone

to view, imagine, compare, capture, save

In order to be introduced, seen, picked, loved

a virtual promenade – alone and out of context

no proud mother walking by your side

helping you pick, unabashedly telling of your excellencies

allowing you to prance proudly or humbly

in the dress that smells of cotton that has hung on the line

sweet breeze wrapped round you

displaying a hint of your true nature

No, now it means settling for two dimensions

and a lot of imagination

a conversation begins

lots of reading between the lines

without the reptilian wisdom

of reading body language, eye contact,

without checking the chemistry

without the mystery of divine intervention

We tell ourselves we’re free

to make more conscious choices

intellect over sex appeal

What kind of love comes

of the small minded self-will

that would feed someone

all of your best lines

all of your needs and vulnerabilities

so they can exquisitely tell you

what you have needed to hear

all of your life

words to fill the vacuum

of your soul

fill the deep abyss

of a heart with cracks

where love leaks out like a sieve

and beneath it lies

an ocean desert mountain

of longing, longing, longing

even while you are telling them

that you’re cool and have a great full life

and don’t really need anyone

The love void, soul hunger

only really filled by loving

self and others when trying to get by

during the inevitable lapses

of forgetfulness that we are always embedded

inseparable from Divine love.

Cyberwords important yes

but like drugs – no replacement for real life

or the love of family, friends,

fools and mysterious strangers

on line hunting and fishing

hoping to get caught hook line and sinker

netted by a great love

as each hopeful soul leers out

like cruising an adoption registry

from an animal rescue

yes there’s a few bad habits

but ultimately still loveable...

lonely late night hours spent

nauseated by the lecherous dirt bags

or titillated by the peacock like display

of all those great catches, trophy lovers

and wondering which of these am I...

For fifty-nine dollars for three months

Hope flickers and disappointment looms

in the potential for delivery by the great universe

from beyond the little circle that I live in

of that next great love

that isn’t meant to be this way.

9/19/2010

and again...

What is it that we really want?

...besides to be held and touched
in a way that anchors soul to earth
and not to be sabotaged, betrayed again
in the pursuit of a love life, a loving life,

no love knife flick of the wrist
casting off the dingy in the big rough waters
while you with your motor that always starts
or a perfect wind are already miles under way

and me, an expert by now in negotiating choppy seas
with only my own sheer will for oars will make
the best of being set free

totally free again to rebuild, redirect, resurrect
the holy mast of humble new beginnings.
Ever the beginning student of love - life...

October 2011

Pieced Together

So many years of driving
winding roads through
moose country blinding snow
storm squalls every
Wednesday night
only the guardrails
to keep you centered
nevermind the lines
these faded boundaries
invisible now.

All those years of weekly visits
followed by weekly phone calls
weekend workshops, week long conferences,
after years of graduate school,
years on the table breathing into feelings
phantom possessions
inviting the furies
to unleash their bitter tongues
then surprising them with healing
heart melting words and tones
and welcoming them back home.
Finally free.

June 2011

Making History

This much I know:

The Government (or the financially powerful behind the Government) here in America and Elsewhere, creates a Mythic Story in place of the Real Story when it needs to, to get what it wants.

They tell it to the Press.

The Press reports it as a real story, over and over.

The Press engages pundits and bystanders to report and debate the Mythic Story as if it were the real story.

There is an absence of questioning the story.

There is a culture of don’t ask, don’t ask.

The Mythic Story becomes history.

The Mythic Story becomes the platform of a mythic foreign policy for decades – for ever.

Politicians and intellectuals talk the talk and walk the walk of the Mythic History because they are indoctrinated by powerful allies with fabricated or spun insider “validated evidence”so they will operate with the Mythic Story as the true story worth defending at all costs.

There is a culture and practice of intimidation, out-casting, marginalization or elimination for anyone who effectively disturbs the status quo in any way.

The Myth makers tell the Press when to be silent and the Press then ignores any coverage of questioning or alternative opinions that could gain traction in dismantling the Mythic Story.

When a threatening challenge to the Mythic Story arises and gains a concerning level of traction, typically distractions like other moral dramas with a loaded emotional charge with either a unifying or divisive nature are broadcast as the next big story, obsessively repeated all day for several days or a week while simultaneously avoiding any mention of any other actual Real Stories or else a new Myth is created and sold to the Press in order to “handle it”.

Any catastrophe is a major boon time for the Government or the Powerful to get the things done on their agendas that may only be accomplished during the secrecy afforded by the world being consumed by the news and emotional reverberations related to the catastrophe.

To that end, Governments or the Powerful have a History of occasionally creating catastrophes when needing the benefit of secrecy, evasion and situational manipulation as well as the benefit of its either unifying or divisive impact on the society (whatever is most useful to the operation at hand) and this kind of evil is beyond the imagination or consideration of the average good person, making it unquestionable and ideal for Mythologizing.

This has probably been going on since the beginning of human time.

What’s harder to know, what I’ll maybe never know and will always be curious about is – What are the Real Stories?

May 2011

Manic Spring

High waters and still raining

squishy saturated earth

drowned worms    robin’s delight

Dormancy breaks slowly

over weeks of dark clouds

postponing the manic frenzy

of an all too short growing season

Even still, a young man on fire

has been up nights writing a new

constitution, rewriting will come later

ideas flooding swiftly with urgency 

to reright the country

he so loves, heal the only broken

mother and father he knows

no God to trust

no time for lust even

No one gets it.

He’s speaking in light speed fragments

and each one sparks clusters of revelations

critical to the revision

We talk of the pros and cons

of medicine meant to bring down

the idle speed enough to straighten

the thoughts and lengthen sentences

to allow paragraphs with coherence

so maybe he could have a good meeting

with the president

so maybe he could get this book out 

to the world so the good 

clueless people who mean well 

but just dont get it could see 

and things could be righted...

And we both fear the possibility

of the loss of it all, the silencing, extinguishing

of this passionate, well intended enthusiasm.

If he takes the medicine,

if he falls asleep it will take too long.

It won't be written.

While everyone slumbers in their anesthesia

tricksters will continue to ravage 

the integrity of his beloved 

this most magnificent 

and beautiful country

nobody is righting it and

in 2012 the World is said to end.

May 2011

Remembering and Forgetting

Needy, greedy, wealthy, seductive…

Terrorism a reaction to or method of oppression.

We’re not really free to step outside the lines or think out of the box.

We’re oppressed and ignorant and can still be further exploited.

Terrorism – a reaction to or method of oppression,

lock-step the military industrial complex,

we’re oppressed and ignorant and can still be further exploited.

The media tell us over and over what we really want.

Lock-step the military industrial complex

Industrial public schools, factory farms feed and produce

model citizens for their corporate national grind.

The media tell us over and over what we really want.

The war on drugs is hype, they like us passive and stupefied.

Industrial public schools, factory farms feed and produce

model citizens for our corporate national grind.

Many of us no longer even say grace as we eat the sacrifice of so many prodded souls.

The war on drugs is hype, they like us passive and stupefied.

Miraculously, some thrive, become worldly and wise, with their hearts and souls in-tact.

Many of us no longer say grace as we eat the sacrifice of so many prodded souls.

While others pray and write, prodding us to WAKE UP

Miraculously, some thrive, become worldly and wise, with their hearts and souls in-tact,

integrating some version of the corporate national grind with soul food so they can still recall history, care deeply, suffer it all, without denial and perpetual oblivion.

While others pray and write, prodding us to WAKE UP,

we still can’t comprehend why terrorists fly into buildings:

unable to integrate some version of the corporate national grind with soul food so we can still recall history, care deeply, suffer it all without denial and perpetual oblivion.

Like naive little children, even the House and Senate bought in.

We still can’t comprehend why terrorists fly into buildings.

We’re terrified but the giant money mongering oppressor simply regrets it as part of the cost of doing business.

Like naive little children even the House and Senate bought in.

Which terrorists flew into buildings? Ours or theirs? We aren’t asking. This sacrifice, this media nightmare is their best opportunity to lick some tricks.

We’re terrified but the giant money mongering oppressor simply regrets it as part of the cost of doing business.

They wear the colors of Conservatives, Republicans and yes, Democrats

Which terrorists flew into buildings? Ours or theirs? We aren’t asking. This sacrifice, this media nightmare is their best opportunity to lick some tricks.

Their moral code says personal wealth by whatever means is the highest value.

They wear the colors of Conservatives, Republicans and yes, Democrats

Propaganda points the finger at the next Bad Guy that has what they want and declares “War On Terror”

Their moral code says personal wealth by whatever means is the highest value

War is usually a boon to somebody. The National Debt nicely funds unchecked corporate and private profits.

Propaganda points the finger at the next Bad Guy that has what they want and declares “War On Terror”

Meanwhile, we’ve got bills to pay and the car needs fixing and we’re too busy working overtime to pay attention.

War is usually a boon to somebody. The National Debt nicely funds unchecked corporate and private profits.

Troop withdrawal date? Sorry, that would interfere with profiteering and their future poaching plans.

Meanwhile, we’ve got bills to pay and the car needs fixing and we’re too busy working overtime to pay attention.

The media hides the news and spins the entertainment for a few weeks and eventually we forget.

Troop withdrawal date? Sorry, that would interfere with profiteering and their future poaching plans.

We’re blind that we oppress others, embedded in the corporate grind, corruption too tangled to fathom.

The media hides the news and spins the entertainment for a few weeks and eventually we forget.

Many years later and deeper in the lies, still not owning our imperialism,

We’re blind that we oppress others, embedded in the corporate grind, corruption too tangled to fathom.

Our great constitutional principles are dismissible when Big Money runs government.

Many years later and deeper in the lies, still not owning our imperialism,

the rich are getting richer and some have lost their minds with power.

Our great constitutional principles are dismissible when Big Money runs government.

Big money has bought politicians in all parties and writes its own laws.

The rich are getting richer and some have lost their minds with power.

Destabilization and the destruction of nations makes big business poaching possible.

Big money has bought politicians in all parties and writes its own laws.

Propaganda about hot moral issues divides us so we won’t work together and interfere with their plans to profit via armed robbery or whatever seems necessary.

Destabilization and the destruction of nations makes big business poaching possible.

Not enough votes or power to restore justice for lying our way to Iraq

Propaganda about hot moral issues divides us so we won’t work together and interfere with their plans to profit via armed robbery or whatever seems necessary.

Over population, peak oil ending, climate change, food and water shortages...

Not enough votes or power to restore justice for lying our way to Iraq

Legislative ball busting and blackmail keeps everybody on message...

Over population, peak oil ending, climate change, food and water shortages...

Embedded, unconscious, how will we not repeat it again and again?

Legislative ball busting and blackmail keeps everybody on message.

We’re not really free to step outside the lines or think out of the box.

Embedded, unconscious, how will we not repeat it again and again?

State Terrorism – a reaction to or method of oppression.....

I Like My Bike

I like my bike

I’m goin on strike

against my car

gonna see how far

my bike can take me

before you waste me

cause you’re on your phone

while you move your ass

with your big four wheels

and your expensive gas

I’ll be ridin my bike

my b b b b bike

in the rain, in the night

legs aching with the might

looking straight at you

and you hate my sight

cause I’m turning left

and you hate to wait

but I’m a bandit on my bike

passing cars and runnin lites

to my next meeting

and my next date

and if I leave a little early

then I won’t be late

I can take my bike

my b b b b bike

I’m goin on strike

against my car

won’t you join me

out on the tar

and take it back

from those big ol’ cars

the road is ours

you might steal my bike

but its not special

its got a basket and a lite

its just a simple bike

I like my bike

my b b b b bike

I like to hike

but its faster on my bike

and kinda fun on my bike

I learned to peddle

through the turns

I wear no helmet

so kill me if you hit me

that way it won’t hurt long

It doesn’t take my cash

I might pay

with road rash

no plans to crash

but accidents happen

I watch my ass

I know the code

I’ll let you pass

I like my bike....

I like my b b b b bike

I know its queer

to roll my pants up

so the chain won’t

fuck the dance up

as I rattle and roll

the breeze in my hair

oh so grey now

I don’t care now

I’m still on strike

and goin’ far

without my car

I like my bike

I like my b b b b bike

the seat still hurts

the hill still kills

I squeeze in spurts

breathing harder still

my chest slam heart fills

pounds my head and ears

only got three gears

I’m still outta breath

hafta walk it to the crest

but its OK

I still like my bike

I like your bike

I like to see you

on your bike

lets stay on strike

lets do our bikes

I like my bike

I like my b b b b bike

I like my bike.

Windstorm

A wild wind blows here

through the empty pockets

of my soul, dogs howling

ghosts walking in the dark

every bang a stranger

at the door of fear

knocking loose every

unthatched idea precariously left

hanging leaving hollows

of whistling, rattling space

tattered dreams all strewn about

come daylight’s vision.

Hints and Glimpses

I don’t know about you

but I have these

strange moments

hints and glimpses

of the something else

the great unknowable

as if Gaia or God

dreams us up

we exist constellated

into substance

for a quick minute

in the stretch

of the infinite timeline

much like our own

ideas or children

consciousness manifest

in substance

Someone dreams

of walking and talking

things happen

dream thinking they are awake

Someone walks and talks

things happen

I say “You are awake,

I’m here, this IS happening.”

He looks deep into me

and asks in earnest

“How can you tell for sure?”

Somewhere a wise old lizard

hundreds of years old

crawls through the dream time

of a long life, perhaps many lifetimes

I too can recall some times

back then back when

things seemed so

real, certain, fixed

many lifetimes ago

The best and worst

of times all just ideas

in my mind pictures

in boxes with some fading

and tint changing

old tapes movies

of us back then

documentation

life really happened

as remembered and forgotten

Other life times of

wars, betrayals and loyal heroics

lovers, children, fortunes lost 

and remade days and nights 

of heaven, hell 

and numbed indifference

a dream to the demented

or the built in forgetter

inherent in human nature

allowing repetition repetition

disappeared in the day’s doings

re-minded, re-membered

re-lived in reveries

flashbacks, dreams

“All the live long day”

shifts in consciousness

hints of glimpses

walking and talking

the cosmic dream of real life

lives us.

Equinox

At times between midpoints
not sure if I'm coming or going
staying or leaving, feeling or knowing

welcoming or dreading
all hangs in the balance
time flowing into the next fullness

dying or birthing, dying or birthing
be still, be still while the world turns
on its axis in its little orbit

its homey little pocket of the universe
I imagine its vastness is endless
unable to comprehend any edges

time and space dissipating perhaps
to the nothing of starless darkness
where no light shines yet

billions of years later -
Returning now back toward life
local time lapses this musing

like a swirling eddy spiraling off the edges

of the strong current a digression away

from the inevitable entropy

the natural progression of every summer
summoning the next big push of life energy
spent and the next time out of every winter

each fall asking - So how’d it go
How did you live, what did you sow?

Do you weep or will you reap

enough to get you through?
And if you make it through another winter
another ending, another change

would you do it all the same?
All this reflective mental game
one more hand to play

a house of cards 

in the absence of blowing winds

before dreamy sleep

or balmy walks in fields of wheat
or snow so deep

my heart to keep

her universal primal beat

keeping time in a treasure chest

marked time moves on – it doesn’t rest.

Burb Kiss

There in suburbia

space is bigger

so walking between

cars in the expensive

healthy food store

parking lot seems oddly

forced by the tight rows

of spatial efficiency

a man of practiced

unnoticability sits

idling in his nearly

invisible suburban

car looking more

and more nervous

as I pass between

the rows of cars

toward him

a couple of rows

of anticipation

bringing us closer

there will be mere inches

when I pass his car door

with my shopping bags

heading to my trusty

metal steed.

What if I turn on

my heals fling open

his car door

and kiss him

really, really kiss him

and look very deeply

into him holding

his gaze so he sees

that he has been seen

his channel locks

starting to spring open

then suddenly

I am in my own

innocuous gold sedan

catching the green light

out of there

just barely escaping

all that is suburban

Axis of Evil

 Tired and complacent working

too hard to lift my head up

speak up, push up against it.

Its just how the two percent

of the world’s wealthiest

people want it

running governments

and business and guns

dictating the use of resources

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 out the rage

of our lives, working, worrying,  

showing up for our day

jobs, for life

or for war and death

taking our orders

from boardroom generals

oblivious and out-resourced

unable to keep up even

as we see we are

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.

Who knew

Woman with child busses it
bag on back, stroller folded
toddler stands on seat
sweating it, sweating zipper open
no where to put coat
no extra hands to hold anything.

She tells toddler stories
of back home of their
someday home, home for now
in her back pack, in their hearts
in her dreams
there is a field with a brook
on the way to the school
a store on the corner
a bed and a room for each of them.

Who knew when she left home
at 15 it would be like this?
She imagined the party house
party life where everyone stayed
and hippie moms made healthy food
vegan yogic music magic
ends with bust, eviction.
The bus squeaks and rocks
its grey and timeless, like
it will always be like this.

Who knows maybe someday
the dream house, the husband
the golden retriever and chickens
the Subaru and library story hours
enough socks, some new friends
skin that’s not too tight
no more jumping out of fast moving cars
no more blue lights, night sweats
nightmares – toddler offers
drunk woman in old clothes
cheese cracker – it’s their stop.

The Right Clothes

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.