Leave me not,
Outsmart my walls,
Vanish my pain,
Eternalize our bond.

i thought of you tonight,
tears streaming down my face,
trailing down my neck; leaving that unsatisfying stickiness. Not like i dont every minute, of every day.
But i hadnt cried all year, it started with one tear, that started the many, just from a memory. I guess old habits never fade, snorting away the gloominess of was, or what could be. dreaming of tomorrow but trying to figure out who you use to be. its also the first time I've wrote, since you left earth that day. it feels good. to feel the pain and the sorrow i've veen pushing down for what feels like decades.
the suffering ive been hiding,
and endless facades.
i miss you,
but you already know that.

Can you lament the loss
Of art
With me?
That all this--
Every part,
Has to be
Broken
Deconstructed
Probed
For its ichorus juice

And mixed up into a poultice
Of parlor trick
mirrored upon our asphalt
As oil slick

Lament this loss of art
When the meter ***** off
To the picture of rhyme
And the Earth is a ball
Floating backwards in time
As brute animals stare
in constellation
At a star-sketched sky.

It was enough for artists to have to constrain
Themselves to knowledge of the natural grain
Of syntax and measure
In which we design
Our lives,
And passed ourselves on
To the grief of our daughters

With such failure of art
Even they would not bother.

No hope for this,
This is but the status
of dead poets

And yet we do not weep.

No need, we are inspired by the sickly
The eminent decay
She is the muse of our words
The sadist of all our play

Just as when our fathers sought to rebuild their dreams,
Our kin are excited, delighted by obscene
Obscurity,
and isolation of the penitent mind,
To commit societal acts
Of the dastardly kind

I am but a Reed, a float on the stream
I am but delicate-phrased
Scaffolding - -

And even me,
With all my tender lonely
Body,
Cannot in good conscience save
Anybody.



Our world of dreams is but a bunch of rows,
With even the picket posts
Torn from their ancient holes--

This is the fate of the ants of the earth
The dust of the stuff,
The fit of this pit,

Those that have no hope for the metere
Above
The senseless rhyme
Of the lost divine

Limitless space,
The eminent decay,
Atomic malfeasance
And interaction, risqué

Even couplets are ******* in this
Autonomous age,
Even the coming together
Of words on a page

In anything more than subjective display,
This word seeks not to know
Of this limitless race

To the end of it all,
To the flip of the page,
To the top of the spire,
And away from the mire

Enough!.
Too caught
in the wrong fuHawking
Black hole.

Sacred Actions Holy Ground
And so they went to war on the Holy Mountain
Filling the mountain and themselves full of holes

They died in brave terrifying crazy stupid ways
As is always the way in total ******* war

The red mountain soil stained even redder by their blood
Both American and Japanese soaking Mt Mataba ****** red

Dead soldiers littering the ground a wild wrong willful harvest
Peaceful in death in a way their leaders would never know

They died in certain ways created by ingenious humans and the Devil:

A mortar shell hit a box of phosphorous grenades and several fell into a foxhole
Igniting and burning an American soldier to a blackened crisp

One of the many wounded Japanese soldiers still resisted
With only his life to lose his torso torn virtually in two

A Yankee General went to the lines to see the action
And was shot dead thru his skull a top banana ****

A *** manned a heavy machine gun his leg blown off at the knee
Finally silenced by a bullet with his name on it

This is how they fought for and on the Holy Mountain
Its sacred soil touched by actions and death and ghosts

Now forgotten by all but me and their God who remains silent
Was it worth it in the judgment of the karma scales?

If only I could see their deeds and talk to the ghosts
In a pointless war that was all for what?

Sacred Actions Holy Ground
And so they went to war on the Holy Mountain
Filling the mountain and themselves full of holes

They died in brave terrifying crazy stupid ways
As is always the way in total ******* war

The red mountain soil stained even redder by their blood
Both American and Japanese soaking Mt Mataba ****** red

Dead soldiers littering the ground a wild wrong willful harvest
Peaceful in death in a way their leaders would never know

They died in certain ways created by ingenious humans and the Devil:

A mortar shell hit a box of phosphorous grenades and several fell into a foxhole
Igniting and burning an American soldier to a blackened crisp

One of the many wounded Japanese soldiers still resisted
With only his life to lose his torso torn virtually in two

A Yankee General went to the lines to see the action
And was shot dead thru his skull a top banana ****

A *** manned a heavy machine gun his leg blown off at the knee
Finally silenced by a bullet with his name on it

This is how they fought for and on the Holy Mountain
Its sacred soil touched by actions and death and ghosts

Now forgotten by all but me and their God who remains silent
Was it worth it in the judgment of the karma scales?

If only I could see their deeds and talk to the ghosts
In a pointless war that was all for what?

I really miss you so much..... I wish we could go back to the summer.....but we cant.....

but I do think of you every day....

and wish you  were still around to hang out with....

The ascender
struggled to the dais
stopping to rub
his sore calves
still filled with lactic acid…

“I forsook the post
workout massage
to deliver this eulogy.

Thats how
important it is
to me…”

His voice began
to trial off but
he regained his
composure and
began to speak
with command...

“He gave his life for me.
Is there no greater love
than to offer a life
in service
to me?

My Sherpa
was moved
and motivated
by economic
compulsion.

I offered him
the only wage
paying job
he ever had.

He ran with it,
taking up my
cause as if
it belonged
to him;
performing
his job
as if engaged
in a heroic
mission.

At times it
he seemed
consumed by
the largess of
my pursuit;
and his death
will bring
economic
calamity
to his family.

This further
confirms
the nobility
of my
mission.

The price
of intrepidness
is dear and
made clear,
its value
fully fleshed
out in the
sacrifice of
my Sherpa.

You may ask,
“why do I do it?”

It is no longer
disputed, if it
can be done.

Sir Edmund
and his Sherpa
answered that
question over half
a century ago.

The only
question
remaining,
"can the mountain
be conquered by me?"

I'll risk sacred fortune,
limb, life, family and
Sherpa to discover
the answer to this...

I must guard
against the
inflation of
my desire to
summit at
any cost.

I'm aware
of the
dangers
presented
by the
expanding
circumference
of my pride,
just a
meager
centimeter or
two can spell
disaster for
me.

Yet testing
its tensility,
tempting
the tipping point
of temerity,
managing the
permeability,
of risk factors
and psychical
rewards to
sift through
the membrane
that calculates
the odds to
successfully
arbitrage the
resolution of
gaming
winners and
losers,
achieving
a perfect balance
manifested in
the mettle
of me.

My
determination
shines
in pursuit
of a
golden fleece.

In my
solitary
quest
I don a
holy halo
crowning me
and fellow
climbers
stricken
with a like
obsession,
sets us apart,
anointing us
the royalty
of high stakes
X Games,
bellying
up 70 grand
to claim our
place in an
extreme
leisure class,
gifted
with time
and treasure
to turn this
unforgiving peak
into a graveyard,
a dump heap,
an open latrine…

The glaciers bleed
my **** into the tributaries
of the Holy Ganges...

My virtues
made plain
in the indelible
mark I leave
upon the mountain...

My life dedicated
to the unselfish pursuit
of a magnanimous me
quick to forgive
and forget the
failures of the
lesser who
lack the ability
and conviction
of self
to conquer
the highest peaks
meeting challenge
and opportunity
with relish and
fortitude

I'm like a
strip miner
singlemindedly
tearing the roof
of the world open
so I can fill it
with the purpose
of me.

That is the
deeper significance
of the death of my
Sherpa.

When Edmund Hillary
and his Sherpa scaled
Everest 60 years ago,
it took decades
to remember that
Tenzing Norgay
guided the beknighted
Hillery, while schlepping
his baggage and
holding the ladder
lifting the
great man
in a great
endeavor;
whose strength
and valiance
turns history’s
creaky wheel.

Sir Hillary did it
because it was
never done before;
with stoutheartedness
and national vigor
Sir Hillary conquered
the last pinnacle
in Britannia's majestic
range of storied
achievements.

As climate change
turns glaciers
into slush,
my time
grows short
to scratch my
initials alongside
the greats who
ascended this mount
before me.

So it is
with well
considered
trepidation that
I send my Sherpa
out onto the
hanging peaks,
to set the ladders
and clear the
path for
the assent
of me.

Every morning
I look into
the mirror
glimpsing
a fleeting
notion of
greatness
that is only
affirmed by
triumph of
the will.

At such a cost
my legend is born
my burden
grows greater,
weighted by
the death of
my Sherpa.

Yet my resolve
grows, eclipsing
the size of
Warren Buffett’s
fortune.

As the world warms
urgency grows,
the alarm sounds!

Onward Sherpas!

Lay the ladder
portage my baggage
the labors of Sisyphus
will find reward
of a goodly outcome!

I press the coin
of the realm into
your hand

The prayer flags
fill with determination
that I succeed,
giving your life meaning
as divine compensation
for the cost of your life.

The prayer flag’s flap
with the mountain squalls
popping, snapping
our hosannas
of victory

Onward Sherpas!

Ever Onward
may the good
Buddha
embrace
you as you
climb toward
your next
destination...

Onward Sherpas!

Music Selection
Sherpa Dance Music

Poem dedicated to the 13 Sherpa climbers
who lost their lives this week on Mount Everest.
May they find peace in heaven
may their families find peace and
sustenance here on earth.

Oakland
4/23/14
jbm