The vibrating feeling you get when in a trance of contentment, where nothing contaminates your brain, with false allusions of what to be. You hold selflessness within your heart and soul, where debility is non-existing, just sitting out of the ring. Where the roots of bitterness are snipped, because the branches were begging for mercy as to they were betrayed. You smile towards the sun waiting for infinity, and a gasp from reality. The meaning of life lies between your eyes, maybe you see it as a disguise for self contentment, but just accept that it’s happening, and you shall be happy .From the beginning of time to the gates of hell, this is where we all dwell.
It isn't a struggle
it isn't miserable
I love for a short while
to be out running about,
Working the muscles,
Checking life and nature out.
Fuels the center.
Enlivens the body, spirit, and brain.
From morning until sleeping
A constant pace throughout the day
In California we work out and embrace fitness
In the golden arms of sun and sand
Where the waves crash with a divine poignancy
Nature and beauty, centering
I used to fly the long coast line
Watching the dolphins in numbers
The surfers floating, talking, surfing
The seagulls alive on the vortices of my wings
And my heart in a palace of peaceful serenity
Move far away...
To the forests, lakes, and rivers
Where weather does rage in all natural forms
Still I embrace all the energy and peace
it is not cold, I'm awake and living
So at home in the elements, all a part of me
Happy in my soul, content...yes. that I am
Funny the perspectives
The mind-sets from Muscle Beach mentalities
To the wilds of Michigan
This is what makes being a traveller
What different worlds, different ways
None of them wrong,
some a little mix
From here and there
The world is a very small place
The world is really so big
So what is time?
your concept not mine
slingshot round the sun
fade, and disappear...
with your 'knowledge' of this
that posits matter,
when even that is just belief.
We could leap off a cliff,
you could fly with me,
through this moment of Eternity.
And lose nothing.
So what is time?
When You've always been right here?
On your face,
it looks more like fear.
Quake before your ruler if only for an hour!
He rules your mind with the echoes of audible power!
Praise him like you would the faith of your mind,
But the faith of your body and soul shall aligned!
Praise the bass-line as the endocrines race.
The drugs in her pocket with vodka you'll chase.
"Fuck our futures!
We'll rave til the sun!
Our happiness this moment won't relay the deeds done!"
They won't rant while they rage,
Like humans trapped in their cage.
The animals are free 'til they sleep in their grave!
Abandon your god and pray to the rave!
Desolation occupies the streets,
dusty debris greets me
as I kick past a pile of rubble
where my neighbor used to live.
The mailboxes of the mostly abandoned bungalows are overflowing
with FEMA fliers, and contractor business cards.
Hammer wielding men make their way through the ruination.
Trying to feed their families
on the gutted remains of disaster.
Greedily grabbing the copius charity funds,
they diligently restore houses
that will more than likely never be occupied,
They carry with them an air of determination and optimism
that covers over the film of despair that coats everything.
But, determination alone
cannot transform a shell of a house
back into a home.
In the mammoth mansions on the corner
there are signs of restored life.
The rich can afford to ignore devastation,
and rebuild, as if their neighbors haven't all fled.
Aside from an occasional pounding hammer
The streets are silent,
save for the moaning of the wind.
The burned house still stands,
a stoic reminder
that the source of pain may change,
but, beneath the smiles, it always remains.
I cross the bridge,
stopping for a second to stare
at the thin layer of ice that has formed
on the surface of the scummy stream.
A moment later I arrive at the guardrail,
and I marvel at the lack of condom wrappers,
and cigarette cellophane on the floor.
I crest the berm,
now a skeletal remnant of its former stalwart self.
The gray black rocks are exposed beneath the sand,
like the bones of a corpse,
with the skin and meat washed away.
The beach is absolutely deserted,
The wind itself refuses to walk along the shore.
It comes rushing from the landside,
and stops at the sea wall, as if to say,
there is nothing left for me to play with here.
Even the birds have abandoned the beach,
There are no tracks on the sand,
Aside from a set of dog's paws,
paired with the sneaker tracks of the dog's owner.
The sea is calm,
with baby breakers lazily lapping at the waterline.
The sky is a motley mix of frothy white, and pale blue.
Both vibrant and dull,
like the eyes of a Nazi.
The winter sun is hibernating behind the cloud cover,
shedding dull light, that chills the spirit,
steals my smile, and transmogrifies it into a sigh.
I am surprised at how clean the beach is.
Pebbles and boulders are strewn all about,
but, aside from a few pieces of pale plastic
there is nearly no trash to be seen,
and I snicker internally,
for I know where the trash has gone.
Having spotted some of it in the street
on my way to the beach.
Several of the naked trees on the hillside have tilted over,
revealing ruddy reddish roots.
I come to the tilted flag pole,
with it's once buried base
A circular concrete mass,
that I never would have expected existed.
A shredded blue strip of cloth
is all that remains of the state flag of New York,
and it thrashes violently in the wind.
Down at the far end of the beach
the hunk of blacktop jutting from the sand is still visible,
but, today there is no torso laden box beside it.
There is something comforting in its presence.
Something comforting, yet deeply saddening.
I step past the flagpole, and I am instantly assaulted by the wind.
The chill air caresses me cruelly.
Biting my ears, and slapping my cheeks.
There is still standing water at the edge of the road,
and I walk down Kissam in a shivering stupor.
The quaint house where the hens once pecked and warbled
is now just an empty lot,
with the remains of the foundation as the only proof
that people once lived here.
I am shocked to see
that nearly every house at this end of the block is gone.
A lonely inground pool looks severely out of place
without the house that once stood next to it.
A green triceratops statue sitting poolside
smiles at me as I pass,
I can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
In the middle of the block two men operate jackhammers
while another hoists hunks of the street
from a hole with a backhoe.
I can't imagine what they are doing here,
I slip past them without making eye contact.
On the other side of the vehicle
I see that most of the houses at the top of the block are still standing.
Boarded up bungalows, every one unoccupied.
A standup piano with its guts exposed
sits in front of the last house on the left.
A once treasured possession,
destroyed and discarded.
I come to Mill road, and turn left.
Here, things have mostly returned to normal.
Although the Syrian orthodox church
that has slid off its foundation,
still sits askew,
and the trailers and semi's lined up along the road,
remind me that normality is a long way away.
Construction equipment is hauling
what is left of the smashed and shredded houses
that were washed from Kissam,
and deposited in the wetlands
several hundred feet away.
I wonder why they have bothered
to clean up the debris,
trampling football field sized sections of the wetlands to do so.
I pass by the VFW post,
and stop in to see what progress has been made.
The bar has been rebuilt, and the walls have been painted
a hideous shade of purple.
I leave as quickly as I came, and continue down Mill.
Past the group home on the corner.
A three wheeled police vehicle sits there,
guarding against looters.
Two cheap Chinese made American flags flap furiously
in front of the abandoned building.
No one is smoking now.
The sunflowers are long gone,
a rich brown mud is all that remains.
I pass tragedy after tragedy as I walk up the block.
Broken windows, and abandoned death sites,
of families that had lived on this block
since before my mother was born.
The people who had defined what Oakwood Beach meant to me
had all left.
Now, only a handful of families tries to live their lives in the shadow of Sandy.
I walk past the ancient willow,
in a few moments I arrive
at the building I once called home.
I stand outside,
reluctant to enter
the moldy and bare interior.
There is nothing inside that I need,
but, there is a canteen of grain alcohol that I want.
I can see it sitting on the front windowsill.
Which is where people leave the few "valuables"
that they had salvaged during the initial cleanup,
but left behind when they moved on.
I open the door, and quickly snatch the canteen,
holding my breath to avoid inhaling spores,
and with the canteen in hand, I shut the door,
and turn my back on the world of my past.
You are not god, you are not my Lord;
You are a beast that corrupts my soul;
I find peace not, when I pray in thee;
You have tainted my soul--you have hurt me.
You are a fiend, just like all my friends;
You are tied to an awkward time and space.
And is your soul as sharp as your false prayers?
I can find words that shall hear me better.
You are no safety, nor any assurance;
I hate your speech--within your cold Bible;
You are not worthy of love, nor any true spirit;
You are a mere space no sane souls can ever meet.
I used to know, in Heaven, another Lord;
But my faith was marred, it was distorted.
This Lord of mine was kind and simple;
His heart was all-resilient and humble.
My Lord was gone in one sway of smoke;
As none wanted to hear more from me.
I was strong in faith--and t'is was no joke;
But none would look, and pushed Him fast away.
Ah, my Lord, in whom I used to hear salvation;
And not grief like this which burns my heart.
I found within me--a great deal of admiration;
But none would believe, and He was made gone.
I knew another, in more mature years;
But He was as crude as a grizzly bear.
With His soulless heart, he tore my faith up;
'Till my heart withered, and nothing remained.
He preached but the beauty of wealth;
And to forge maturity on this dire soil;
He turned one another an enemy;
He played with fate, as if ‘twas His doll.
I was in deep grief, I was in bare crises;
I believed not the sun sets and the moon rises.
Ah, Lord, and after I lost thee even more;
I roamed sightlessly like none before.
And now I’th been forced back to thee;
Art thou still hungry, or art thou satisfied?
Haven’t thou sent me enough agony;
When shall thou finally give up?
Now I hath been cramped back to thee;
Art thou still angry--doth thou want to kill me?
Thou explaineth never--why I taketh my breath;
Thou reasoneth never--what is in life after death.
For I believe triumphs are not for those who sin;
For I believe prayers are not done by the mean.
For I believe in life there is no such scarcity;
For I believe we are united by wordless destiny.
For I believe He is One; and is loved freely;
For I believe He loves back, with relentless mercy;
For I believe He is the One, and owneth no partner;
For I believe He is who rules, and not another.
For I believe none was made crucified;
For I believe He is alive, and shall never die;
For I believe such stories are all but a lie;
For He is who gives, and breathes sight to the eye.
For I believe the cross is no glory;
For I believe such is a vain myth;
For I believe He is absolute;
For I believe He is the only Truth.
And about this I can lie no more;
Nor stand back as I did before.
He is who holds my mortal hands;
He who cares better than my friends.
Still I am lost, I am lost in thee;
For thou hath betrayed my most questions.
For thou hath no words--nor poetry in me;
For thou ignore--and neglect me in disambiguation.
And I hate thee, I hate thee too much;
Thou hath blinded me and led me astray.
Thou giveth room but to desire and lust;
Thou lead my soul to ultimate decay.
Thou regard not shyness and virginity;
Thou accept not humble words and pure sympathy.
Thou encourage day and night ecstasy;
Thou disfigure us by mock forgiveness.
Thou told us to be unjust and sin;
Thou told us to pursue and be mean;
Thou loveth pleasure, and left me unsure;
Thou gave me disease, but showed me no cure.
Now I’th realised that my God is Him;
He who attends my day and night dreams.
I care not what thy devils may say;
I shall care for Him only--all through the night and day.
For the Lord who leads and forgives;
For the Lord who dies not and shall live;
For the Lord whose Throne is up high;
Veiled perfectly by the blue midnight sky.
For the Lord who creates life and death;
For the Lord who gives mouths and breath.
For the Lord who is One and only;
For the Lord who is sole and fair.
Then I can pray with my whole sane heart;
And rest my minds from this lifelong war;
My Lord is One who lets my blood flow;
Years back, presently, the day after tomorrow.
And by Him I shall remain prudent;
Though He is far and farther and invisible.
I shall long for His Paradise and Heaven;
One for the kind hearts; for the devoted and humble.
Then I shall craft even more poetry;
A poem for my Lord’s tremendous delights;
I shall make it warm and lively;
And tell tales of future years in Paradise.
And I shall turn back to Your prayers, God;
After years and years of fraying Thee alone.
Now I shall come back to my untainted faith;
Please hesitate not, nor make me need to wait.
For in You only doth I find my doors;
And answers to my once lonely heart;
I cannot lie back, I cannot lie no more;
That I and Thee can never stay apart.
And my faith will be like those stern winds;
They can be felt, while remain unseen;
Wish me a welcome, and not a farewell;
Keep me safe from Thy spells of hell.
And let me remain in my bows;
As I shout my praise, as my head goes low.
And breathe more life into my virgin hands;
Make me the noblest on my lands.
And let me remain where I am;
As stars sparkles, and lower the maroon sun;
Where I but mention Thy Holy Name;
And cite Thy praise, as daylight is gone.
i want a good heart .
i want it to be made of good stuff .
i want the stain glass window builder to be my drinking buddy .
i want to drink only the punch of a million gender queer school kids taking free martial arts lessons to survive recess .
i stopped calling myself a pacifist when I heard gandhi told women they should not physically fight off their rapists .
i believe there is such a thing as a non violent fist .
i believe the earth is a woman muzzled , beaten , tied to the cold slinging tracks .
i believe the muzzled have every right to rip off the bible belt and take it to the patriarchy’s ass .
i know these words are going to get me in trouble .
it is never polite to throw back the tear gas .
just like its never polite to bring enough life rafts .
they crowd the balconies where the wealthy shine their jewels .
but sometimes love ..
sometimes real love
is fucking rude .
is interrupting a wedding mid vow just as the congregation is about to cry .
to stand up in your pew to say
“ is everyone here clear on how diamonds are mined ?”
hallelujah to every drag queen at stonewall who made weapons out of her stiletto shoes .
hallelujah to the blues keeping the neighborhood awake .
to the activist standing in the snow outside of the circus
holding a ten foot photograph
of a baby elephant in chains ,
when it’s probably some little kid’s birthday .
hallelujah to making everyone uncomfortable .
to the terrible manners of truth .
to refusing to clean the blood off the plate .
bend this spine into a bow
i can pull across the cello of my speech .
love readies its heart’s teeth ,
chews through the etiquette leash .
takes down the cellphone tower after millions of people die in wars in the congo fighting for the minerals that make our cellphones .
love blows up the dam .
chains itself to the redwood tree ,
to the capital building when a trailer of mexican immigrants are found dead on the south texas roadside .
love insists well intentioned white people officially stop calling themselves color blind .
insists hope lace it’s fucking boots
always calls out the misogynist , racist , homophobic joke .
refuses to be a welcome mat where hate wipes its feet .
love asks questions at the most inappropriate times .
overturns the defense of marriage act then walks a pride parade . asking when the plight of poor single mothers will ignite our hearts into action like that .
love is not polite .
deadlocks our rush hour traffic with a hundred stubborn screaming bikes .
hallelujah to every suffrage movement , hunger strike .
hallelujah to insisting they get your pronouns right .
hallelujah to tact never winning our spines .
to taking our power all the way back to that first glacier that had to learn how to swim .
to not turning our heads from a single ugly truth .
to knowing we live in a time when beauty recruits its models outside the doors of eating disorder clients .
that is not a metaphor .
this is not a line to a poem .
an indian farmer walks into a crowd of people and stab himself in his chest to protest
the poisoning of his land .
a buddhist monk burns himself alive on the streets of saigon .
a united states' soldier hangs himself wearing his enemy’s dog tags around his holy neck .
may my heart be as heavy
as a tuba in the front row of the mardi gras parade five months after katrina .
may it weigh the weight of the world
so it might anchor the sun
so it might hold me to my own light until i am willing to sweat as much as i cry .
until i am willing to press into the clay of our precious lives .
a window .
might our grace riot the walls down .
may the drought howl us awake
may we rush into the streets
to do the work of opening each other’s eyes .
may our good hearts forever be
too loud to let the neighbors sleep .
She climbs the narrow
staircase of the tower
which is circular, now
and then a door leads
off to a room, but the
doors are closed, and
only her shoes echo on
the stairs. Her father
has forbidden her to
climb the stairs, too
dangerous, Alice, he's
said, but she climbs
them in-spite, her sense
of adventure overriding
her anxiety of possible
punishment. She stops
half way. Breathes deep.
Her cheeks flush red,
her eyes bright blue or
green, depending on
the light, her mother
says, on kissing her
goodnight. She walks
up further, putting a
small hands on her knees
to press her on. Nearly
at the top, passing
another door, pressing
her knees, onward trot.
She stands on the top
step and opens a small
door that leads to the roof.
Fresh air meets her,
warmth of sun. She
walks carefully along
the narrow ridge, peers
out over the grounds below.
The gardener is busy
in the rose beds, back
arched, hoe in hands.
Her father stands nearby
pointing a finger, words
inaudible to her, linger.
She ducks in case he
looks up. She walks,
bending low, along
the narrow ridge to
the other side. There
she peers at the back
garden and looking
down sees the thin
maid carrying a bucket
along the path. Thin
arms and hands barely
managing to haul along.
A dog barks. Someone
laughs. She ducks, and
walks the narrow ridge,
and into the door, onto
the winding stairs. She
waits. Listens. She tiptoes
down one step at a time,
ears cocked, mouth dry.
She pauses outside a
door half way down.
She turns the handle
and looks in. The room
is empty. She enters
and closes the door behind.
A bedroom. Small bed,
chair. She walks on by.
She opens the outer door
and peers along a corridor.
No one in sight. She goes
out and shuts the door
behind. The smell of polish
and flowers. Shining
floors, carpet well brushed
and clean. She walks
slowly along the corridor,
dark shadows in corner
and doorways, lights off,
sunlight barely touching.
Her father is at the other
end talking to Fedge.
Baritone to baritone.
She ducks in a doorway,
bites a lip, fiddles fingers.
Had he seen her? The voices
carry along the corridor,
rising and lowering like
heavy waves. She peeps
out of her hideaway, eyes
bright against dark shadows.
Her father stands there
towering high. She smiles,
moves out, folds her hands
in her pinafore pockets.
Where have you been?
he asks, his voice baritone
deep and vibrating doors.
Walking, she says, looking
for Dolly. He sternly stares,
dark eyes burning. Not
been on the tower roof,
I hope? She looks at the
shiny buttons on his coat,
sometimes she can see her
face in them smiling back.
Oh, no, she lies, wouldn't
dare, too dangerous, to
go there. He looks her
in the eyes, and knows
she lies, a double wrong
to be corrected, his mind
suggests, but isn't sure,
if it was she, he saw.
Could have been another,
he'll ask her mother,
to keep an eye and watch,
not to be too content; or
her naughty daughter will
receive her punishment.
Let's hold the sun, you and I
and bring it to the other side of the sky
to where even the shadows stumble
and ears ache to hear praise
we'll burn our fingers
and scorch our lashes
but it will be worth it
for a man who walks by day will not fade
it is when he walks by night
that the tapered fingers creep in
to dampen the flame that barely flickers
So, let's hold the sun, you and I
and bring it to the other side of the sky
we will be stoned
we will be torn
but we'll shine
and they'll rise.