[they say the meek shall inherit the earth]

those *******
no one tells me anything
so no one owes me nuthin'

when living means dying
when dying means I told you so
when a letter arrives (too late)
when a boy no longer fits in his grave
when someone dies
and still wants love

defending myself
by yawning (as if shouting who me?)

afraid of people
or fighting for myself
or smoking grass

but having hatred
baring teeth
biting my thumb (and looking at the marks after)
striking my brother (with a hockey stick)

running off a neighbor's lawn
its ***** -  too fast down and breaking a collar bone
proof gone.

still biting my thumb (and looking at the marks later)

yelling **** the the rich
and bury them with those who live outside themselves

who wear me out
who wet in commercials
transmitting their cleanliness
into our homes

they can no longer stand their filth

they smile as they **** on us

the little people

turning to face me
he dares me
to make eye contact

clenching his fist
grinding his teeth
he sputters

you middle class smurf
I don't owe you jack!

I did end up writing that letter to Kristen Stewart
the letter that my sponsor said may not be a good idea to write

he said it escalated
my acting-out
by writing her

I can see what he's saying

it’s like writing to you
to write to her
wait (as if I’m KS)
I’m a little confused
if you love her
how can you love me?

my sponsor
my sponsor
wherefore - don’t forsake me on this one
you'd think he's my Lord and Master
God
or something

though if you should meet him
he'd talk some sense into you.

who am i kidding?
if push came to shove
I’d choose KS.

I mean c'mon
she’s a fractured heart

she is
vulnerable
and open
and takes my breath away
I die
For her

Maybe we like being held captive

the need to feel victimized
reigns supreme
in love poetry

like troubadours singing,
'a hey and a **, what about me'
'am I chopped liver, nonny, nonny?'

then, say I, alas like:

end this pain and stick a knife in me
so at least it will be the last honest feeling

(your eyes cutting deep into mine)

we feel.

I still like, like her
she mightn't be real

she may have once
though she will
never admit it

I think a woman knows
if a man
knows what women like

if, what women like
is ******
then I don't really know

she knows that,
but that's not what she wants
tonight

she knows I will be with her
during the darkest nights

the inconsolable,
seemingly endless,
empty
alone
and utterly despairing
nights
when no light
enters
a dark closed cell
forever locked
in the coldest
hell.

three cheesburgers later

a valley of aspiration

o' majestic tumors, o' tedious comforts

the worst of this is true
sounding an escape with tensile strength

spires of desires as ancient as feeling itself

sinew capped mountains of sin
bones buried in landfills
city sewers, plastic bags clogging drains, in trees, suffocating bees
write me please
bite me please
lie with me please

if I were Indian maybe ever

so tall on Sundays
being tall in Bali is
not very tall at all

pause.

Meher Baba has said He has not come to teach but to awaken mankind to the reality of God.   Only God exists.   Meher Baba has said He is God in Human form.  My understanding of what Meher Baba has said is God descends in the human form age after age to give a push to further man's consciousness, that man and God are One.  God has never left us, though the role of the Christ, the Avatar, God in human form, comes time and time again, the most notable, the most revered ones are known as Ram, Krishna, Noah, Abraham, Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad and, in this present incarnation, Meher Baba.  One does not have to give up his or her love of Jesus as savior, Jesus is Lord and He has come again and will come again, until mankind leaves all his material wants and desires and follows Him, Christ, as Jesus the Christ.  When we follow Jesus wholeheartedly, 100%, then there are no divisions, no divisiveness, and in my opinion, no bible, because Jesus was lawless in that He makes law. He is God in human form and no religion can capture who He really is.  Only God is.

midnight whims

forever rushed

come follow me!

have you let go
without us  
noticing

without
noticing
us?

the stillness
of nights

above evergreens
atop a cranberry bush
a cedar or pine
broken apart
into
an eternal stream
of consciousness,
mine!

how
green
how eternal
she
was

and
when she comes back
-- we will again have and
be held

but with such dry air
are we able to
wait?

when she does come
it will be
an
undivided,
  winged,
     victory.

Sulfur burns blue
Base and
Depraved
To me its best observed

I did not choose


to see me suffer,

You exact your revenge

on one-sided moral conclusions

Leaving out
The one thing
That could save us

A lesser G-d would destroy
You

A stronger one
Reaches out his hand

The irony,
my dear,
Is
We choose
Not to

how is love
what is love
who am I to love
if not my wife

she is all that is love
she shows what it is to love
how to love
what is love
is her

i had this poem in my head

and no, it's never coming back

i have this image in my mind

and it has disappeared forever

i have this feeling

but it just won't go

i have this feeling

it doesn't leave

its a feeling like you have left,

i see you leave,

you are walking away

you walk down the stairs to the train

a siren sounds,

people pass,

a taxi honks

you are gone.

i am sick

i drank too much

i imagine dying

alone writing this poem

wondering if

someone will know

what i mean.


i know where you live,

i have your phone number

i send you emails

still i don't see you.

i call you, you answer, i ask,

can we meet any closer

than how i'm feeling right now?

That poem was almost
There

It was so close
It passed me by

Stare as I might
It kept moving
Right in front
Of my eyes

I hit the brakes
But couldn't
stop

The poem?
Who cares
No lives were lost
No rhymes
Like Frost

And not a moment
Too soon

An angel has entered my room.

when the mind becomes numb

a skull can be dissected to show its cavities

cavities are the orbit of the eyes

an old Indian saying?


I noticed you really just want to annihilate me

not comfort you.

There is a blood meal in me
ready to explode  

a tombed implosion

an imprisoned womb.


But it's too late for that

time is personal

and lately, voices.

I fear the indecipherable is now decipherable

I see in Moriah, Jonah, and Tyler, incredible nations

Cree, why didn't you listen to me!

can you ******* saliva?
get over it!

you know
the skull was dissected to show the cavities of the orbit of the suns.

bright
like
a child's song

hopeful
like
an untouched beach

mindful
like
a fallen
son

a son behind
me
a son
besides me

when you come back
will you
fall before me
like
abraham?

i am heading towards the shore

i am following the sea

i run to the ocean

cooled by the hand of your caress

enfolded in your arms


you are the drowning

you are the ocean

you are love


i am drowning in the ocean of love

forgotten trifles
dust and pollen

tie the land and sea together
with a thicket of pine

white light shining through its crown

a bough once firmly rooted in heavy layers of strata

now aboveground it exceeds its breach

like a loaf of darkened bread
it lies (resting in the sand) stacked in rows
the sun and moon having melded its form

--- --- ---

the sky is a coronae of thorns coming down to greet me

running on the beach we see what looks like the torso of an elephant, I say its a wrecked ship, a storm has washed it ashore, you say it came from the Big Bang, we laugh and sit together on the end of an exposed epoch

it is dead
we are alive
thick with moments of compassion

fused with ignorance and neglect

how now are we communicating -- do you remember when you looked into my eyes and raised your arms triumphantly and proclaimed “ologemeide ... I tamed you!”?

a person could write
a thousand poems

and still
not be read

until one fine day
a Reaper of thoughts
feelings and signs

falls deeply
deeply,
into
slumber.

and when
holding
that chalice
of light
and blood

taketh unto
his breath
the utmost
god almighty
   and sighs,

'to be your beloved
what mighteth
not die?'

you have dis-joined parts

can they be re-attached?

Looking in a mirror, taking a photo
it's as though you blended them

bangs pulled back
you comb with eyes closed
as if scraping with teeth  


we are divided like
salt and water.

One self faithful

the other,
black, pungent, libidinous,
like a *****

I want to ask if you like your hair pulled back
with your eyes closed

a little salty?

are you looking

from the outside?

I am

People of original intent
Don't always signal
The right way

at first

You think,
oh, yeah, sure
Take a right at the first
Bend

Then straight you go and take
the first bend
on the right.

Missing the bend
Not heading
Right
At
All.

Later,
When you have all but given yourself
Up to the dogs
     (always those mangy scavenging, crooked-legged dogs)

They happen to pass by
And
Point the other way

The way we were suppose to come
In the first place
Had we any conscience

who can write on
an open plain


as long as
one can see

a vision would appear
where no horizon exists

looking as far as
one eye sees
squinting
in the sun

pitchwhite.
leaving
no room
for doubt

about
thirst.

pitter patter
oft night
breeze

rain
pelts
the screen
of a tablature

a little
scream

or whimper
because now he whimpers
in his sleep.

a little further
down
the
neck

and he
jumps
off
the
table.

Black Stone Lying On A White Stone

I will die in Paris, on a rainy day, on some day I can already remember.

I will die in Paris--and I don’t step aside-- perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.  

It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself with all the road ahead of me, alone.  

César Vallejo is dead.  

Everyone beat him although he never does anything to them; they beat him hard with a stick and hard also with a rope.  

These are the witnesses: the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms, the solitude, and the rain, and the roads.

if one person
would write
a poem,
the poem
the poem of poems

the peoples poem
for the people of the earth
and it would include odes to the wealthy,
to royalty,
to the aristocracy too

and it would be written by a scholar,
a learned soul, who through his or her labors and connections
had come from the east and made a way to the west

the poor would be mentioned as
is proper
in due time, may it be added, for the poor shall be last, but in due time.

and this, so-called poem of poems shall be heralded, and spoken in the cities, on the park benches, quoted by politicians, priests and sung at temple.

and 100 years hence, this poem of poems will be found buried under a thousand foot mountain, burrowed in a cave in script that neither a man nor woman ever will read.

Adam!
turn me over and sing me a song of sixpence
hearing voices, not seeing faces ... with the radio on

it's just me myself and I

driving between towns emoting, gushing
hurt me, break me, **** me!
at the top of my lungs

finding bars buried in backyards
on back roads of insincerity

birch bitten and chewed
logs wet and rotten
and still, chords neatly stacked in ordered rows

can you stand me on my feet?

back home
brushing my teeth yellow
biting my nails turgid, hoping she will come with me to a show
my state is of a lower-class shambling

hoping for a renewal
                or rebirth

sweating on the train repeating God's name

gasping for air making people nervous staring
at their phones wondering if I am going to keel over and die

it's just me myself and I

that's right, write it out in long hand first, then go back and edit

(wishing  to write  like  Tarkovsky)

comparing father and son - an unchecked exception
they were buried in separate coffins
                one in France the other, in a timber cask

but won't I be
too?

I wish I could say, "we have a saying in my country" or "scripture says" or

"I'm lost without you"  (I am and now found).

In ruins at the end of a day
building pigeon flap (or come what may)
ascending a scale of notes in a mirror of songs
behold an image
in a scale of descending notes at dawn.

popcorn kernel on the carpet green

bored,
hapless feelings
on a cardboard screen
a scented card to mom

like

hopeless victims

listless

dragging their
knees
in prayer

pleading
to God
who knows
not where.

I am not sorry for what has been done
double peddle drum

I am not your fire
to put out

my only disinfected wish
was sincerity

I have none

like a monkey at a temple

I want an immediate response from the world

my brother-in-law fights the same depression

he turned into a Cowboy

I stayed an Indian.

Back in Queens I see a man across the street

he's in an Andy Capp hat and twead coat
he used to hem my pants (he's retired now)

he knows my thoughts but doesn't recognize me unless I say hello first

see that ******* the stoop, the one with her hair veiled over her face, staring at her iphone as to a shrine

I've seen my mother-in-law bow down like that at Meher Baba's Samadhi

I should not have been watching her take darshan

in front of her Lord - in supplication - she folded into herself like a napkin

on the way back, we stayed at the Leela and had a lot to drink before we flew home

I wish she knew how lucky I felt being with her - praying and drinking

but last night she called and couldn't remember a thing

it pains me she is losing her memory

I  had to repeat again and again, 'yes, I have your ticket and passport'

or 'remember we flew in together and now we are going back'.

so naturally our conversations return to her growing up on a farm in Virginia; the second oldest to four brothers, her swimming in a creek and charming all the boys, and leaving home at seventeen to dance with Margaret Craske in New York City (how she loved Miss Craske).  

she married a priest who crusaded for the poor in the Lower East Side;  pregnant with her first daughter (and me, having the saving grace to have married that daughter) she met Meher Baba -  a meeting that changed her course and late in life she became a Psychologist (a PhD at 74!).   

her natural graciousness was born of the wild flowers of Machair (her people are from the Hebrides),
her love of dance, now transposed and expressed in a light and buoyant outlook, made all a fools mimicry disappear like morning vapor on a Maharashtrian plateau ...

my fortune seeing that.

one day she will forget me and the world and not come back

or when she does we will have a certainty of meeting once before.

"I bequeath unto me
an impartial you"

Happy, alone,
Depressed
Again

How
Many mind-numb-fullnesses
Do I have
Left?

Looking out the window
gazing vacantly
At
Vacant lots
Tripping over
white lies
To tell
Her
I am lost

While my stomach
Works on its bends

A final punture
Of its fabric
of hope, peace and kindness
Leaks out

We, once strong in tolerance

Were the ones
That
kept you afloat

We,
the one ounce olmec
Cabezas.

Has there ever been a time
I have been so wrong

When feeling something
for this long?

Quits.

i wish i could love you like a
radio hairdo

i wish i could have one

in a similar style

i wish i could hold you

out of my sight

like a radio hairdo
a total joy

i wish
we could go on like this

like light waiting for destruction

we could go on

staying apart liek

this  

like a radio hairdo

but in a similar style

for real.

Until today
I could not see you
too afraid to look in a mirror
Skin loose
Jaw tight, a motar grinding teeth

A confused looking man,
already?
Are you ready?

Adrift, we alive are dizzy, mad, confused, or blank.

Stroking our nostril hair,
portraying different parts,
one a banker, a father, an assassin
Once even a sort of Irish troll, slash, Quasimodo,
do you regret the metaphor?

How it happened...

akin to looking back
And thinking nothing,
black on black

Whiteshade in light
Static void (smiling cow).

Who was chaufeured around Paris in that film anyway?

That girl, you know, the one who won't wear shoes
Or socks

She plays in several scenarios,
once a mother, a nurse, a nun on the run,
a chemist, a voluptuous ventriloquist,
pregnant, humming, doing the dishes, going to church,
staying up late to feed the cats

can you imagine

playing all those lifetimes on a raft
an inventive vehicle wouldn't you say?

I'm a nobody
Arranging words so they align with thoughts
Uneven and impure

These poems are like living on snack food

What I want to say is,
half of me is out the door

Living with the ants.

simple tasks

done by millions of workers

will be replaced by robots.


they say workers are worried ... worried they say

how will we live - let alone support ourselves and our family's?

wouldn't it be better to have robots live in misery than us?

better to have them toil?

better to have a machine plead guilty to ******, hauled off to jail, seen for what  it is, in our stead?

let them accomplish this, or invent that,

let them cry over a missing child or wife or lover,

they should suffer, die and be buried

and rise again

Lo,
let thy robots judge the living and the dead!


like a nuke on a mike
the porch we sit on

out of a giant soft shell
plastic brains break open

I'm scared as ****
batteries are recharging
a bullseye of prophecy

twenty hours ago
I was a different man

a person who could not
or would not
Know.

It is said that
science is the man

And happy
is he who
Cares not,
Feels not,
Or prays not

for he
will
forever
be

headless,
footless,
and
friendless

dead to the world
You might say

Tell his remains:

we now know
loneliness
can be cured

Little stories
Do tell

One time

A lit evening rush

A full throttle
Spirit
brush

Holding hands
At strange
Hours
Each
slips
Past
The other

Beholding a dream
An ember flickers
Like
Skipping breaths

Both our lips

Now
Captured
sounds
Seen through
a tunnel

fulminating
time

Frz have you forgotten me?

I hear your voice, but its me saying do not listen

Anyway I say, how are you?
the court records a divorce, a child, and a republican,

You were once a brooklynite, a beloved chassid gal, so hollow to hide, have you moved upstate?

me? maybe inappropriately concerned

I dreamt we will meet one day.

I see you, you see me, then run away furtively,

I race head long, trying to catch you, to touch you at last.  

Mind numb, you duck in the LGBT centre.  I stop.  

Leaving you to minds damnation and hell, a palace of fears, fool for years, you lead me down some steps, through an alley,  open a gate, and smile,

stay here, you say, between two buildings.  

I sit next to the garbage cans against a wall with leafless vines, its the first snow, you never said when you'd be back.

It is now a year before I die, cars roll by noisily, far off a lone siren, someone is digging in the garbage for scraps, it seems impossible that inches away you were within my reach

i like mixes

and late night kisses

and bumps that go on all night

i have a thing for terribly thin fidgeting things
i wish i could find the cord and plug this in
(so it would work of course)

plebeian hard
raw and numb
i still **** my thumb

too tough to forget the past
holding a beachhead with half an arm ... me - i am the

the guitar that fades
as the drums come in

a short circuit

a brain whiff

my late night knees are bothering me too

whispers of
Sainthood
to an outspoken sinner
Ever sinning, ever eager
counsels a thumping

smashed

lightbulb

stuffing a
banana peal
in a glass

like the word -

trumpeting

for example, a grocer on fire - -
(quit giving them the good stuff)

There is only One
God  

the father

And (in Hebrew)
He never saw his children again.

you say these things
as I scan the stars for cheribum

The People cry out
  Who will save us?
We are buried alive with deception

Dwelling like beasts in spoils of luxury
Creeping around like blighted scarabs
    growing ever stronger with rancid mouthfuls of cheat.

King of neither world
Hurler of hopes
Admonisher of dreams
Do not silence our awakening

You must save us!

I am Ha-ha
  am I to be loved by you?

It is I alone who can strike
a single chord

[though strumming with puny hands I too have limits]

Like so many drops of sweat
trickling down your spine, I caress.

In my kingdom fear reigns
   each of you
a harnesser of the means

know that I have not come to fulfill but to destroy

******, killing, stealing
Mankind will be churned underground to be reborn with burning flesh

consummate death
thy liberty is dead!

So decrees  Ha-ha

The People whimper
  do we even deserve you?

too interested
in what is being put into my mouth
to listen to hard knocks

too  muted to deaden my tone

soft walls are what I need

I could put up textured paper
with simple tacks

from floor to ceiling

but would that help?

Hollo!

has gone to ground

urinating on the floor

dug in by fear

I should have broke from under my covers
and run riot at the scent of death by now

I once read, a hound that lacks
drive is apt to dwell

not stuck in a house,
putting up pictures

or breaking in blankets

not waning and whimpering like I'm doing now

a pain without limits
by spoils of nature
a mind unreasonable

set in an entablature

in the space between
you leaving
and
me
never coming
back

Liver
River
Pees.

Open or closed
Closeted or out

A cloistered sound embanks a noun
Static chairs
Helpless stares
Shares space with

Charismatic
Specs

A dog makes a pet
Only if it
Follows you home
And even then
Needs to be let out

People don't realize
The only real sense
Of taste
We have left
Are the churning juices
Being deposited
In our cholera

there is a list to drum by:

father,
mother,
sister,
brother,

the son who died is he forgiven?
the father who survived is surely not.

sitting quietly in a boat
fishing reluctantly
casting my rod
accidentally
to the bottom
of the lake

our guide
a nations pride
holds his breath
then bursts out laughing

my father rises
spits bits and flicks
his stub

glimmering light
thuds as it laps
against a hollow bow

we are drifting now

american bound.

heck,
oh shucks, no darling, this **** thing?
dear darling,
this thing
being big,
I mean bigger than time and space,
bigger than the cosmos,
gosh, bigger than the universe,
bigger than eternity.

boom, bang, clang,
clank.

shh, my solar plexus speaks --
I am here in Queens.

seems like a missed opportunity.

the drain on 42nd street has
rats in the tunnel
rats on the tracks
roaches on the rail
for all the nations let them have

a beautiful life
underneath the sun
like a vagabond
who has no where else to go

I am empty now
below the street
people gather
some push
some saunter
some push there belongings before them
some stare

at humanity
with a smile
with a sad smile
with anger
with rage

some people help
other people

more than once I witnessed a person who
dropped a glove or a hat or a phone or umbrella

and someone said, mister is that yours, or ma'am your glove

we on 42nd stand aloof
regarded as nobody's
and regarded as kings and queens
as natives
as the original dreamers

the first drainers
upon the earth

just waiting to move forward
when
the past gets in the way

you
stop.

the last time
He was with us,
was He listening then?

the time when I said
‘help is on the way’
were you helping?

Later after anger
it pleased me
to be pleasing to you
when those
who, being foreign,
would not care.

but they didn’t know

know me
or any of us

When we,
the sigher's
sighing
in an open vat
with an unpleasant
and ferocious
appetite

and they, the doer's,
makers, breakers and goons

hatch an escape

thence, Isaac,
the exodus will happen

just like that time
four thousand
grains of sand
ago.

I just found my mother
who she is
what mother means
to her


her whole world is
her motherworld
and we are her children


and I
her son
though
I was never her son
at the beginning

55
years
of
pain


and now
I see her
finally
at 89
totally
dissembled

unearthed
to be
buried

under the earth

dear God
restore us
to regularity
without humiliations

dickens might have complained
how unlucky
it was to be born,
poor, helpless, friendless, body-less
painless,

my lies lie with my sins
like white **** frost
trying to warm my heart

If I said,
verily unto you there is only God
would you believe me?

knowing you,
you would scoff
or worse
turn away.

if in turn,
rain fell,

(the sound that
befalls
all
tears),

and ran
away
with
your
life

would you believe me then?

I have a plan to go mad
It will not take time or money
You don't have to do a thing
But bring me lunch
A sandwich, maybe, on the train.  
No, on the steps to the platform
You will see me.
No, you do not see me,
tu me sentiras

------- ----- -------

I put my best bottles in the recycle and I was proud watching you take them.  
I thought to myself, they are doing a service, and I them
by washing the bottles out first, I write this until it whistles in my ears.

There are two typos in my last poem
There are two types of poems, my last one and the one that is being written.

I am serious about the ringing in my ears.

but so far nothing.

I would liked to have kept it
that way

last year, anyway

this book is
based on an
inner experience…

no, strike that

an inner experience
basked in sun drenched
aura's spilling their little yellow drops
of
blood money.

once in awhile
there seems to be enough
room
to settle
past debts.

someone got a sponge
bob
doll
thingy and
tried to mop up
the **** that's
on the kitchen
wall.

for God's sake.

is this what life's come to?

I don't know (about you)
but
its not the first time
(this has happened)

hey.
quit patronizing me.

ah,
at last a place to rest me head
on a stiff one

please no drinking jokes
or ****** stuff

just imagine if
our daily lives were filled
with images of *** and violence

what kind of people
would we be?

hey don't listen to me
just turn on the TV

We will never get to see
How good you were

We will only see the title
Of your life

Only foot prints
Will remain

Of all the lost has beens
And rope-a-dopes

Having my edges cut off
By a living monument
Heaving plastic stones
Outward
Toward space.