First I wrapped the Belkin cover on my 64GB iPad
tight shut with 3M shipping tape
then I glued one helium Happy Birthday teflon balloon
from CVS Pharmacy on each corner with SuperGlue
and took it down to the beach.

Kneeling at the tip of the tide
I beseeched the gods
accept this offering
heal my disbelief
make my body and soul whole. . .
I’ve stopped adding Abilify to my antidepressant
and I’m scared to feel the emptiness again.

I launched my little ship
on the next outgoing surge
as a Red Bull can bobbed beside
and I closed my eyes in supplication.

My mind was pulsing
with endless subtly shaded descriptors
and shockwave verbs,
when a pop-up alert flashed
red and yellow and blue…

YOU HAVE ONLY 9 WORDS LEFT !
ACT NOW !!!

YOUR LIFETIME ALLOTMENT IS 20,000,000,010 WRITTEN WORDS,
AND.........YOU HAVE USED 20,000,000,001.

ACT NOW OR LOSE YOUR RIGHT TO WRITE FOREVER!

BUT WAIT !!!!!!
  
COMPLETE THE SIMPLE FORM BELOW IN THE NEXT 60 SECONDS
AND WE’LL DOUBLE YOU TO 40 BILLION MORE.
IMAGINE ALL THE SHIMMERING ADJECTIVES, THICK NOUNS,
CLEVER ADVERBS AND PITHY PRONOUNS YOU WILL HAVE!!!!!!!!!

Panicking, I clicked on the form
and furiously typed …

William Shakespeare
10 Henley Street Village South
Statford Upon . . . . . .

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

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?

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.

I was walking my big Ridgeback Mr. Brown
across the Starbucks parking lot
when this little white poodle started yapping
from the rolled-down window of a brand new Mercedes.

Mr. Brown responded like shot from guns
and before I knew it
he was scratching at the Mercedes door
eager to make friends with the poodle.

Then the Mercedes owner came running out of Starbucks
spilling latte all over his substantial stomach
What the ****…..!?
Look at those ******* scratches!
Do you know how much it costs
to fix a car like this?
I’m suing you and your big ******* dog !

Not wise, sir, I responded…
to be so aggressive with someone you don’t even know
and who has a 110-lb. African Lionhound
on the end of his leash.

I might be a whacked-out Vietnam veteran
with a hairtrigger temper
or a gang member
or maybe I'm just a senior citizen
with an extremely protective service dog.

Well, he said, his belly shaking,
look at my **** car.
I am looking at it I said
and handed him the keys to my ’68 Shelby Cobra
parked and shiny right nearby.
Take mine, I said
it’s more fun to drive.

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.

You see what glitters
can’t keep your hands off it
feels so soft
tastes so good

By the time you’re in high school
it’s already too late
to get enough of it

but you try anyway
like a responsible adult
despite marital ennui
despite collapsing financial machines
despite leveled forests
despite legal hypocrisy

so reality conflicts
with your childhood dreams
and you go numb
despite the glitter
you’ve piled up
in your desperate garage

then as a senior citizen
you grow scared of ending
you pretend all the craving and striving
meant something

even though you never believed in God
never prayed or meditated
never read sacred literature

and insisted
who needs the Bhagavad Gita
when you have a portfolio
who needs the Maharishi
when you have CNN

eventually age wins
you ache
you get wider
you are too tired

you stop counting
what’s in the garage
doesn’t matter now

all you need is room
for one more thing
about the size of a camp stove

it all stops
when you carry the generator upstairs
close the windows
put towels under the door
and pull the starter cable

the literature says
“Quiet….. runs all night.”
which comforts you
like the glittery things of your youth

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.

The most interesting man in the world says
it’s harder to be confident
more difficult to say hello you're pretty
if you do not have a secret supply
of the endorphins of love

harder to feel happy
at the dog park at midday
chatting with the ***** real estate ladies
while you lust after the tatted chick
with the nose ring and the Rottweiler

she is 40 years younger than you
you were born before her parents met
and it’s more difficult to believe
she would be interested in you
than it is to just go home
and read MEN’S JOURNAL

so you do the hard thing
you stroll up with your Ridgeback
nervous that you wore a tank top
and you say

I am lonely
estranged here in the sawdust
with those women my age
who look like my grandmother
and I bet if you would just listen
I could tell you about a miracle

and she looks at you
like you’re mental
she ***** her head interested
tell me, she says.

Every cell in my body
trembles with anticipation
as the curandero croons
ayy ooo wah hee….
….time to come and see me…
as my stomach settles from the purge
of the exlixir of the vine of the soul
I have dared myself to drink
as my limbs begin to vibrate
as I am seized by the hair
lifted right up off the ground
in the arms of great angels
who look like alien jaguar dancers
with huge luminescent eyes
and funny hats
who live in the emerald jungle
where the concoction I took
grows entwined
with my desperate hope
that this isn’t a scam
that there really is another world
or maybe galaxies too
but then I realize
I’m so far away from home
I know I’ll never get back
because I see him up ahead
it’s God with his hair gloriously ablaze
sitting on a grand throne
at the end of a great stone road
like the Roman’s Appian Way
suspended in pulsing interstellar space
and there is a line of people
stretching for light years
all hoping for a sustainable miracle
all holding tickets to see him
and each one walks up to him
heads bowed
and he caresses their hair
and he says I love you
but really, I just work here.

Zeus had plastic surgery,
his fingertips shaved off
so he would not leave prints
when he committed
his archetypal crimes.

He changed his name to Saturn
then to Cronos
then to Albatross Von Mariner,
all this subterfuge
just to disquise the fact
that he goes borderline ballistic
when he doesn't get his way.

He pulled Icarus out of the sky,
wounded Prometheus’ side,
left Sisyphus on a steep lonely mountain,
dared Demeter to save her daughter,
yet these souls persist
in mnemonic literary defiance
of a single fact…

No god is greater than you,
the karma jury has come in
and Zeus is sentenced
to five years of community service
on Interstate Highway 5.

He will wear a yellow clown suit
with a red rubber nose
and floppy green shoes
with a fast food tray hanging from his neck
and he will walk in traffic snarls
stopping at every car
to clean the windows
to sell hotdogs
with purple relish and black mustard
wrapped in grey buns
as unappetizing and pathetic
as the lies
he has told us about ourselves
for so long.

You said I did something wrong
so I have to stay in your box
can’t go to Trader Joe’s to buy bananas.

I guess you see a world
of good and bad boxes
and everyone has to be in one or the other.

I will explore your box
cut holes in all six sides
let the light of freedom in
and when I’m done
there won’t be much of your box left,
just more holes and light
than cardboard and tape.

That’s all your box ever was
just a bivouac
that grew soggy
when the first rain fell
and the directions you wrote
on the outside of the box
started to fade and run
down the sides
in ribbons of color
that made a nice pattern
in the shape of a bunch of bananas.

.

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."

I bought a cruiser bike
instead of a mountain bike
I’m a sextagenarian
not a 30-something
so every morning I pedal
to the corner across from the Ritz-Carlton and the Montage
next to the high-rent Pandemonde Café
and count the Ferraris roaring by.

I never had a Ferrari
but I did buy a ’96 Mustang once
and souped it up with a supercharger
which was around the time
my doctor took me off testosterone
because my prostate specific antigen
was way too high

You have an inoperable prostate malignancy, he said
after the biopsy
You can’t take hormone replacement anymore
It will **** you

And as I lean on my bike
depressed about missing the rush
of another boost of synthetic male hormone
I enjoy watching the Europen speedsters streak by
so proud of themselves
in cars that cost more
than my house.

I used to wish I was them
used to feel like them
when I was younger and charging hard
but now I just utter prayers
for each Lamborghini that goes by
and I say
I hope your car is faster than cancer.

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.

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.

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.

When I get too blue
I laugh at myself
pick up the leash
and take Mr. Brown to the dog park.

He shows me how
to be carefree
will jump and bark
drink a gallon of water
and lick whomever he chooses
without a worry in the world.

Everybody admires his *****,
What kind of dog is that?
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
an African lion hound,
but he’s scared shitless of my cat.
what’s yours?
A Visla.
Looks like yours, only smaller.
Did you see that American Foxhound?
That s.o.b. can jump!
Yeah, too bad he can’t pay my mortgage.

The young photographer shows off
his brilliant Doberman’s latest trick –
a double backflip
catching the Frisbee ten feet high
landing on all fours.
The old lady with the blind daschund
says, “Oh, oh, isn’t he wonderful?”
She claps her hands in delight.

The canine Noah's arc show runs all day
with the entry of pugnacious Sharpeis
the arrogance of Poodles
the inscrutability of giant Malamutes.
the pride of leash-holders.

Gradually tree shadows darken the sawdust
and people start parading home,
the **** athletic girls with their boyfriends’ Shepherds
the slow old men with their greying Labradors
the lady real estate agents with their tiny Shih Tzus.

And then it’s silent
I’m the last one there
alone in the gathering dusk
still hearing echoes of joyful barks
realizing how funny it is
that so many people
look just like their dogs
but I don’t think about it,
I just marvel at all this joy.

The drone swept silent
between the maple tree
and the shed

zapped my dog Shep
with an electric bolt
that vaporized him instantly

while Mr. Stone next door laughed
I told you, Hoffman
to shut that **** dog up

just as my drone
launched a fire grenade
up the exhaust pipe
of his new Lexus

yet somewhere
in the akashic record
of my sweet country
a muleteer helps
pull his neighbor’s wagon
out of the mud
that follows
a torrential rain

Old men on park benches
they’re the real heroes
souls defying impermanence
greying and slower than you
recalling the days
when they dared the seasons to change
kinetic and thoughtless
they were once young men ablaze.

These elder boys sit reminiscing
as the beautiful young women prance by
not daring to say a word
for fear of ridicule
but knowing that many nights
they were desire’s center of attention
when lithe legs enwrapping them.

Elders are not holograms
just vintage men with feelings
hurting when the young and sparkling
look through them not at them
as if they were props
in the day’s act.

Elders are not mirages
but consciousness battling time
accumulated wisdom vibrating in the ether
still electric inside and unafraid of time
with smiles on their faces
they reach out for sunsets
and pull them close
with arms of love.

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 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.

A bold pirate
vanquished King Phillip’s hapless galleons,
bathed himself in gold peso coins
manic fingers feverishly caressing the lucre.

Mindless with greed
he sailed into rough waters
where great whales watched
as gales ripped the grommets
that held the cords that secured the sails
and the great sheets collapsed
like canvas shrouds.

Still the pirate caressed each coin
ignoring the rogue waves
oblivious to the grand schools of whales
gathering around.

Singing in chorus
the great behemoths mused
patient in their knowing
man’s treasure destiny is always
on the floor of the deep ocean.

The captain sank with his ship
his pockets laden with lustrous gold
and his silk shirt billowed in the current
like a flag announcing his descent
to a place where he could not breathe
and nothing could be bought
and the whales slaps their flukes
on the water’s surface
in thunderclaps of applause.

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

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.

Homer got hit by a bolt of lightning
late one afternoon
when he was putting new plugs in his tractor.
The electric laser cut him in half
just like a pie
and one half of him fell to the ground
on each side of the machine.

All the contents of his life
spilled out onto the wheat stubble
including all the bittersweet emotions from his right side
and all the rational reasoning from his left side.

Fortunately for his soul
he was right-handed
so that hand crawled across the ground
and took his heart back from the other side
to where it belonged
with all his random joys and fears
laying there like tiny diamonds.

His left hand didn’t do anything;
it just laid there drumming its fingers
waiting for the paramedics.

Homer’s wife heard the crackle
and by the time she got to him
Homer’s right hand had convinced his left hand
to help put him back together
and all she could say was
“Oh, darling, I’m glad you are OK.”

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.

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

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.

On the day I enter your house
and find you crying
I will raze the roof
and replace it with stars
then out go the walls
and all you see
is the dolphins in their sea.

I will plant giant sunflowers
in  the seams between the tiles
on your cold floor
and the dolphins will laugh.

When you are not looking
I will replace your television
with a tank of exotic goldfish
your computer with a cherry pie
and your crying towel
with a garland of lilies.

Before I am done
you will have no place
to hide your grief
for exposed
to my joy of loving you
there is no such thing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The lion dog’s muscles ripple
as he descends the stairs
toward the source of food
guarded by another creature
smaller but just as wild.

The standoff happens in the kitchen -
a 110-pound Rhodesian Ridgeback
a pet who wants his kibbles
and the housecat
who thinks she owns the place.

The hound approaches
slow and deliberate
his huge head depending
from a neck
thick like a phone pole.

The cat sits alert but unconcerned
until their noses touch -
then the cat flashes surprising claws
ripping the hound’s nose
and he runs yelping into the living room
to hide behind the couch
to fall asleep
dreaming of the hunt
the rush of his tawny brothers
across dusty savannahs
toward great African lions
with paws like dinner plates
and sabertooth mouths.

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.

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.

When Mr. Brown forgets
leaves his puppy unfed and tied
before rushing off to work
the animal mewls confused
abandoned and lonely all day
watching Dog TV.

The parched houseplant
screams from its porcelain prison
for silent water
wishing only to be made wet
fecund on attention once again.

Everything sits silent
in the close confines
our life's domestic drama
just waiting for us to realize
we are born to notice
the cries of who lies closest.

Yet no one is to blame
for ignorance;
it is the Dog's karma to be abused,
the foliage to dry and go discarded
for no apparent fault of their own.

It is Mr. Brown's karma
for his dog to die
with a broken unfed heart
to toss his plants in the trash
to find his home unadorned and silent once again
and wonder over and over
why is life so barren?

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

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.

Every morning
I feed the mewling cats,
chug my hot instant coffee,
sit at my rickety linoleum kitchen table
and peer hopefully out my thin window,
through the cracks in the glass
beyond the rusted screen
into the acres of wet trainyards and commercial blocks.

There in one non-descript grey building
underneath the watertower
beside the Sheriff's substation
a band of laughing saints
craft delicate malas of lapis
and manzanita windchimes
while diaphonous angels all a-hover
manifest vast verdant grassland prairies,
great ocean waves, sunsets
and spring flowers hidden in rock crannies
where nobody will ever walk,
and they launch grand air balloons
bulging with epiphanies
that may drift my way.

You have always found a way
to inflate yourself,
a thunderhead of you
a rainer upon parades
keeping your own side dry.

Praise your portolio,
record yourself accomplishing that,
but wait, there’s more of you
the lost boy
dressed as a hero.

The prison of ego comes first,
then the crippling psychic wounds
and the inevitable chaos
that just ****** you off
because there is just too much to manage
and you cannot do it alone
but you don’t dare tell anyone
so you fake it
and you don’t make it
and one day
while you are too busy
refusing to be grateful
for the awesome mystery of your own chi
a tagger defaces your BMW
in the parking lot of Whole Foods
and you weep into your tofu.

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.

Bodhidharma, the first Zen patriarch,
told Emperor Wu that merit
meant nothing;
but great emptiness
revealed by sitting facing a wall
had great merit.
Wu was perplexed.

Patriarch number two, Hui-k’o,
faced a granite wall in a forest for seven years;
it became his beloved.

Seng-Tsan, the third Zen patriarch wrote poems
and his legendary Hsinhsinming verse
transcended all the unnecessary duality
in the mind’s mire.

Tao-Hsin, patriarch number four,
said don’t’ stare at a wall,
just do the laundry
and watch the clear water
turn brown
then pour it onto the vegetables in the garden
when you’re done.

Patriarch five, Hung-Jen
meditated from age six staring at the horizon
and said if you find the line between sky and land and sea
you slip into infinity
with no sky, land and sea
just one place for the mind to finally rest.

Hui-Neng came next;
no wall
no laundry water
no heavenly horizon
just fascinating monkey mind
sometimes full, sometimes empty
running whichever way, whenever,
and that was all good.

The 300-year Tang dynasty
had three wild man patriarchs-
Ma-Tzu shouted constantly;
Pai-Ching did laundry,
and Huang-Po told everyone
they were already enlightened
and should not bother  with Zen at all.

Lin-Chi was the Jesus of Zen
who loved everybody everyday.
He taught the heart’s clear natural action,
compassion, not walls and laundry and trying not to think.
His love was wiser than his mind.

The patriarchs of zen
taught more than a thousand years
before I grew up an American idiot
in a materialistic world
populated by narcissistic borderline freaks
thumbing smartphones in leather car seats
never doing laundry
afraid to face the walls
built of brick made
mortared tight together
with the fear
of their own compassionlessness.

I live at the top of a hill
way above sea level
close to the beach
and some evenings
the sunsets stun me
as gold jewels melt
into red ribbons
and pulsating purple waves
sink into silver milk
and the kaleidoscope changes
with such miraculous precision
I just sit on my humble porch
gasping mesmerized.

Down at the shore
big 5-star resorts
poach on sand
like giant spaceships
and people come
from all over the world
just to sit on expensive balconies
to langour in the sun.

When they see the sunsets
they’re transfixed too
making foreign sounds
to describe the same colors
and I can hear them
like music they chant
and we make an orchestra
as the colors sway and gleam.

We are all blinded
by the effulgence
of nature’s light show
and we wonder
why does this spectacularness
so wild, bold and brief
always end
just as we wait
for it to get better?

But we all know the truth
everything arises
then passes away
and arises again
so we are reminded
our lives sometimes
shine gloriously
then go dark
then shine again
and the miracle is
if we pay attention
we notice our beauty
is never the same twice.

Pharmaceutical angels hover
in the space above my sleeping head
chanting slogans
they have been paid
to whisper in my ear.

“Keep it clean with Terbenafine.”
“You can fly on Abilify.”
“Everyone’s lean on Levothyroxine.”
“Go on a roll with Anastrazole.”
“You’ll get a thrill from Lisinopril.”
“There ain’t no reputin’ the bliss of Welbutrin.”
“Don’t be a geek. Take Pristiq.”
“Go far on Adderall XR.”
“if you want to rate, take Cypionate.”

I wake with a jolt
the neurons of my prefrontal cortex
already firing like machine guns of craving
for the treasure in my medicine chest
and I know everything is going to be fine,
just fine.

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

It doesn't matter
if you die petting your dog
or prowling the freeway,
you will always hear a whoosh
when you go up into the sky.

And the next thing you know
you are in deep space
walking along an old stone bridge
suspended in endless star soup
with all the latest earth leavers
and you think -
omigod those stories were all true.

All eyes gaze  
transfixed by a celestial diamond
bigger than the Great Pyramid
suspended in blueblack emptiness
pulsing with music you recognize
but cannot name.

The old man beside you says
we are not in heaven
this the line for the trip
that goes into light.

The diamond hums  
everyone's kundalini rises
and one by one
each person reaches the end of the bridge
and steps off into the vacuum of space.

They waft down like leaves
grinning like children on a merrygoround
coming to rest on the diamond
then slowly dissolving into it
and they disappear.

But they quickly reappear
bursting forth from the diamond's tip
as sparkling cherubs
caressing a billion luminous suns
each one another ride
on a celestial road trip
that never ends.

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.