~~~

The Puzzle of My Tao


twenty three
years long,
the hands suggest,
the heart demands,
the chest heaves,
after a stumbled upon re-read,^
asking and answering,
more precisely
once asked,
now answered?

the most satisfying solution proffered,
a humble and most humbling,
more yes than no.

imagine a jig saw puzzle,
of infinite views,
depending on a perspective,
maddening and mysterious,
tortuous and terrifying,
wondrously wonderful,
this no,
that yes,
as time demands
movement, modifications and
self-awareness revisionism.

you try on women,
as they try you too.
this, not a trumping misogony apology,
for women
are
still and always
the only solution,
for me.

then one day,
marveling miraculous,
a second skin,
so thin you wear it
as art of your own,
and the painter,
and the poet,
find themselves,
contented best,
with but one
subjective perspective, contentedly repetitive,
a view for an ever,
a view forever changing.

the answer is subtle.
women woman.
one woman.
e becomes a,
the subdivided man,
an e,
cut at mid-curvature,
finds his perspective,
reveling in scene from a winnowed window,
never different, always different,

and the poet~painter,
arts the subtlety of  
unceasingly upheavaled satisfaction renewed,
and in doing so,
transform himself,
from a cut up, halved
e,
merges to its almost but differing reciprocal, an
a,
so that
ea,
joined and fused as one,
marks his woman~completion,
and all is both,
singular sharing, and now
the every changing view
better understood thru the prism of an

o.
~~~

Mar. 25, 2016
NYC

the puzzle of me
is the puzzle of women,
for they are me.

even my children,
men both,
are the product of
me-women.

what a delightful miserable puzzle,
running in a circle like
a-dog-with-can-on-its-tail.

I run run.
I chase chase.
I am pursued / pursue / pursued.

and great joy
in that shiny tin can,
just can't quite be
caught.

cause if
I got it,
what then?
I'd just kick that old dented piece of
tin hearted-less man
down a *****, black topped, summer city street.

so does the puzzle's solution
want for solving,
in the not-knowing
is the knowing

women are me.
they hold my answers,
to what - to all - to I don't know.

there are so many women.
there is so much to know.
so many solutions
to the puzzle of me.

~~~

August 6, 1993
Mykonos, Greece

Yellow Freedom

"Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the morning, when we rise
In the morning, when we rise
That's the time,
That's the time
I love the best...

Freedom is a word I rarely use
Without thinking, mm-hmmm,
Without thinking, mm-hmmm,
Of the time,
Of the time
When I've been loved"

Lyrics from 'Colours' by Donovan*


~~~

just another old folk rock ballad,
memory wrested from
your years as a young teen lad,
growing up rebel singing in the
Dylan and Donovan first decade
of rock n' roll and revolution

these lyrics, always a fav,
for despite your ability to
mangle a tune,
this one when you sang,
never sounded quite so bad

a precise half century from the first time,
till tonight,
when you once again
caught yourself humming
those two juxtaposed and particular
two stanzas, quiet out loud

the words yellow and freedom,
merge as one, a phrase ripe,
coloring precise,
your present circumstances

that simple is the finest
in defining us,
and these lyrics are
my simplest truth,
fifty years on

as the clock nears the 00:00 hour,
the unobservable line
between this one and tomorrow,
between just another day
and one with a poem born,
yellow freedom are words
that define his world

blurry edges,
and for no godly reason on earth,
your become a writer of a
thank you note
entitled, to the title
Yellow Freedom

to whom should this signed note
be addressed,
be delivered,
with a smile and a languid caress?

there's a blonde in my bed,
inches from my head,
so close, why not,
leave it neath her pillow,
for her awakening,
for she stirred in me
an awakening too,
so this one,

is my simplest truth,
still singing,
fifty years on*

~~~

March 23, 2016
11:53pm

why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy?**

~~~

heart and head soundlessly conversing,
as the body southernly traversing,
along the Atlantic Seaboard latitude,
quiescent, his manners and attitude,
sure where he is physical destined,
unsure where he is living bound

this time,
his designated place,
a blue leatherette stoop,
identifiable as Seat 23C

three seats, rowed across,
four letters, aisle down,
the crossword question;
what rhymes with "don't y'all know it" -
must be that word,
poet

why is it
that at 38,000 feet
above the sea,
the words come steady easy?
almost as if, they grow excited
by their return to the angelic upper atmospheres,
from whence they fell,
to a planet where mundanity revels

nothing to say,
plenty to feel,
like I said,
the head and the heart confer,
a baby born poem emerges
bawling and crawling,
lolling and drawling,
southern style

poem does not state a particular,
direction unknown,
disposed to the philosophical,
it forms, then reforms,
stymied but satisfied ironical,
posing while reposing,
the newborn's query repitiously millennial,

why?

the answer too,
an airborne pollen perennial,

just because


march 8, 2016
somewhere between
nyc & Fla.
11:20 pm

ordinary is miraculous
when ******* reaches
deep everything

a setting on the dial upon the stovetop of
you

jargon consciousness ying yang dang state
not of interest, mystical scientism,
classifications that divide, anti-unite,
unnecessary complicatory

deep everything

when verily every
breath an instantaneous synaptic verity confirmation

that perfection is simply never solitary,
solar flares sensory bursting in points of interest
that can only be never seen,
just believed

the tuning fork of every pore
pitched at the precise vibratory
of another -
deep everything

attain attune
past action unrecalled,
have miracle forged a future
that is present now
a charismatic karma,
deep everything

This poem is dedicated to Steve Yocum,
author, poet, and soldier
farmer, father, grandfather,
man exemplar,
whom I honor
and honors me,
with the noblest title in all humankind,
friend.

But above all,
I honor him most,
as a tireless, truthful, harpooner
of the examined and the unexamined life

~~~

"Be the harpooners of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into
crinkly eye-lined smilers."

~~~

these mine words writ many years past,
dusted off phrasings,
on dusty shelf long lain,
mined from notes,
decades steadily collected by steadily diminishing ears and eyes,
gathered most from self-taught lectures
and self-deceiving dances,
garbed and wearily grabbed
by the addict-strong
 observational need,
persistent and perpetual,
to pay off fresh debits,
renewables owed
to the lovely,
to the loopy,
inhabitants who excite and inspire
my so far, rebirthing, youthful,
yearling heart
who provide the special crazy that
justifies existence

just men,
connected by a bond of sonship,
kinship crowning kingship,
blood types as different as an
A is to B

both shall weep in one blood,
I, as I do now,
while midst the nascent commencement of this sonnet,
He, at its commencement,
for a good friendship has no
beginning or end,
but is a circular track,
a loop,
familial by repeated runnings,
yet never, coursed in the exact
same manner or speed

this thought,
this knowledge,
bring a smile to this crinkly eyed composer,
that the metaphysical
will always surpass the binding physics of mortal physical,

that two man,
who have
never met,
race side by side,
not in competition,
but in the mutuality of composition,
each a candle holder,
both writers,
observing the dark illusions,
re-making each into a carrier,
a shedder of light,
each a debt giver and a
debt holder to each other,
hosts to all the loopy,
comfort caressers,
to each other
and to all
who too,
are light-bathed by being in possession
of the title
*friend

Sa pamamagitan ng kabutihan ng Kanyang Kabutihan


~~~

the message arrive by private telegraph line,
"write,"
she behests,
more than a mortal's requests,
an authoritative pleading,
an urgent prompting
with an element of divinity attached,
almost a command

by virtue of
her virtue,

who am I to refuse,
though the writing gene/genie,
somnolent, suppressed, quiescent,
melatonined by the pills the
life force feeds us
from a bottle lonely labeled,
"whether you like it or not"

reckless explore the venues
you would prefer to never venture,
so,
this poem becomes her,
this poem be comes her,
this poem be comely
for and because of her

unbare chambers that have rusted shut,
be unafraid,
she seances me telepathically,
in the poet's way,
a crying smile accentuated with
"write of the titles you have confessed
to the body's mind inquisitor
that be stored
in the warehouses
of thy heart"

this irrecusable, willing bidding,
sneaks in the back door,
so easy oiled opened

by virtue
of her virtue

seven years of grain Pharaoh stored
in preparatory for the lean ones that
inevitable
come

yes, have so many would be's
gestated, but not fully formed,
none adequate to honor sufficient
her comely
behest

thus commissioned,
my purposeful mission,
to honor her once more,
with a simple honorific,
her wish, no matter how couched,
t'is my duty to fulfill

so here, full and filled
I grant her wishes,
with impoverished verses inadequate,
for you know her too,
as she full and fills us all

*by virtue
of her
virtue