the gray grasses sang sweet songs,
without even a breeze to move them
the coyote howls were marrow yellow,
crimson, as their sour colors sifted
into the night

lightning streaked my charcoal
sky, and I could taste it, a salted butter
that tickled the throat on the way down,
the sonic booms it hatched smelled of baked bread,
and I hungered for more  

then a white owl spoke to me,
but I did not hear it call my name
no, not mine--though its hoots formed ice,
chunks which pummeled me, froze me
to the bone

blind from birth, she
could tell the difference
between the odor of chrysanthemums and tulips,
and remember her first whiff of both

she could identify
the scent of her brother
in a groping group
of sweaty brutes

she knew
her nose was her biographer
collecting memories, visions
her eyes could not

she studied biology
only to discover her compendium
of smells originated in a space infinitely
smaller than a fly's eye

a few molecules
devoted to identifying ham,
the rich smokey meat
of her first Easter

another clump to help her hold
the faint smell of perfume which lingered
in the room hours after
her mother passed

and who knew what atoms,
what cells, what curse of chemistry
forced her to recall, most of all, the sweet scent
of her newborn's hair,

the few seconds she held him,
after his heart stopped, and they took him
and placed him in a smooth, cold box, where sight,
sound and smell were locked forever

to a theater near you
or your flat screen: live murders, usually
mass, sometimes children

sorry, no 3D,
for you see, that might be
too graphic, for some

no actors required
for the wild world's the stage
phone cams abound

stick around, for
a double feature, without
leaving your seat

for before the blood dries,
we'll mute the cries, and show you
the next slick slaughter

on a Texas hot day,
a thrifty bird of prey, was enjoying
a red repast

his plate, endless asphalt, his meal
entrails of a cur, whose flat fate was sealed
by black Firestone rubber

the manged mutt left to be lunch
for a ravenous buzzard, with beak bent,
pecking at his fine feast, until

my mindless Michelins
gobbled him up, faster than his greased wings
could flap for flight

my actress, who
sweated blood on Broadway each night
off Broadway too

said, on a long stroll
through Central Park. she was successful
because she did not like herself

on the stage, she proclaimed,
she was never herself, and she fell in love
with every character she portrayed  

every script was a better bio
than her own, and the playwrights knew
her better than she knew herself

and when our walk
was curtailed by a downpour, she dragged me
into a crowded cafe

where she knew half the patrons
and the wait staff, and they all knew the different
personas she had owned, on the dry stage

rain now forced her to choose  
which selves to keep, and which to lose
while she sipped scalding tea

with me, on a grey wet afternoon,
only hours before she would again be under  
the spell of the hot lights,

and read verses from the pens of prophets,
poets--those who purloined her soul for the price
of admission, to a place without self loathing

he wept, T.S. Eliot
for he lost a poem he penned
by hand--a piece that called itself
The Waste Land

in which he declared
April was the cruelest month
but he recalled little more, while scavenging
his memory for wily words

though I did not weep with him
I placed a light palm on his shoulder
to tell him I understood, for we all
lamented the loss of verse

phrases that came to us in dreams
lines that licked clean the inside of our skulls
words that repeated themselves, coming and going,
coming and going with each breath

old poets
never die
nor do they
fade away
they live
on and on
every time
you turn
the page

When
that stillness comes
and centers -
        all the chaotic parts
flying in the air
slowly, in circles
         come to a gradual halt
and tranquility
washes over
like a sweet, low tide-
this is the time
to release all ego
and bid goodbye
               to pride
Emotions come
           emotions go
it's all a part of
       the same cosmic flow
When I close my eyes
I can feel my mind
I am ensconced within
an aura divine
in the tiniest of whispers
like an echo of ghosts
above my third eye
my heart seems
                  to float              
I am connected
to the stars
they speak my name
and inside that heart,
             a golden flame
burning in passion yet
also in faith
in the ability to get through
the darkness in strength
In moments like these
I reach out to the earth
                     growing my roots
in grounding rebirth
I can hear them forming
in soft crackles
     my fingers sprouting
tender green shoots
In my moments like these
my mind is released  
to purity of air
I am wrapped in my own glow
Away from self-judgement's
                                       harsh glare
       and the scepter of peace
inside my body
so lovingly reigns
as coolness of water
slakes through
my veins
My ventricles fill
with the breaths
                          of life
releasing up to winds
stress and strife
I bless each one
with a barely-uttered phrase:
May there always be
times of spiritual ease
with the silent magic
         of moments like these