Last night I ate broccoli and cheddar soup
from Panera
--in a breadbowl

which I gave to my mouse, Chai;
now I am at the typewriter,
we are listening to Ziggy.

And with Chai sitting inside of it
the breadbowl looks like
a little mud hut in Mali

At his little hippie college
he shows me a *** that looks like a wall
in a Rwandan museum, all skulls, he

learned clay in the Rift Valley
boarding school, on a kick wheel,
still his favorite

My brother is a potter
multicolor plaid shorts
little goatee

Banjo
Japan dreams
girl from Mozambique.

When we were little in Loiyangalani
we made tiny huts out of obsidian
while our Rhodesian Ridgebacks

sniffed the ground for cobras
sand vipers
scorpions

while twenty camels
walked by in a row
followed by tiny replicas

My brother is a potter, says to me
'When I am doing this I am
doing what I was created to do'

He makes a green and blue
candleholder for me which he calls
'The Islands,' light escapes through many holes

which look like sea turtles
pockets of air and
an atomic bomb just gone off

we turn off the lights
in my room in the hood,
snorkel in candlelight

My brother gives me
Rumi, incense, peace flags
We walk the silent night

smoke a clove
look at stars
like we used to do in the African riverbeds

am empty until         you fill me
am broken until        you heal me
am lost until               you find me

my mouth is full of silence
it runs down my neck
and hides inside my shirt

i walk the ruins and find my words
tied to train tracks, try though
i might i cannot free them

the city drags me to the river’s edge
i want to weave a raft of words
but my mouth is full of silence

the city too is full of silence
choking suits and skyscrapers
only words are sharp enough scalpels

for the tracheotomy but the world is full
of silence and my mouth is full
of silence until you

open yours
and say

mine, too

Faith is a troubled word in muddy
clothes, walking with the unthinking,
the enraged, the **** tube prophets

Still: I believe a few things, like
that You exist
that You reward the seeker

that the greatest anything is love,
You always did say that:
'Love each other, love Me'

Faith reveals the invisible
hope which lifts sunken eyes to
Love

which is the only redemption
in the burning streets
of a condemned world.

Choosing a love ethic means knowing
you are connected
to every other life

and even to eternity
which Tagore describes
as the place where nothing can vanish:

no hope
no happiness
no vision of a face seen through tears

Just a cousin and the stars
and talk of you, and 27 jail-years;
'Forgive or stay behind bars.'

But Nelly Mandelly,
I've got sand in my eyes
and lead in my belly.

Oh Nelly Mandelly
we do things with the best intent
yet hurt each other terribly.

I've got blood on my lips
and grenades in my belly.
Oh Nelly Mandelly:

as Johnny sang, who can blame
the voice of youth for asking:
what is truth?

Everyone I know wants
to be more free,
including me.

We've got songs on our lips
and the sky in our bellies.
Oh, Nelly Mandelly

'Baybo,' say I,
'do you think
my car is okay?'
'Well what you
gone do with it?' says he.
'Bring it into
the house?'

the moon-stars

i wish
i could

change
the
world

Pax.
Pax.
Be with you.

Peace train.
Peace Corps.
Power to the peaceful.

Peace or violence?
The peace of the grave?
Shalom, amani, pagas:

Peace.
To the far off.
In the streets.
Peace child.

Peace.
Strums a guitar.
The sound of the stars.
Your face in my heart.

Blessed are those who make: peace
on earth,
between brothers,
with God.

Peace
of path.
Of mind.
Of sleep.

Peace
I leave with you.
Peace, foreigner

You in Georgia?  
Kentucky?
Oh **** man,
that's my vagabond girl right there.

Come here.
This place is full of you
your face is in it
and it's full of books.

I know what you're sensitive to
and I'm kind of an idealist.
We'll do it up.
Or down.

We can get scrappy!
That's our middle names.

Pain holds my hand and won't let go,
I blister at his touch, walk weeping
by his side and wake to his embrace.
Pain holds my hand.

Pain holds my hand and won't let go,
I weep beside the river, step into its waters
begging for relief, Pain looks on, he
holds my hand.

From blisters ooze our blood and plasma,
down our hands, onto our feet. Pain says
to me: Do you wish now to escape?  I know
not what to say.  Mute, I hold his hand.

Pain holds my hand, he never lets me go.
I writhe and weep and finally look
into his bloodshot eyes; for he is weeping too,
Pain holds my hand, he weeps for me.

We walk three days through deserts dry,
Pain holds my hand.  From my blood he draws
the poisons of my sins.  Pain holds my hand,
he weeps for me.

yeah
babies
guess what

i built an ecovillage thirty feet from the highway
pi planted 3 bamboo today
you gotta see it all

sometime
i know you will
it has you all over it

i love you
no more internet for me for awhile
***

i feel much safer with animals
than people, i tend
to close off
when i'm scared
of crowds
or
another human being
and
what's going to happen
in an encounter
that is real
and somewhere along the deathbeds
i forgot any other way to be
i guess it is the unreal i'm afraid of

life seems long, it's not
real or nothing
that's all i can survive
silence i can do
but true
silence
not the silence
barb-wired
with lies

denial cannot keep death away
and in the meantime
suffocates life
god has gotten this
longtime prodigal-thief,
petri dish
of strange
and deadly
parasites,
ready to be
alive

ready to be part of a revolution
of values, a conversation
of justice, a
consciousness
of peace
and
love

despair
and fear-of-failing
have broken my legs and back and neck
for long enough,
i do everything
knowing
i will fail

and that's okay
because you know
this really is not about me,
not at all

i'm ready to be happily lost
in the jungle of life
because i am
happily found

a turtledove being
attacked by wild
beasts doesn't wait
to cry

out for help
or for You
nor do I
all I ask

for is You
to fight for
me since I
seem to be

too weak; You
and I have
been here before;
I have not

forgotten
Your
kindnesses

every life is unique and connected


no one understands
all or even
most of
human existence

sometimes you need
encouragement

sometimes god really
does cut you
a break

sometimes idols crack
asking whom do i serve
when i try to create
a little celebrity
out of a soul which is
too precious
to be reduced to numbers
what is a world
whose creatures
hide inside machines
fear of humans
is enough of
a prison
fear of thoughts
they probably aren't even thinking

but who knows
in this world
at least the brothers tell the truth

whom shall i fear and what

control is an illusion
when the tsunami
almost comes
i see we all
must go to
the calling
only

like you taught me
if you're going to believe something
believe it

everyone has to come out
about something, i had
to come out about cannabis

it's true there's two sides to everything
if i judge you
i condemn myself

i don't know
where those tears
have been

rhino pi and i by the fireplace tonight
rhino gives me his soft stripe sweatshirt
purple black white red i say i'll wear it
and think of you all over the world
and bring it back full of
stories and
mice and
fire

i was writing into the abyss
when i was in the abyss,
when the abyss
was me,
no longer

who jesus bless no man curse

born again
into a rhythm of
waves and reggae

hey hey hey
it's you
i've been waiting for

no one remembers the reunions
of those who came before,
what they did or them at all

except the Creator

who transcends lies and clocks
who creates in wisdom acacias and watermelons and whales
who keeps our tears in his bottles

i bow my head at the door of his hut
i stand by the light of his fire
my bread i accept from his hand

Why
do we call the blues
blue?  I'm playing on
your blues guitar,
wondering how you are.
Blues, blues.

My mind walks the streets
of saxaphone,
experience,
cigarette smoke--
like Radiohead says,
I don't care if it hurts,
I want a perfect soul.

Blues, blues.
The Yapese call blue
'ran mak'ef'
the water of the reef,
the blue within the blue,
beyond the blue--more blues

than these eyes have ever seen,
than this mind has ever known.
We only call the blues blue
because there is often something
so beautiful
in sadness.

If I were from Africa or Brazil
or one of those places,
where I slept on a mat in a little room,
America would be weird to me.
Because of like food commercials.
McDonald's.  Or Tempur Pedics!
Where it's all about comfort
and they're worried about the arc
in their bed, and I mean,
I'm sleeping on a mat.

I think about myself too much
and I don't think about other people
as much as I would want to.
I want to think about how others are feeling
when I talk to them, you know?
I've tried to drop all stereotypes
because really everyone
has an individual category.
And I think everyone has at least
a small amount of mercy.
Even if they don't show or choose it.

And I love Mom.  
So much

cook rice

add plenty
butter,
salt,
pepper

add cookies and cream
or any ice cream

mix it up

my name is
written
on the hand of
my God

Is it the American
dream or nightmare
I so seldom know

the average American
whatever that means
encounters

thirteen thousand
advertisements
every day:

all saying
outward things
meet inward needs

but a lie repeated
thirteen thousand times
is still a lie

there's a lot
of love out
waiting to be

loved

a lot of
fires waiting to
be lit lord

your kingdom come

in my island
in my desert
in my city
in my family
in my friend
in me

there's a lot
of silence waiting
to be heard

sleep to sleep
in peace and
safety

there's a lot
of love
waiting

to be
loved

who god bless
no one curse

.

the devil allegedly
comes to steal **** destroy
which sounds like a lot of work

but probably isn't
in a place like this
even a first-grade massacre

won't undistract
us for long; the devil
doesn't have to cook

a *** of tsunami
or epidemic or
genocide

all he has to do is let us
worship shiny toys
on the altar of Time

and as ever
i'm as guilty
as anyone

just like you
could feel my fever
when it broke

i could feel
your fever
when it broke

i wept
like the ocean
for a few nights

you told me
to tell you
the truth

that's
what i'm
craving too

we're far
but i hear
your consciousness tonight

these bodies are broken down boats
our souls though
are still being

held
above
water

Lust is toxic
sad and
hollow.

Love says
somebody else
throw the first stone.

I wonder what You're writing in the dust.

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I carry my homeland as if it were in my arms.
Remembering:
chairs made of wooden crates,
footballs made of newspapers,
cigarettes made of camel dung.
Someone once said: a best friend will help you move
and a best friend will help you move bodies
but if you have to move your best friend’s body,
you’re on your own.

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I think about how you and I
belonged where nothing belonged:
shimmering with heat waves Africa,
rainy season pounding the mabati roof Africa,
weaver birds weighing down acacia trees with their nests,
Africa.  Where do we lay the blame and the bodies?
It could have been me holding the machete,
could have been me holding the machine gun.
Why is that?

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I see acts of courage and sacrifice that take my breath away.
A boy, shielding his sister's body with his own.
A girl, leading a blind woman to safety.
And you, holding an old man in your arms,
his life dripping down your clothes.
What I wished for you was a place where you would not fear
the terror by night, nor the arrow by day,
nor the plague that walks in the darkness,
nor the destruction that lays waste at noonday.
I wished for you the deep red sunsets over the vast hollow of the Chalbi desert,
the brother that reads to you in your break-bone fevers,
the camel that carries you and doesn't get tired.

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I wonder why I lived
and you didn’t.
And for your sake, and mine, and the world’s, and God’s,
I want to leave behind the failed resolve and the excuses
that keep me from leaving the world better than I found it.
When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will learn
to fear no evil.

god would rather
have a you
that fails
than no you
at all
so i

like jasmine's comment
on facebook, when you can't
have hope, hold on to the hope
others hold for you

like desmond tutu
says, you know?
god says to you,
i don't have
anybody else!
except you!

god would rather
have a you
that fails
so i

On a Greyhound bus from NYC to New Haven
I sit down next to a skinny man named Fatz
who looks at me askance.  He says:
Long as you ain't crazy.
Long as you ain't gonna
stab me up in here.
Fatz? I say.
We agree.

i used to think
that in order to think
i would have to stop
believing

i used to think
that in order to believe
i would have to stop
being

but really
i just needed
to let myself be
honest and loved

minds crazy
again confusing

love

for broken bones,
all night we ask

for help, who
comes?  you

sway to bird
and saxaphone

rejoice at
near-miss

rescue

escapee, we
tried to give you

baskets
of reasons

not to love us unconditionally
but you love us unconditionally

so we sleep
in the hand
of the sky

please help
us fragile
human creatures
to remember
our dreams

I am glad
we are
doing this
instead of
Facebook

he's coming over

he said he'll bring
the carbon monoxide

because he
hates people

waking up

Oh Jesus time by the pink and purple sunset
Thinking of a traveling guitar boy,
of chai sleep broken by dying beggars
all trying to tell me something.
If the ocean lights don't call us home
we could backpack to the crocodile places
eat thirteen camels with the people
smoke tea and rainy day cigarettes.
Heartache sits like snow on the roof
of the hollow hut Connecticut.
The kids tried too many times for nothing.
Mom dream better for me
Wear your peace face
I'm trying to change

You're talking France nostalgia while upstairs
the weaver makes seven-dollar laments
for international slum chickens.
We can't do better than the break-bone average
reading scorched Chalbi newspapers
hacking coughs and statii soup for company.
Bukowski's in Mumbai eating cheddar
My siblings are in cages down in Egypt
The Spanish Communist cowboys
spill Turkana survivors on the floor of the Greyhound bus

Is there a hood idealist, ghetto healer?
My Sacramento roommate's drinking skeleton coffee
in the bathtub, she's got the Arab fever, so have I,
and not much else but these crazy plague jackets
this hungry smoking December
and Rumi's kids in cold-bread streets with protest signs.
We're easier taught the panic than the magic or the save,
There's too much strange and midnight waste.
You didn't know I needed you but you came through.
You're shimmering in clothes of saxaphone

b


efore   i
formed
y
o
u

in
the
wo
mb

i
k
n
e
w

y
o
u

Don't worry, I have nothing to say.
I'm throwing up blood anyway.

I'm hungry, lost, broke.  Whatever, happy.

I don't have time to care that you look down.
I don't have time for my excuses.
It's okay that neither of us understands.

I am so loved and so lonely,
so lonely and so loved. Both.

I'm not running anymore.  Not dying of thirst anymore.

I write to be known. I am known: me, by Jesus, we've been traveling.
Call me crazy,
okay.

Don't worry, I have nothing to say. I'm listening.

Do you miss me like I miss you?  
Do I miss you like you miss me?

The road has taught me
so much about universal
fragility.

With enough time and chances
almost anyone
can end up almost anywhere;

guard yourself
but be kind
to the unguarded.

It's been ten million miles.
Few, and blessed,
the undefiled.

Christ mourns
with me as we
walk down rainy street

towards caged and crying child

'Acting like everything
is okay
when it isn't
creates a certain craziness,'
says Beetle, crouching
on the wooden  slat porch
to pick up half a cigarette.
'Because you are all
survivors,'
she goes on, 'so you
push people away
so they don't find out.'
Find out what,
I ask myself.
Find out me,
is I think the answer.
Because the question
behind the question
as always
is
could you  
love me?

An old man is sprawled
across my steps, in the night,
shouting for cigarettes,
crying out—as he does—
Lord, have mercy on a poor man’s soul.

**** or be killed.
That’s how it was
in North Vietnam.
He’d said that and pulled out London dry gin
to wash away only God knows what thought that got in--
I do not understand him
but I understand him
better than I used to.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst to do right.
Have you ever collapsed the bridge under which you slept?
Leapt from your bed when the earthquake hit
or lay awake in it when the kids came to school
with black eyes and suicide eyes?

Blessed are the poor in spirit
but the kingdom hasn’t come yet
and the children are too beautiful for their own good
and I am not good enough.

I am on Your steps, crying
Lord have mercy
on Your poor kingdom

i just can't stay
in babylon
all the time
i got to get out or i
forget
which world
is real
i have to sit
in the hut
on my own
crossed legs
i got to light
a candle
beat a drum
or just listen
to the music
of the jungle bird
gandhi's standing
on my head
singing
there's always room
for one more
in africa
and heaven

I was trying
to say that
the ocean and

the night sky
are two of
my closest friends

that we are
called to be
two of the

dreamers, of
those on the
paths of silence

who often find
themselves with hands
and heads pressed

up against the
wailing walls of
a world where

man has power
over man to
his hurt.

Yet Love waits
like a pool
of stars on

the ocean’s face
waiting for us
to step into

it; friend,
brother,
I was trying

to say:
Christ never leaves
me orphan nor

you

I am hungry.
I think homeless.
I wish naked.
I am flesh.

I am calling.
I think answering.
I wish cries.
Here I am.

I am pouring.
I think satisfied.
I wish darkness.
I am noonday.

I am scorched places.
I think strong bones.
I wish spring of water.
I am child of what does not fail.

When I was a child I once sat writing
where Hemingway once wrote, at a table made of a canoe,
overlooking Turtle Bay, that little dip of Indian Ocean,
where my mother body-surfed the waves with us,
where my father spent some nervous scuba minutes
on the ocean floor, beneath a whale.
A lot has happened since then;
sometimes life is hard and sometimes
we don't know how to talk to each other.

What is a father? A Mother?  Child?
The answer is so different for so many.
Who are you?  I dream
I'm saying goodbye to you,
I don't know which of us is leaving
or where we're going but
I cry asleep and wake up crying;
and I remember there's been a few times
when there were tears in your eyes too.

And what is a Creator?  That infinite spiritual being
who fathers us, mothers us?  Acts 17 says
we are His offspring:
the children are hurting,
the children are crying,
the children are killing,
the children are dying and their dreams are dying.
But love still covers a multitude of sins.

Oh fathers of the world oh mothers
we do not say it often enough: thank you,
for what you could give, thank you,
for what you did give; and know
that I understand, finally,
that you were hurting too.

To the Creator, also, I say thank you
for fathering, mothering, even me.
We are Your offspring.
Deep down we're all dreaming the same kind of dream,
I haven't met a human yet who doesn't hurt about something;
we're all in this together if we let ourselves be

And love still covers a multitude of sins

We called it the summer of love
no drugs though
no ***
just love

and Oahu
and our kids
from New Jersey
and India and Egypt

arguments about pineapples
the chicken in the fire escape
ocean chemistry and don't let me fall
and that last dance when we were all crying

because
the magic
of childhood
had been recovered

we gotta watch
this movie.

you are the main character.

except that
you don't have

scissors
for hands

that's the only difference

Man fire
street guitar
world dance

******
pain
heartache
shame

safety love
comfort love
everybody love

heartache
rage
panic
strange

man fire
street guitar
world dance

safety love
comfort love
everybody love

I don't want to keep
any of this beauty to myself
nor can I

A baby sea turtle in my hands:
the outer islanders call him Wol,
he will be a nomad, if anyone will.
What will the world look like to him?
Will he dream of killer whales,
those Swiss Cake Rolls of the sea?
Of winning the three hearts
of an octopus?
See what the turtle sees,
and rejoice.

The sea turtle, like the human, cries saltwater
and the tears cover two-thirds of the earth.
He risks pirate ship, cigarette boat, Chinese net.
He mistakes bait for food. (Who doesn’t?)
But he can swim away from; swim towards:
India, Mombasa, New Zealand, Ulithi.
The world's a turtle’s home,
why is anyone a nomad if not for this?
See what the turtle sees
and rejoice, carrying only
the markings on your shell.

A jungle.
A shack.
Half a moon.
Islands sprinkled like tiny green beads
across the Water of the Sky.
A first tattoo—seven little turtles--
and it hurts in a good way
like the world does.
Dear Creator
keep me from evil
keep my life
keep my going out and my coming in

yo

we have always
been the crocodile
twins of tears

If the time ever comes
when human touch
is taken from you

(because you are
sick or in solitary
or castaway or...)

you will understand
how much
you need it:

your skin will ache
as a riverbed
cracks

for
want
of rain;

you will never take it
for granted
again

4:17 AM
Robbie's studying Japanese
and cooking bacon