Add Abilify to your Pristiq
and if you don’t feel better
in a few days
we’ll add 150 milligrams of Welbutrin
and if you don’t feel better
in a few days
we’ll double that
but if Abiliify puts fat on you
like some of the corticosteroids
we’ll replace it with Saphris
and hope that doesn’t upset your stomach
and if you don’t feel better
in a few days
we’ll cut out caffeine and nicotine
and if you don’t feel better
in a few days
we’ll cut out high fructose corn syrup
and if you don’t feel better
in a few days
we’ll stop sodas and candy
and if you don’t feel better
in a few days
we’ll do an fMRI of your brain
and by then you will be so tired
of chasing happiness
that you will just sit down on the couch
and play with your cat
who knows better than you

Gotama was unlicensed
went to graduate school
in caves along rivers
eating one grain a day
seeking the happy place
where great beasts and ships
gratefully anchor and lie in the sun.

Christ laughed at thin laws
refused to relent
poured glowing love
all over the Pharisees
and isn't it sad
that officious therapists
blindfolded to the heart
spew grey diagnoses
to describe pathologies
ignoring the daimons
of each soul
labeled in their great sad files.

Rumi cut a great poem
into his thigh with a dagger
and loved when people read it . . .

Smell the wind. Eat mutton.
Do not waste your days
inventing litanies of sadness
looking for broken places
in your heart.
When the doctor asks for his fee
reach inside your chest
pull out your heart
hold it before him
say nothing.

Not long
after you pass out
exhausted from playing
the futile game of anomie
hoping to slumber with Eros
here comes Trickster
up out of the pillow
like mist

he just wants to talk
about a great stone hearth
the fireplace of the gods
at the paradoxical center
of a groundless void
and everyone there
is laughing and smiling
and you know they love you.

There will be no better days
there were no bad days
there were just so many days
one after another and another and another
and there will be unendingly more
because this is never done…

…each day is a quantum string of moments
shimmering with meter, rhythm and rhyme
if you listen
moments make days of music...

…but not loud
more like angels whispering to each other
just out of earshot
there it is
behind the other sounds
traffic of door and automobile
the hiss that kills the middle ear
that makes hummingbirds hide…

…so just listen;
be present
and the leaves will shiver in delight
as the hawk cries
and cat stiffens
and you finish your latte
and the barrista smiles at you
and you…


…remember childhood’s pets
rain rivers on windowpanes
through which you sat and watched
cinemas of sunsets
with those sweet, few others
who understood this
with you…

What you don’t know is
that I don’t know either.
What makes you stay inside on sunny days
has pestered me as well my whole life.
Shadows of things that would never happen
grew ominous, loomed over my cowering heart
so being a defensive, obsessive ruminator
my hope to make the leaves in my yard
stand still against gusts of wind –
become a psychotherapist
a posturing senex
trailing his wounded child behind
all made OK
with a license to insult you
pretending I know something
you don’t.

Will global warming disappear (?)
just because I know thousands of facts
about worms after rain
about how so many weeds pop up
in freshly-rained soil
underneath even dominating magnolias
and you pay me
to wizen you.
You stare like a mesmerized gazelle
counting the lions
a whole dozen of them
drawing a circle around your life in tall grass.

I want to tell you
run from the need for a resting place
from the pointless mobius strip
of therapy’s semantic banter.
I wish you would tell me
to just be quiet for once
invite me to hike a trail
protected by angels
with just so much sun
enough rain to nurture
and the lions yes
the lions like Fu Dogs
guard the entry to the hills.

I always forget
it isn’t my frustrated reverie
my angst about knowing
how important it is
not to need to know anything
this constant inability
not to daydream
that brought you here
to a leather throne
with an Olympus digital recorder
so you can capture every
single
word.

RINZAI BOX

Had to have a psych eval
at the box factory
a human resources workup
to make sure
I could handle work again
making cardboard condos
for little mammal prisoners
of the pet trade
who live on hot windowsills
until someone comes to love them.

I got too depressed once
when I found tiny bunnies
mewling in a dumpster
their only refuge
yes
a box I had made
you could tell
it said assembled with care
by Kevin
and I missed a month of work
and got written up
for just being sad.

The shrink diagnosed me
a cognitive distorter
a predictor of worst case scenarios
but I disagreed
since I saw the sad bunnies for real
and he puffed up like a blowfish
stammering you’re the patient
I’m the man.

Well I’ve been around the zendo
so I challenged him
smartypants answer this…….
Do bunnies in boxes
have Buddha nature?

Irrational and pointless he said
hmmmmm I said
how do you know
maybe you’re a narcissist
on a psychobabble fugue
echoing in a therapy box.

But I have Buddha nature
and I put that in the boxes I make
and the Buddha bunnies go in the boxes
and you here in your Buddha office
are not separate
just uniquely boxed  
and the label on the bunnies' box says
assembled with care by Buddha.

You faceless
In that sleek black car
Streak past
One of the so sadly few
Undeveloped plots of land
But you never notice
You’re on the phone
A critical call
Ignoring the doves
Exploding from the chapparal
In that desperate lonely
Remaining space
Between OCNissan
And Starbucks
And every day
You scream
And dream
Of faster cars
So you can
Go so fast
You'll never ever
Have to risk
Staring into the eyes
Of the rising doves.

poetry called back
said I knew
you couldn't stop
even for a few days -
but the real question is
are you unhinged enough
do you break rules
with enough fervor
to join the poetic tribe?

do words tumble
out of your lamp
and roll around the page
like dots of mercury
and then morph into
poignant crystals?

and do you walk
around the town
with bare feet
in a blatant shirt
asking spontaneous questions
about absurd things
of total strangers?

you should practice
living on these edges
because writing poems
means you break
the thermometer
of your soul
and your blood spills
into myriad rivulets
you cannot contain
with a million resevoirs
no, once you start
there's nothing
you can ever put back
the way it was

I asked poetry
if I could stop writing
for just a little while
because my life
had become too extremely twisted and oh, so complicated
and poetry said
you can stop
anytime you want
just quit
making love
with your wife
and forget about
putting sweet red honey
in the hummingbird feeder
next to the fat roses
and let that cute kid next door
walk your dog
to that huge green park
where everybody goes
in the cooling down afternoon
to laugh and watch
stupid pet tricks
and you won't need
to pray anymore
or meditate
in fact
why don't you
just
stop
breathing.

ALL THE IMPORTANT POETS

One day I found all the important poets -
Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson and Rilke
partying in the park drinking Coronas,
feeding pigeons on the green.

Astonished I queried,
"You are all my thought heroes, and yet you laze about.
"Shouldn’t you be writing something famous?"
And they erupted in a literate cacophony of guffaws,
their eyes tearing,
their cheeks shining red with mirth.

Shakespeare turned to me and said,
"Forget it kid !
Meter, metaphor, rhythm and rhyme -
it’s all just groundlessness.
All the adjectives in the world divined just so
only lead to a place in your heart
you’ll never really understand anyway.
It’s simply a mystery, ineffable."

Bukowski tried to ask Rilke about the letters
he'd written to that frustrated young poet,
but he was so drunk on cooking sherry
he could only mumble, gesticulate and grin.

And then sweet Emily said,
"Yes. William is right.
Rainer Marie tried to explain it.
Charles tried to drink into it,
yet it remains the glass bead game -
ungraspable by dearest turn of phrase.
So we have decided to put down our pens
and take a breather."

She quietly handed me the bag of crumbs,
suggesting I toss a few here and there
for the pigeon's lollygagging by.......
"They're hungry, the simple little dears," she said.

Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.

Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.

Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?

Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.

What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.

We built our fragile house
high in the air floating precarious,
no anchor against winds of disillusion
tsunamis of projection and hurt
leaving us no other task
but to sweep
the uprooted flowers from our ruined garden.  

Broken hearts never completely heal  
but only ***** in desperation  
lost in frustrated desire losing momentum
trying not to shut the door.

So I lose you; you lose me.
And though this is not
what we intended
with the naive architecture  
of our tender early hope,
we pick up a piece of wood here
a shattered lamp there
and try
to light our fragile house again.

Every morning angels interrupt
my dreams of missing you
just to remind me
dawn is a reason to be hopeful
so I wonder..........
will this be the day
that I leave the grief behind
the day I finally capture light?

Reaching into the first sunbeams
marveling at their warmth
I slowly close my fingers
but cannot catch one.
They dance and shine around me
like something ineffable given.

Like those elusive sunbeams,
you shined on me
but I held too hard,
foolishly thinking that your light
could ever be captured
in my simple hands.

We are just a tiny flock
you and I;
I feel safe here,
for you are the one who holds me.
Nestled here in your hair
I am loved;
you are holding me.

In the morning
when I hear you stirring
my heart pounds with excitement.
You are coming
to open my door,
coming to hold me.

Then from your hands
come smells and tastes,
and colors and shapes
I cannot begin to count.

Up and down
and back and forth
all day I dance
on my small stage
just to please you,
to hear you sing to me,
so I can sing back, too.

When dark comes
and you shelter me again
I want to tell you
how full of love my heart is,
how every night
I dream of having hands.
I want to
but I cannot say
I want to hold you, too.

a daring mountaineer
ran out of lonely peaks
and women he could brag to

he met a wild woman
just as tired
of her narcissistic journey

they attached
and hoped
they were in love

this projection
became their Everest
with no summit

they ate crackers and soup
listened to talk radio
fell asleep wondering

they sighed in unison
quit dreaming
of mountaintops

the addict told *******
he was moving out of town
and could never be found

the **** user
kept calling her hypothalamus
but it never called back

the midbrain begged
the frontal cortex please
just one more time, ok?

the parents wondered
why the alcohol counselor
was not Jesus

the *** addict apologized
to the therapist
for not wearing underwear
again

the alcoholic told his boss
his grandmother died of juvenile diabetes
and he had to go to his funeral

the counselor sighed
then read again
what the Tao Te King said
about nature's inscrutable ways

Who is this keen lover?
Closer than my own flesh,
Sweeter than the naive wishes of my youth.
She who loved me before time
And will go with me
When it is time to dance with the angels.

She is more than the women of lustful ecstasy
Whose moods swung with the days.
She is nearer even than my own mother
Who never truly was anything but a DNA match.

She is the silent witness
To my life’s trivial dramas.
She may not always approve when I flail,
But I know she loves my soul.

She is the intimacy of silence,
The radical profound love I feel
When I am out of my mind in solitude and yearning
For just one more kiss,
Joyous for no earthly reason I can name.

As the leaf dies
It loves the earth onto which it falls.
The executioner’s heart breaks as his vain axe falls.
Say “No” to anyone or anything
And you get a huge “No” in return.

Scream at the lover
Who has abandoned you
And the lover is still gone.
Say the parting is all the other’s fault
And you find yourself still alone.

Your sweetest love will get trampelled
Your careful plans ruined
By fires in the alleys of daily life
But there you still stand
Perplexed and searching for meaning in the chaos.

The average man’s an idiot;
His ego rages against a machine
Powered by the unconsciousness of hamburger society
He first fattens, then withers
Becomes totally blind and deaf
To the light and music of his higher self.

Don’t be in the idiot parade.
Say, “Yes” when everyone else says, “No”.
Sit and feel your gut churning
Suffer the static
As your limited mind radio
Tries to find a channel that does not exist.
Eat an unripe bitter peach.
Smile at fear.
Save your energy for the dance of individuation
On the puppet stage.

The love you want so desperately
That you believe can only come from another person
Is in you already.
Everyone seeks what you seek.
They see in your eyes
What you see in their eyes
And neither of you could see the love
If it was not there to begin with.

Look for the love behind the wall
The anthems of projected blame
The paranoid unfair burdening
Placed upon us to provide for others
What we can barely give ourselves.  

Postpone your case until Christmas recess
When the judge is tired and careless
And your radical situation may slip between the cracks
Of life’s soul-less bureaucracy.

So your birth was unavoidable;
Your death, its inevitable.
Everything in between
All your radical efforts to be happy
Get down to only one thing –
You must forgive yourself
For being addicted to being perfect
Because you aren’t.
You’re just as lonely and confused as me.

But that’s the intention in this life
To learn to see through the suffering
To have more compassion
For the frailty of yourself and others
Wouldn’t that be nice?

From noticing comes attraction
from attraction comes desire
from desire comes touching and tasting
from touching and tasting comes craving
from craving comes attachment
from attachment comes expectation
from expectation comes disappointment
from disappointment comes resentment
from resentment comes pain
from pain comes anger
from anger comes frustration
from frustration comes unhappiness
from unhappiness comes isolation
from isolation comes loneliness
from loneliness comes despair
from despair comes boredom
from boredom comes  silence
from silence comes acceptance
from acceptance comes healing
from healing comes a new life
and then from that new life comes noticing
and from noticing comes attraction
and from attraction comes desire
and if you are lucky
you recognize the game.

El soldado no quiere matar el enemigo.
Una guerra bastante grande pasa
en la mente suyo.

Lo que molesta son los temos de un hijo
no son peligros verdaderos
pero en vez son suenos
en que el hombre ve
lo que no tiene vida real.

No puede luchar mas.
El ha sufrido todo possible.
Apurate al lado de este gran Corazon.
Da le un beso.
Que el puede aprender sonreir.



THE SOLDIER

The soldier does not want to **** the enemy.
A great enough war is happening
in his own mind.

What bothers him are the fears of a child
not real dangers
but rather dreams
in which the man sees
that which has no real life.

He cannot fight anymore.
He has suffered everything possible.
Hurry to the side of this great heart.
Give him a kiss.
That he may learn to smile.

We can make this edible
without utensils
In a strange, menuless kitchen
Well, can you not make a salad?
Take a cucumber of memory
Slice it so thin that none of the recollections hurt anymore.
Mince some olives so fine
Their oil leaks onto the cucumber like OK.
Add the pulsing flesh of bright red tomatoes
But don’t slice them
Just squeeze them with your hand
Until they explode like wet epiphanies
And dare to dice a garlic clove
Without turning your nose away
As invisible olfactory reality
Assaults you with truth so pungent
That ECT would pale in comparison
To that very assault on your boundaries of understanding
And then toss the whole thing
Watching how it changes color and texture
And just when you both start to get hungry
And you both want to cry
The 50 minutes are over.

One day when you are turning gray
Like I am now
You will look at a list you wrote
Through all those years
And all your different lovers.

You will think of them
One by one
And in the silent pictures of your mind
You will know which ones truly loved you
And which did not.

You will see their faces
One by one
And know the true lovers had the boy’s hearts
The gentle sweet fellows
Who came with sincere flowers
Their heads bowed down
Eyes fixed to the ground at your feet
Transfixed by your beauty.

They worshipped you
Trusting their beloved's animistic heart
Innocent and devoted like to mother,
They were pure beyond lust
And helpless but to adore innocently
For there is something in the simple heart of love
Tenderness in the heart of a boy-man who truly loves
And when he does
He cannot go halfway.

Whether by your own hand
or assisted by the selfish outlaw
with whom you last shared
your lonely body,
your eyes closed forever
no last thought
other than to end.

It was recklessness
that took you
to dark ***** places
no sweet girl should go
where endless bad actors
hurt and starving like you
had no lines to recite
no script but loneliness.

Your lovely face now torn
your once promising *******
like wounded doves
will never fly
to wise sacred gardens
where nourishment is given
to the orphaned heart.

Yet I have a prayer for you still
that perhaps from a higher place
you will come to understand
the beauty I saw
beneath your vain skin
a tender young girl
whose sweet hands
reached so desperately
to capture just one real love
not knowing I had waited
for you right there
at the edge of your heart
every time before.

Your angel calls you
From her distant doorway
Beckoning come my weary love
Into the Bigness.

Lay your armored fears
In the cradle of our hearts joined  
where you may feel the pulse and light
That makes our love.

I am the chimera of your longings
The whisper of the dreams
You could never make come true
Before you came to my door.

Love the idea of us now
But expect no kiss in kind
Knowing my face must turn away
Or you will never be free.

This is how the Bigness works
Leaving you half-starved
Hungry for the touch of love's ghost
Those desires that are too small
That no longer serve
In the Bigness.

I am not the only angel calling
From the light you crave
And though you beg me to follow
This is the bittersweet truth of the Bigness
I will always leave you
You must always come into it alone.

The last few couples cling
wild dark feathered figures
breathing in wild unison
as they dance dervishlike
in a loud neon heaven
embracing then releasing
clutching lustily again and again
under silent stars
as the music goes silent
and each partner’s intimate scent
reminds of old lovers
never quite forgotten
because memories expand like music
and most when dancing
behind masks that lie
about the inevitable partnerlessness
everyone will face
no matter how ecstatically
they dance in defiance of time
hypnotized by the sweet personal music
that always deceives lovers
willing to dance
in a late parade.

Here you are at last my mysterious friend,
said the wise man as his strange red, white and sooty guest
emerged from the hearth his heavy sack laden,
dragging behind oddly alive, morphing shape, wanting to express.

What have you brought?  
Well, what have you asked for?
I never ask for anything because though I have heard of you
you’ve yet to arrive at Yuletide as imagined.
So my wishes have always melted into dreams diaphanous
For I find it best to simply muse,
not to expect or hope for the unlikely.

Well, said the guest, unlikely is now here,
and we shall unwrap gifts of muse this eve.
We shall expect nothing but delight by firelight.
You know, don't you, sir,
That I just squeezed my considerable Self
and the enormity of my bag’s unconscious accoutrement
Through the liminal space of your narrow chimney,
Yet not a single flame burned me?

And so the two old fellows sat and  spoke of dreams and images
memories before time without definitions
and the flames slowly waned as midnight passed toward the dawn.
They danced on a feather toward sleep
when the mysterious guest woke with a start.

I must be off, he said,
to tend the soul of the world.
It needs the salve of its own sweet tears
which I just happen to carry in this heavy parcel of my heart.

But don’t leave yet, the host exclaimed.
First you must sign my guest book
everybody does, even strangers,
and especially one I never expected to meet
who comes unbidden with messages
I am left to translate with the secret alchemy of myths yet written.

Then show me where it is,
your library is so immense
tomes everywhere I look.
Don’t you see it there by the mantle,
that great leather volume.
You can’t miss it, it’s big and all in red,
Oh, yes, that’s the one I’d love to have you sign.
Then I can remember you visited this magical night
and though nobody might believe it
I will know you were here
if only for a moment
by firelight.

Help me
the drugs don't work
my father touches me
I am too fat
powerless
I incise my anorexic hunger
with a martyr's red razor
rewarding myself
with a dopamine high
mixed with pity and disgust
so I can hide in the up and down
never know my real reasons
project my sadness onto others
and take pills
from psychiatrists
who themselves
believe the shallow island of chemicals
is the solution
and who work only
to keep you sick
when the sun is shining
but you cannot see it
because your frontal cortex says
the sun is not shining
when in fact
it is.