"My barn having burnt down, I could now see the moon"
All the poems listed
The chicken is ready to eat.
What feet will
take it there?
It’s own? Anothers? It’s mother’s?
Who cares?
It’s the readiness
that matters
not the possibilities on
either end
meaning
nothing depends
on a chicken
unless it is
ready to eat
on its own two feet.
Jan. 1 – Do not drink again.
Jan. 2 – Do not drink.
Jan. 3 – Do not.
Jan. 4 – Do.
Jan. 5 –
The year is almost out
a candle burning down.
John has died, crucified
not even now
the gospel of twist & shout allowed
just a wiggle and wail
an old man in the corner
spewing in an older pail.
Everything is ending
slowly, all at once.
Judge not or yea shall be judged,
didn’t some body say?
So what?
I’ll do it my way ….
the cover band bays n’
cardboard Jesus’ sway
with me in this meltdown
pressed, panicked like the Mad Hatter
knowing now the show doesn’t matter
for Christ almighty
he’s left his light snuffed out
the Gospel according to John
is gone
for many years now
gone for Christ almight
or thereabouts.
Dec. 8th, 1999. Karlovy Vary
to be no where
abandoning what you were
not embracing
what you are going to be.
To just be
but no where
in a kind of
other life –
all that isn’t,
is to see
the nature of which
pretends to make
us free.
It is to be
outside the looking glass
looking in
a place where
in the middle of no where
we are aware
that nothing stays
that a broken record still plays
the wind will wind again,
it is to be
both the fruit falling
and the tree,
this no where
where G-d is the eye
I see.
He works on a train gang
and after work each day
he stands outside the corner store
cigarette and beer in hand
no thoughts of nothing more.
Christmas to him
is just a dream of a few days off
the joy of his child’s smile
for others,
debit cards, crowds, fast cars
as early this morning
he bends over towards
his tired wife
and says,
flesh is all we are.
7 am
and still the tooth aches
and nothing else matters.
not the sleep you didn’t get
not the dishes to do
not the unpaid bills
not the smack she gave you
not the 4 alarm fire downstairs.
The only thing that matters is
the absence
the abscess within.
Then, out of nowhere
mana from heaven,
the door is opened
and the hot iron
is taken off the wound.
Nothing else still matters
only this absence
that pain – where did it go?
How wonderful a world it now is.
Fields and fields of relief.
Belief, again.
A toothache is a poem
that we live
the moment pain is
re placed.
May this day bring
a cold drink
some laughter
beside the ceviche truck
by the mercado
far away
from the bitching wife.
May this day bring
a poem
not even a good one.
A paycheck
not even a large one.
A song
somewhere
in my heart.
May this day bring
peace,
give me just a little piece
that’s all I ask
and like
change jingling in a homeless guy’s hand
I’ll dance ‘n smile
like a thief
stealing fire from a god,
like a night lasting all day long.
Amen, hallelujah and all that jazz.
Dec. 20th, 2014. Antigua, Guatemala
One must wonder
at this world of
beer cans, ashtrays and “just because”,
wonder at the
movement of it all,
how pages yellow and lovers spent
crawl away to their corner of the bed,
how the flowers in the vase
dry and disappear, deny the day,
wonder at the way
it all slides down,
wonder and listen for
the sound that can’t be found
the sound that accompanies our
great, so gentle, imperceptible fall,
listen for the orchestra’s honest organizing whistle
listen for the violin’s whine and the oboe’s sad skip
the swish of the conductor’s baton
listen for this one step, two step, the beat
we all, groping for each other
dance to complete
to greet and applause beyond our laws
our false creations, our fabulous flaws.
One must wonder
at this world of
so much music nobody hears.
How much better we might dance
if we did.
Like a cook smelling, taking off the lid.
One must wonder where
the life lived is hid.
How do the eggs on my plate become
the words I right now state?
There is so much to do today!
Doing nothing is probably the best option.
But how does one do by not doing?
Outside, two, three, four chickadees flirting from
feeder to branch and back to the feeder.
Shaking, shrugging snow off their back
oblivious of nature and her schemes, her dreams.
I wish there were an instrument I could dip into my coffee.
It would tell me of all the hands that have touched this brew
and bring me back to the field where it was born.
Two things I love the morning for –
1. Waking up to discover what’s new in the world!
2. The emptying. A bowel movement that lightens and sends me out into the day.
When does the morning end?
With the closing of the door and the starting of the car?
With the splash of water on the face?
With the last gulp of the first coffee of the day?
With the precise pointing of the clock or the warm, winking of the sun?
Morning. A kind of hangover so drunk we are of sleep.
Take this poem of mine
and rip it from your heart
for it is there – finished
it just needs your start.
Take this poem of mine
and remember through
the pain this place parades,
remember the words
each sound a blow to the head
a wage that is true.
Take this poem of mine
and wear it
a yellow star of David
a flag, a declaration
that this blood crazed world of
mundane murder
will not seep into your
more red, more rare heart.
Take this poem of mine
and read it aloud
to your too true children.
Read it in a voice
that sends, that shows
the same sign
that is all song, all sense that flows.
Take this poem of mine
and tear it up.
Digest it, mend it,
be it
and walk on and of this world
as it
a song that is free
singing in each of your steps.
Take this poem of mine
weak like a calm wind
slow like the forest’s green
young like a motherless child
simple like spring’s sun
take this poor poem of mine
and make it your own.
Only then shall the doors open
and the wind wander through,
only then will the heart rise
and the act be what we do.
Take this poem of mine …….