Youth found me seeking the fastest rivers
diving into them careless and unafraid
then stroking boldly upstream
faster than the current flowed down against me.
I was a god.

Now I watch the Spring ice break
huge white boulders tumbling downstream  
furious cold and unforgiving
but I do not jump in.

Not that I could not swim, but why?
I have already drunk the wine
that flows from the foot of the gold mountains
from where all rivers begin.

Now I walk down a path trod by the elders
past where the river moves fast
to where the current wanes into deep pools
and the silver fish glide among the reeds.
I wade in slowly
water gently rising up
until it closes over my head
and I see something.
I release my breath
and descend deeper into the calm.

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.

I went into the garage
sat down at the workbench
laid out a clean sheet of Tyvek
and sterilized the long steel probe.

This wasn’t a snap decision;
I did months of research
got some tips from an ER nurse friend
knew the risk
but could not live this way anymore.

Numbed my right eye with ophthalmic anaesthetic
leaned over the mirror
and slowly pushed the needle
into the socket beside my nose.

It didn’t hurt
just pressure
like the blogs had said
and then

The world exploded in yellow stars

My love says she likes me
because I'm such a great deipnosophist,
a sanguine fellow
whose susurrus musings
crepitate with a farrago of meanings,
a  protean and hortatory munificence
that brings her to her knees
in delight.

I adore her as well
for the beatific rapprochement
she accedes to
even when we expatiate
on and on about things mercurial.

Yes, I will always adore
her lissome acquiescence
to the inexorable germanity
of the simple fact
that we're simply
head over heels
for each other,
if you know
what I'm trying to say.

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.

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.

She stands in the kitchen
slicing vegetables again
gazing wistfully
through memory's window
to a sharp winter day
with that sweet carefree man
when they walked the seashore
haloed by salt breeze
clinging to each another
laughing at the gale
promising everything
always and forever
but like every night
her reverie fades
no talk of love, no seashore
no crisp air, no calling gulls
just the smell of roast beef
and the droning voice
of the man she settled for
igniting once again
a deep sad rumbling
from her heart’s basket
of buried dreams
as the house begins to shake
and kitchen floor cracks open
its hungry maw gaping
swallowing her whole
helpless in an avalanche
of potatoes and paring knives
with sharp edges
like the teeth
of her resignation.

Hard to simply sit
not wishing for that
nor pushing this away
watching your mind
like a caged beast
pace incessantly
pull its own feathers out
trying to escape
the dire wolf
that’s been extinct
for thousands of years.

Your ego says yes
or no
or black
or white
never gray
never OK
driving you
to the Zoloft Store
shut off the judgment
**** the wolf
who stalks you
when you sit.

I found you yet again
Dipping water from a well
In a small village square
Your face covered as was custom
And knowing you instantly
I took your hand
You showed no surprise
Just knew me
As the son you bore
In a tropical clime
On a world so distant
You could remember only
The rustle of crystal wind
Through tall red trees
Under a blue sun
Where you smiled
Knowing this was another life
One more time together
For our souls to learn
Some loves never end
But seek new bodies
In new places
And we always get excited
Rush to each other
Passionate and so surprised
Until we remember why.

After the argument
all he could do
was slump down
in the old chair
near the window
that looks out
onto the wide garden
beside the lake.

He yelled louder
as usual
dominated and gesticulated
but has paid
the same dear price
as she trembles
hidden behind
the soft pillows
she hoped
would cradle
words of love.

Every time she asks
please love me
a little slower
this time
he hears criticism
flying into a rage
panicking to realize
he does not know how
to do anything
but clutch at her
with the harsh hands
of a frightened man
who cannot hear
cannot see
and cannot believe
she loves him
at all.

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.

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

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.

Gotama was unlicensed
went to graduate school
in caves along wide rivers
eating one grain of rice a day
seeking the happy place
where great beasts live
and tall ships anchor firm
on still waters.

Christ laughed at thin laws
refusing to be defined
poured glowing love
all over the Pharisees
and that’s why
it is so sad
some therapsts
forget about the soul
spewing insurable diagnoses
for imaginary pathologies
ignoring the rare pearls
of each heart
logged into their tight sad files.

Rumi cut a lovely poem
into his thigh with a dagger
and loved when people read it . . .
so honor that sacrifice
and never
insult your days
by depending on those
who invent litanies of sadness
looking for broken places  
in your psyche.

When the counselor asks for his fee
reach inside your chest
pull out your heart
hold it before him
say nothing.

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.

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.

I’m a nail
not a big steel industrial spear
just your average 2-incher
a household item
used for many chores
but not prized for any.

The hammer has pounded me
part way into the wood
where I’m stuck
not loose
but not tight either.

The wood says ouch
I say sorry
but it’s too late

here comes the hammer again.

My man-o'-war lies anchored 
silent after crossing endless seas
as I stand on the gangway
bathed in midday heat.
The olive trees on the hillsides
grown ten times taller 
since I left you here
to seek my worth
in battles with strangers.

Heavy coats of chainmail
have worn maps into my shoulders
those engines of the trickster's axe.
Though no man or beast has won me
not a queen I have not taken from her king
I still fear to stand before you 
unarmored and vulnerable
before your patient inexorable love.

Your pure love 
is my greatest adversary
yet you carry no sword.
You challenge me everywhere
yet you sail no ocean.
You know I am weary
yet you do not mock.
You have simply waited
for my hard road to end.

My heart stops
in mute surrender
as I lift off the last battered chest plate,
undo the sterling braces from my legs
steel falling like glass
around the pirate's helmet
tarnished at my feet.


Though a lifetime of war
has crippled my gait
I run with reckless abandon
to that open door 
on the welcome street
the place I left
for no good reason
where you have endured all these years
holding the only blade 
that can sever
the lover from the rogue.

Sunrise waits hours away
at the stoplight before dawn
the navaswam not yet
even crisping the morning air
and it happens again

my eyes open automatically
mind piercing the dark
1:27 a.m. decision
this flesh defiant
toward the digital god

so it begins again
where should I go?
whom will I meet?
what set in motion?
and it matters because?...

all this wondering
in a nanosecond
before I remember
those are not real
they are only thoughts

just time and space games
insomniac headtrips
when the fact is
I always wake up yearning
before the sun

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.

He reaches for the other pillow
but finds no head resting there
looking pretty
ready to kiss
and he feels bad.

She awakens from dreams of him
but there are no arms
reaching out for her
just the rumpled sheets
that witness only sleep.

Each heart breaks sometimes
remembering the precious few moments
when they could embrace
like normal people
and they cry.

And they both keep weeping
feeling so sad and heavy
with anger at the situation
at the other
for not trying harder
to be there.

He ruminates about how
she never does talk about
where she wants to put her piano
and she complains to herself
because he no longer counts
the days until their next encounter
and has so little to say
on the phone.

Each one is obsessed
with worrying about the other
and neither takes
the time to wonder
if the distant partner
also feels the sting
of the empty pillow.

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.

Man’s voice does not soar,
but birds have their own language.
They write on the wind.

Way off in the distance
Across the wide river
Near where the far meadow
Meets the trees
I first saw my beloved.

She was picking flowers
To take home
And arrange just so
In her cottage near the field.

She loves beautiful things
And she once loved me
But the water between us
grew so deep and wide
She came to fear the crossing
That would bring her near.

We stood on the opposite banks
Each of us often and alone
Calling out with hope day after day
Come to me, please come.

But we never did
Each in fear of drowning
Afraid to leave the hard land
Where every step is made safe.

Once I waded in
But the water filled my eyes
As I lost sight and never touched
That far desired bank.

In the end too much time
With no embrace
finally wore me down.
I was wet and tired
From trying to swim upstream.

One day I just stopped
standing at the river's edge
And looked no more
to the far meadow
Where I first loved
my maiden by the trees.

.

Maybe today
that cute guy
from downstairs in #6
the quiet one
who winks
will helpcarry
my heavy grocery bags
up the stairs
put them on the counter
ask me of I need help
with any other chores.

I've never heard
a voice like his
the lilt and timbre
or the graceful strength
of his lion hips
as he heads toward the door
and just when I think
he will vanish
down the stairs
he stops to turn
his gaze on me
as time stands still
and I step toward him
breathlessly hoping
he will speak
my name.

A deep trumpet sounds
from some distant place
as he reaches
for my hand
and his lithe body
begins to vibrate and glow
a pulsating male miracle
of rainbow light
with diamonds
dancing among
fingers of white fire
wrapping him
in celestial heat
that does not burn
and from his strong shoulders
rise great silver wings
angelic and potent
beating in synchronous time
to the rhythm
of my heart
and I know
what this means.
I know who
he is.

The next day
I look for him
but the landlord says
he moved out this morning
and left this note for you.

"I never caught your name,
but I like the way sunlight
dances in your eyes.
I am not far.
Come.
Find me."

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.