Pickwell

 To his happiness 

and his silence

  the mystic lore 

of his own journey, 

 there was never an 

end of study.

   Both sound and elastic

were his constitution.

        So keen and so cold were the 

blue eyes of his master.

         The deep grained

wanderings, whether over concrete

   or mud

 took him to the freezing spell

           of dirty grass

and broken signs, 

 Always dearly and deeply held 

             were his convictions.

              But he fell in love with

her potter's hands and dark eyes

  He forgot about 

            the seaside and books,

for what is an ocean if 

        you cannot bring with you

               your world?

   Though meditation is a lukewarm hobby

 he traded at it anyway

         looking for the truth

like a dice player 

       calling out a number

         his inner Buddha

yawned and said,

  "most attachments are foolish,

              but some are deepest wisdom"

    this mind you have been training is just 

                 a monkey, a drunken, angry, 

                         monkey, bit by a scorpion.

           Follow the woman, eat well, teach goodness, and 

                               stop trying to BE good..

  and they all lived pretty well ok

 

   

 

Dayton

When did snow become

       something else,

like from when it makes the yard

          trash disappear 

into a wondrous wizard wall

              was it when we

 figured out the demon litany

      of snowballs soaked in water

 nestling eggs of pain in every snow fort

        Sometimes there were tiny piles of coal

            or rocks 

for the core

         and me and my brother 

          had to run and hide 

               and fight our dirty war

  snow would taste so salty

          our poor bloody lips

      or slush holes and road crystals

              slinging tears

     Then it slowly turned into a 

         heaving hunched animal

grey from the concrete factory

          yellow streaks

    abandoned toys poking through

           colorful bones on roadkill

 

But it changed

    and in Texas, snow stayed

magical and 

disappeared gracefully

       the snowballs kiss a 

cheek and the fancy flowers

         are lips and fire

the kids are 

   not 

      stones.

Walnut Creek

 

In the woods there are still, quiet places

where only wanderers chance to go

they leave behind no visible traces

not even in the  mothering glow

Can you hold a tree as sacred and simple?

a place to hide from  burning sun or blasting wind

a place to tell your secrets and make a little temple

and though  gone from view, a life that doesn't end

I am from....

 

I Am From…

 

I am from pendulum clocks,

from Kool-Aid and linoleum

I am from the finished basement,

deep, musty, a refuge on hot nights

I am from the Chinese Maple,

made of glass in ice storms,

that dripped like soup in sunlight

I’m from brown station wagons and bowling alley birthdays,

backyard orchards and cellar pantries

I’m from “God doesn’t see you, you’re not baptized”

to “I’ll find God on my own”

From Leon and Everett

I’m from addictive personalities and infidelity

From “we can do this the easy way or the hard way”

I’m from The Old Line state, Pennsylvania Dutch (Deutsch)

Sweet corn and Old Bay

From my jock father turned hippie,

from my babysitter since 2 weeks old

In the books under sheaths of plastic, sit paused memories

At once a comfort and a scar

-- Katee Myers

There's a Part of Me.

There's a part of me-

tugging at my hem and pushing at my knees; dragging down my fingers.

It looks up at me with desperate,

hurt(full) eyes.

It's hard to hear a word between tearful chokes and whimpering gasps.

Oh, little part of me!

Swallow down your sobs.

You cry of desire-

a demise you know little about.

You have the tongue of a child;

the pain of an illusion. 

"Desire my form! Desire my form!"

You plead for pacification.

Who taught you bottomless pits and sacrificial offerings?

The world is not your battleground. 

   -- Katee Myers

lesson plan

  The knot in the string
is easy to unravel
     but our eyes won't see

   our palaces rise
think they're better than flowers
   but they're dead inside

 turn my glance downward
       I see something that's not there
   pebbles look like worlds

      sometimes i forget that i
have the power to save and to teach
       surrounded by noise and
    small minded assholes
who mock a poet and praise
          a thief..

  the kids come to us as
  magnificent butterflies and tiny dragons
       the rulers want us to turn them all
 into ants and frightened mice

          I am starting to learn from
 the little ones
          and stand on my hind legs
                to grab what's ours.

travail, the mother

She brings cake
when everyone else brings plastic spoons
She has rain boots
all the others squish and track
She turns the light off
 when she leaves, she takes out the trash
       Where would we be
       without her?
The living incarnation of Parvati
    the goddess who rides a tiger
 holding a mirror and some kind of blissful tools
      looking to do some good.
Look around you
    you can catch a glimpse
 on the bus or in a classroom
        of her ordinary majesty
 perhaps you knew her
          as a child.

Noble Strength

 I guess this is it.
         You would be
     suffused with relief if
 you thought about it at all
         a tiny sunset

       through the prism of
         your indifference
you see people as they are
    not how they want themselves
           to be.

At best, a moment of nostalgia
     combined with the look
           you give a hired cook
when the party is over...

       I guess this is it,
pointing to your nonexistent faults
      would make it hurt less
  though it shouldn't even scratch
         or bruise

  There are vessels to be made
        and places to go
         people to fall in love with
  playful romps across the furniture
         
        me too, me too

eye phone

when you see some
ordinary thing, that
  makes you want to sing,
like the shadows of parking
meters dancing in the
   streetlights
faces staring out
  from dried weeds
 in the sidewalk
  the hundreds of floating
        candles in the
   sky,
     this means you have
 a human soul
       and no part can be
            bought or sold
and no machine can understand
         the freckles on your face
      or the wrinkles in your hands.

Reveal...Assume....Dunk

You have the right
      to remain
         innocent.

Anything you say
    belongs to you
       alone.

  You have the right
      to believe
    in something greater
        and more wise

  you can be free from
       the greasy taint of
              the thrusting stench.

        while what they call love
      does not uplift you
         ripping claws of
             desire do not
        ennoble you


            The door to your cell
  is not even there
           the chains that
        keep you between
          demons
         on the way to the
              magistrate
      not even there
         the original sin
            that sticks to your chanklas
                  and stinks from within,
            not there at all

  Don't be in such a hurry to
           jump in the cage
just because it's so lonely
     on the  outside.
  

The cove.

barking dogs protest

 and rockets blast in the sky

   who's the real dumb ass?

      At night we forget
the world is burning outside
       love is a cool spring


      we ride bicycles
our shadows run alongside
    kissing your face, dear..

Here's looking at you....Emily Dickinson

I can't tell where your eyes go
when we whisper in the hall
there's something about the window
  the pale light only you can see

The first time you put your ivory fingers
        on my arm and told me about your flowers,
your little breath like petals on my cheek
       I felt like I was flying

 I pray to the arch of your back
     I swim in the glossy dark
in my arms, you are like the bird
     your bird that sings all night

 and when you speak, oh my divine
I hold air in my grizzled beard
  and my heart is a shooting star
       my love for you is made of clouds and starlight

Watching you do your baking and conjure your garden,
       apron and shielding hat become relics
I am old, not young and between the pillars of truth and experience,
     I see clearly the valley and river that line the difference

When I have found myself up high on tower or cliff
      I do not stretch joy from looking down
save for walking by your side
         uplifted by your faunish stride

when you make your blunted puns
or eat little onions right from the ground
    I could not find it odd or ill
 and love you all the more

       

salty days

Be not afraid
when you hear the lion roar
keep watch above
in the lonely darkness
chop your way through
the thorny tangles of the forest

you may feel
like a beetle on a runway
a little leaf
on the stones of a fireplace
a skinny child, with a torn shirt
waiting in the doorway

Remember that the mind
can be dull and the
heart whispers lies to us all
but your blood
will always show you
 the way to go

your greasy, mysterious
 oceanic blood
holds every one that
 came before you
  and they have won
           every battle
or hid themselves more craftily


  you are the watcher and the warrior
the mother and the escape artist
 and so
be not afraid in
these terrible times
    because
a nation of heroes
    sleeps inside you.

forsazhe

The truth of her is flower between keen stones
blasted by  summer heat or beaten down by  rain

There are no others like her, because she stands alone
 When she's lined out straightly, she's drab and plain

It's the rocks in ancient state that are her mother's bones
and the roots unseen that spark flowers into flame

Pity the poor puppets who blindly pass her by
so full of hidden promise, so pleasing to the eye.

ha ha ha shitpost

Let's hear it for the good times,
  green lawns and gasoline
cold drops lazing down your glass
    a hot day kept at bay

Hooray for my sweet girl
 cotton candy and corn colored hair
    my American dame
she likes to kick it nasty

  me gotta get that
me gonna hit that
 me so stupid and
 predictable


  America, fine
you are
so good at church
 so down with whoring

         from the window
to the border wall
        twerk permits
and Oxycontin

    bitch, you like it
you say daddy choke me
 "i can't breathe"
is not a safe word

     like the song says,
my country tis of thee
 you get the ankles, I'll get the wrists
          it's come down to this

                  I'm longboarding down
the scaly tail of Satan
     With a menthol behind my ear
  and a song in my pants.

Feeling good

 You can't make this
        stuff up.
Am I the only freak
       in the waiting room?
walled in by wailers and whiners
          salty snot rivers,
 getting smothered by a soaked wet hot
        blanket of shame.

  When I hear a stranger bemoan a tragedy....
       bubbling with a loss so deep
they are willing to show their entire shame,
   I get to have all
 the feels, the pinata
       of loss
the licorice jelly beans and
         coffee chews of
     the crap sadness

  I can't be the solitary one
     that shrinks from
 the towering shit show
     of meat emotion

When I say that
  I am sorry
for your loss,
  what I really mean to say is..
      get the fuck away from
         me and suck it up

When you, a virtual stranger, grab
       me and wipe your nose on my
 shirt, I give you an awkward squeeze
      and say something about the almighty
 just barely keeping it on the chain

      to shove my two sword fingers
        into the spot where your lower jaw rests
           about an inch
            below your ear lobe
                   and p-u-s-h

           while you gasp, and maybe pee your
             pants a little, I say..
         Goddammit, man
             stop giving up
         your gaping asshole for the world to fuck

                    because, i say with a wise smile,
      feelings are stupid
             and should be avoided.

Ostrova

She conjures blue
  skies, oceans,
         cornflowers,
   amethysts

  a white crane
      dots the water
        sending dreams
      to bending reeds

        A bird so beautiful
it makes you cry
   when you think of it
       gone away

  her gift is that dream
     that makes you grab
the handrail
  to keep from falling

       ( hold your breath,
           have you  ever
                 heard her make
                    a sound
                          ?)
           

What I have learned about grief...

  Last week, NPR asked its listeners to submit a poem what started with  the line above...

   What I have learned about grief..
           Is that  grief won't pass you by
even if you act like you're on the phone
          or studiously avoid making
 eye contact with his scabby visage.

     He will be at every stop sign
           on the sidewalk
will tug at your pants leg
      wanting his heavy slumping
weight to be picked up.

   Try to ignore him and it will be
like hitting your shin
 on a ball hitch,
or slicing your finger
    when you cut lemons.
but all the time and every time


You have to sit with him
       on the porch when
you watch your neighbors
   ride their bikes,
hold hands, and
       play horse on
 their driveway.

He will ride shotgun
 when you go to work
and cry with you
  in the parking lot
     
Grief is an imaginary friend
   that nobody wants
but everybody gets.

La Chingona

The owl would not dare
to call her tree home.

  Ladling out posole
   possibilities and
     bowls of caldo
 de sabiduria

  This wisdom is
from the dust of
    experience and
the watchful faces
     between rain
 and fire.

She will marshal
   the grimy children
and show them
       when to be silent
and when to be loud
       to whisper
and to sing.

This short giant
    will wield her sandal
to protect the innocent and
     admonish the wicked

And when she departs
  she does not leave
    but stays with
the earth
     the smoke of the fire
        the truth
      of the river.

was machs du?

I like you best when
  your hands are dirty.

Love to listen when
 you talk about your garden.

  Bringing you ice water
 and hearing you
   drink makes me thirsty

  Spooning with you when
       you've got a pink sunburn
 keeps me warm
       
          Maybe I'm just a clumsy golem
 to write such earthy praises
        the scroll of your prayers
            on my tongue.

  Or. maybe just coming correct
           with what I know.

The salty kiss and
          the way you snap
a dish towel on my bum
      the only truth I need. 

Hold the line

kiss us all nature
play us something wonderful
dewdrops on our porch

where did the time go?
spring rains, gentle lullabies
then Summer wakes up.


water is prayer
sunshine-communion
swim trunks are ready


chorus sings in green
abuzz and chirping outside
since we were barefoot


inside the bunker
of my vessel there is war
fighting dark again

tight five

You can take a poke
at the term hopeless romantic
  but it's an honest label

   you can tell a joke
and take it for granted
     that folks won't find it hateful

the world is full of dust and smoke
         and barbed wire trees we planted
 so smooth things makes us grateful

 Where does love go when it forgets?
      rustling layers
of dried leaves, random receipts
    in  old drawers

         does it move away
and stare out the window
      listening to lawnmowers
and wind chimes?

      I saw it looking around,
for where it parked
    biting its lower lip
       trying not to cry

better luck next time
   you fucking chump.

Tinder

The people of the North
        who can hold up the sky
 and walk like smoke,
       have many words for snow.

      You and I can tell
the tales, and I for one
          have a jumbled sack
  of names for loneliness

                you tell me yours
and I show you mine
        we trudge heavy
     not looking back
until we do
       and walk in circles


  "It's all right", you say
"It's not that bad,
        we're
walking this bitch
      together."

SpaceMom

She is a secret
this hidden sorceress
  that uses numbered incantations
to reach the stars
      like all of us
though with common magic imbued
        a soul as light as
          hydrogen
  a trillion sparks of mighty light
         within
and like the first hallelujah
    cannot be seen by ordinary men
         and I
 filled with rusty songs
           and the grimy smoke
 of experience
          want to warm
          those tiny hands

my spark

I have loved you since

the moment you opened your eyes 

on this world.

   

   and all the leaves in 

    the park 

changed color just for you

    the sun was 

bright and warm 

   flowers only lived
 in postcards
    until you came along

Is the weight of this
 too tremendous?

   I wait to see
who you
         will become
I wait for you to
        climb out
of the stones and
      darkness.

I wait for your eyes
  to open once
      again.