Writings

I have always enjoyed writing, poems and prose. I have written many texts, some have ended up in songs, some are just poetic images captured from my imagination or an emotion, describing an event, a landscape, or frame of mind.   Sometimes I have written with a specific goal in mind; someone gives me an image, or a theme, and sometimes I have written texts to fit  a beautiful melody that inspires me.   At times I write a poem in minutes, and edit, seldom. Sometimes this is a good thing, sometimes not. Writing has always come rather easily to me.  I work  intuitively, and without a lot of turmoil. I don’t worry too much about the words I put on paper, they are not indelible.  I like words, I like the rhythms, the taste, the texture in the mouth.  Even now as I add these texts, I  can change them. With perspective comes a certain objectivity. Nothing here is sacred. nor overly precious 

There is one caveat:  there are a lot of texts, maybe too many, but still, this gives reason to read a few as you wish, from time to time,   and revist this changing website. Hopefully there are some surprises, here and there. Enjoy!

Texts  also  appear peppered freely throughout this website.

All photos taken by myself, unless otherly listed.


ARCTIC STATE OF BEING
I am not made of stone 
although I try hard to fossilize thoughts
and longings into immovable gestures.
The wind stirs unseen
an impulse  alone grips the breath, 
sucked into the negative space inside.
I hold my thoughts like a supreme inhalation,
confined and imprisoned in a web of restraint.
Words choke,
only a breathless and silent sigh allowed,
to not stir or displace the air.
No grand gestures here,
no broad strokes  paint a vivid landscape
or intimate still life.
An impulse to burst chains that bind 
that impede the liberty to wander freely  the landscapes of dreams
to look down upon the unencumbered solace of open spaces.
No constraints of time,
no arbitrary boundaries between thought and action.
This arctic state of being,
this stilled blood of unnatural non-actions  held up like trophies of propriety
do nothing but twist  and contract.
Silent longings to cross over into a  spaciousness
not hidden or submerged or buried.
This not knowing, 
this stiffening of action,
this frozen time,
is killing.

EIGHT PORTUGAL VIGNETTES
1. 
HOMECOMING
Where is everyone?
its a ghost town! 
There are only some fences left and radios blaring  and laundry waving in the wind
for no one.
Life is frozen
no footprints or glimpses of black or blue in the distance
no voices no dogs barking no birds cooing.
Where is everyone?
 
Is there something we don't know?
 
OK it is hot, and it is full on daylight
sunshine blue skies sizzling heat siesta time but really
no sound of trucks, no sound of tractors,  no sign of work,
no sound of life.
An occasional twitter reveals nothing,
a ghost cry from afar.
 
There is no sign of grazing, no trodden paths,
to signal life.
The trees just growing from the roots up
weeds taking over, thorny roses, sentries guarding the path
bugs lining the wall, climbing in the corners. lurking in their repose. 
Waiting.
For us to leave
 
Where is everyone?
 
2.
Have roses always been so cruel?
Nature’s hypocrisy revealed.
The symbol of  everlasting love and passion which underlies a most
insidious duplicity.
Tendrils that reach out to take hold of pale and smooth surfaces, 
the slow creep into every unsuspecting corner.
The thorns , thick and sharp , a horny unpenetrable skin.
The annual ritual of pruning and shearing met with the systematic triumph of time as the seemingly innocent new growth, a welcome harbinger of spring, retaliates with deeply enmeshed  and tangled weaves  with the most innocent of neighboring veins. 
That is their mastery.
The flower, sweet and lovely, 
synonomous with the florid design of love’s sweet calling,  
held aloft by the skeletal lacy arm verdant and alluring,  
a siren lying in wait, 
lurid and ensnaring.
Its dual nature masked by the come-hither fragrance and the graceful unfolding of the  petals.
The  fragance enticing,  
the color inspiring the most ardent verses, 
but lo, 
the thorn waits to draw  the  thick red blood,  
the spidery welts rise, 
the undeniable true and equal mark of   love’s rose.
 
3.
The earth is slowly being eaten,
there is the low munch and crunch of tiny little jaws everywhere
beneath  feet, overhead, right behind, to the left and right
buzzing around.
The dithyrambic march of the drones, the soldiers, the scouts
mouths stretched wide 
teeth sharpened
arms well equipped with little suction cups to grip the surface, 
to lie in wait, to suck,  drain life’s necessary nourishment.
The host, left pale and weak, rotting from the inside out,
little holes, wounds that scar left to show
X marks the  spot. 
An easy target this uncomfortable victim. 
The dance of life triumphs,
the unnatural products invented to stem the flow of time
the sprays, the powders, the poisons, the old wives tales,
the ebb and flow of the tide, the waxing and waning of the moon, 
the parasites move on to the next wave of evolution, 
Revolution.
Grinning in defiance as they discover the chink in the armour, 
the achilles heel of modernization and progress.
This is how it has always been, always will be.
 
4.
We devour knowledge by reading
others have knowledge by doing.
Doing is not reading, and reading is not doing.
Reading is doing something else.
It requires being still, quieting the mind. to let the words in
which are then forgotten. 
What page is this? Have I read this already?
What is language?  Why are there so many?
What language are dreams in?
What language is silence?
What do  voices sound like?
Is a sigh or a gasp or a wail the same in all books all languages?

5.
The incessant march, observed,
the seemingly purposeless circling, 
scrutinized.
A mad rushed dance, 
the search for the hidden highway
with no road signs, or clearly delineated lanes.
Joining  and merging as the pheremones acquiesce.
Is there an agreement  which is the correct pathway
to circle again and again with  unseen purpose?
 
Boulder-like morsels attached to the head like some strange medieval headwear.
Teeth clenched on sizes twice as grand and 3 times in weight.
Still around and around with absolute fortitude.
This magnified 1000 fold!

A parallel universe of army-like exercises, to and fro.
This maze of roadways, intersecting and merging,
mapping out the small area beneath one’s  feet, 
invisible almost to the naked eye.
Once observed there is no stillness. 
None at all.
It is gone forever.
There is simply no quiet.
 
The underlying hum and buzz, the sizzling of the heat
the far off and nearby cries,  the cooing and the twittering,
whoops and whistles,
the groans and yawns as the day awakens and intensifies
the orchestra of nature’s sounds.
Work begins on every level, every magnitude.
The growing, the marching, the stretching of limbs to suck the moisture out of the dryness, straining to find a place between the other limbs 
There is no freedom from this daily ebb and flow.
There is no escape from this network of sound
There is no such thing as quiet
It is unbelievably noisy here.
 
6.
MORNING COUNTERPOINT
puh too too
puh too too
THE TINY SOLDIER WITH WINGS FIGHTS  VALIENTLY
raketa raketa raketa raketa
tweet
ITS FUTILE CHARGE TO CIRCLE AND SURROUND
trilllllll
BOOOOM 
buzzz tweett
THE VICTIM TWICE THE SIZE OVERSIZED A BURDEN TO CARRY
yaketeay whooop whoop whoop
bzzzzzz hhmmmmmmmm
BOOOOOM
UNDERNEATH EVERY SURFACE A PARALLEL UNIVERSE
OF SOUND AND SILENCE AND DUST
who der who der who der
tweet whooooooop
hey hey hey
INCESSANT CHEWING
zzzzzzz
SMALL REMNANTS OF DECAYING CORPSES WHO KNOWS HOW LONG THEY LAY IN WAIT 
OF EVACUATION
huhuhbu bzzzzzz
BOOOOM
eeeeeeeee thummmp
A SMALL HOLE IN THE CHINK OF THE ARMOUR ALLOWS
LIGHT TO COME THROUGH
AND THE RODENTS
trrrrrillllllll bzzzzzzzzzzzzuzuzuzuz
thummmp
TEETH SHARPEN ON INANIMATE PLASTIC BEDDING
BOOOOOM
BOOOOOM
hhhuuummmmmm hey hey
SHREDDING WITH A CHEW AND A CRUNCH
BOOOOOM thummmp
WE SQUIRM AND SQUEAL THOUGH MUCH LARGER AND STRONGER AND POWERFUL
THINGS THAT SCURRY 
buh daaa tra lalala laaaaa
dwiedip doooda daaaa
dup doe wah
FRIGHTEN BIG OLD US
AND YET THE FLYING GOES ON AND THE SINGING,
eeeeeeeeeeeeee
AS WE WHINCE STAND ON CHAIRS AND BRANDISH BROOMS
raketa raketa raketa
TWEET
 
7.  
CAMERA MAN      
Timo and the tractor, 
Timo the destroyer,
A man and his machines.  
There you see the fruits of labor 
and the joy of a day’s work well done. 
He sure has a lot of kids,
and they are beautiful too.  
A slalom course in and out of the trees, 
churning the earth, 
flattening the grass. 
There goes the dead peach trees, 
stick-like and pale, 
Now you see them, now you don’t.

8.
DAILY OBSERVATIONS
The snail curls into itself 
guarding the fragile soft underbelly
of a private existence.
Soft, wet, moist, unseen. 
One sudden prod 
the life source yielded. 
the flies scatter around the carcass 
to feed on the sweet succulent flesh. 
 
The machine churns and growls 
scraping the years of yellow mold.
The flies are multiplying before my very eyes 
as they careen and swoop like clumsy acrobats
with spindly little legs. 
They seem to fornicate in the air with the greatest of ease and suddenly  it seems like there are hundreds of them waiting for the breeze to stop 
and when it does
they land simultaneously like a massive horde 
of something unnamable and black
right on that one bare spot on the arm that was being saved for something much more special 
than a  fleshy  landing spot.
 
The smell of the raw flesh 
starting to cook and char outside, 
the poor animal whose one last gasp 
is encompassed in the visor like teeth 
of some hungry carnivore 
without knowing the name of its capturer.
We eat them in order not to be seen as captives ourselves.
 
Feet bare and the chair hard 
but sturdy under me,
a subtle reassurance that I will be held aloft 
and suspended over the cold  unforgiving floor.  
The day has just begun 
and the far-off sounds of the country life 
enter my quiet world . 
It is funny  how loud quiet can be. 
The smells,  fresh,
the scraping of the broom outside 
as it sweeps the cobwebs and dust balls to one side, 
just to be pushed once again to the middle 
by the inevitable wind.  
A never-ending process.
 
This place so barren
and yet so full of many memories.
Years of memories. 
Many meals, books, games, stillness, fires.

But still we could use a bit more furniture. 
 
The paint time- worn, and bare 
revealing how things pass and need renewal.
That is how this present time feels, 
time-worn and barren 
needing a new coat of paint. 
A redressing 
and renewal of life’s vows. 

Jean Dubuffet
THE GREEN MAN
Close your eyes and breathe in deeply,
pungent fertile sights and sounds,
surrounded  then , elusive light
a face still swathed in mystery.

A connection to the hidden side
the soulful side, the skillful side,
where all is present  and beyond
all suspicion, all belief.

That wild irrational side of life
in equal measure  light and dark.
Myriad colors , lucid sight
full of endless hopes and dreams. 

A moistness green, a hint of musk,
a mysterious glow  and joyful might. 
Infinity walks before you
Infinity walks behind, 
it is a circle and and yet a square
invisible and yet, so real.
The mask that reveals a tender soul
as much as hides,  as does reveal.
is nourished by every hope and sorrow
endless laughter, endless tears

SEDUCTIVE SABOTAGE/A SONG
Seductive  sabotage makes all things dire
it wrenches the heart with searing fire
turns inside out, the outside in
the upside down, of silent sin
turns inside out, the outside in
sweet obsessive heady spin.

Oh the yes of it, the no of it
like breathing in and breathing out
Close off your heart, yes, if you can
and if you can't you're all alone
no glamour in the love of stone.

The truth lies somewhere between the two

Seductive sabotage is like a snake
winds round the heart, is on the take
fully imagined, not realized
first adored and then despised,
undistinguished and unexplained
terrorized and in flames
emotions swindled and ashamed
undignified, and yet, no blame.

Oh the yes and no of it
the hot and cold of it
like breathing in and breathing out
close off your heart, yes, if you  can
and if you can't, you're all alone
I've stepped out, no passion known.

The fawning smile of icey speech
the prize in sight, but out of reach
hands are empty, hearts afraid
orders given, but not obeyed
reckless abandon is nothing new.

I'm drowning in the pool of you


THE HATEFUL BOX
Would it be better to be:
idiotic or spasmotic
hysteric or choleric
scattered or slovenly 
misshapen or unfortunate
unhealthy or flatulent
clumsy or ill-at-ease
putrid or pock-marked
obese or dry-skinned
unnoticed or  bleached
unimportant or withered
hairy-faced  or inconsequent
sun-burned or invisible
nauseous or truculent
thick-ankled or scaley
dissipated or diseased
disjointed or mealy-mouthed
ordinary or desperate
pestulent or gargantuan
hard pressed or obnoxious
insidious or red-necked
colorless or tepid ?
 
How can paradise  exist between the four walls  you have  placed me in?
 
I’ve decided to hate the box you’ve put me in
I tried it, 
I couldn’t breathe, 
I didn’t fit, 
I couldn’t see out.
Were there  ever trees outside? 
Were there  oceans, were there even bright stars ?
I can’t even see my own hand.

You have too many rules
I’ve stopped being able to even remember them:
notouching nocalling nolooking notalking   noasking noringing noresting nobreathing noreaching nohoping nosighing nomoving nosmiling  nochanging nokissing nosleeping nomeeting noseeing
nowanting notelling noyelling nocrying nowaking nofeeling nobeing...

My contours are too special for this box. 

THE YELLOW ROSES
Here we are
Look out the window,   what do you see?
There’s a man there with yellow roses.  See him, by the corner?
He is alone.
Look ,  he’s eating them 
One by one he eats them. the yellow roses.
 
Yellow is the color of poison they say. 
Such a pale and insidious hate, it must be.
He devours them.
He is alone.
 
Look its snowing.
The first real snowfall of  the year
There is a hush
Can you hear it?
 
It is so beautiful and quiet here.
 
Do you remember that time by the bridge?
The first time?
It was snowing then.
 
The man is leaving now, he’s finished the roses
He is alone.
Can you see him?
 
There is a woman standing beside him now
She is wearing a blue sweater.
She is looking this way as if she can see us
Do you see her?
She is taking small little steps.

Look at the way he looks at her.
 It is lovely.
 
The snow falls gently
It is so beautiful and quiet here.
 
Do you remember that time?
by the bridge and the log?
 
It was lovely then.
 
It was lovely then.
BUSINESS SUIT
You’ve turned me into a business person in a grey suit
that seems to be what you want
My suit is ill-fitting, it is too big
and your’s is too small and the wrong color.
We march about and plug in here and there
making sure the wires never cross
Shall I take a meeting in the other room 
while you do lunch with some sponsor?
I don’t have the proper credentials 
my resume is incomplete.
I don’t know shorthand.
I don’t care about punctuation 
You’ve turned the thermostat off
it is too cold in here 
I can see my breath
I'm holding still so as not to displace you
fragile as I am forgiving and bending, 
yielding and swaying my back  curving to fit into the tight space you allot me.
You’ve changed the job description. There is no honor in this
This suit does not do me justice.
I quit!

JEWELS
Your eyes 
are like little pearls,
He said.
 
Your mouth is like 
a rough diamond,
She said.
 
Each word you speak is like rare amber
found on the shore of a distant beach,
He said.

Your every thought is like a turquoise stream
that flows into the deepest pool
sending shivers down my spine,
She said.

Your teeth are like a row of opals
that glisten in the light of day
and illuminate my path at night, 
He said.

Your  gaze is like a topaz sun
that warms and comforts my troubled soul
and teaches the weary to soothe their pain,
She said.

Your touch is like a shining ruby
that caresses the soft skin of my arm
healing my turmoil and protecting humanity from the wrathful glance,
He said.

Your hair is like transparent crystal wafting in the wind
sending shivers of delight up my spine
spun into a web of  joy eternal,
She said.

Your arms are like petrified wood
holding ancient stories of civilizations past and profound
revealing mysteries of the entire universe,
He said.

Your nose is like a sapphire
sometime blue, sometimes pink
rare and precious, undeniably special
completely entrancing,
She said.

Your backbone is like azure lapiz lazuli
supple, yet extraordinarily strong,
flexible, yet yielding,
a miraculous strength unequivocal and unparalled
surpassed by absolutely nothing, no one,
He said.

Your whole being is like a jewelled sceptre
filled with every precious stone known on earth
ignacious, sedimentary,  conglomerate
a mosaic of unsurpassed beauty and magnificence,
She said.

Running out of things to say, no stone left unturned,
they ran out of breathe. Shoulders heaving.

Silence.
Stillness.
Nothing more to be said.
Nothing.
Not even a gasp.

Is there really any truth to be had in a conversation of superlatives?

UNIVERSALE EXCENTRIQUE
Inside out and over under
upside down but still always pleasing,
Atmospheric— Never-ending
Count your blessings, Hush Now-
-omnipresent breathlessly.
Never stop, look in every 
nook and cranny small,
Quietly.
One and two and forty-three
aren’t really necessary.
Luscious perfect symmetry. 
photo by Michael Moore
BIBBLING BUBBLING/ DISTANCE THE SPACE IN BETWEEN
To measure the distance, you need more than a transparent ruler
marking bit by bit the thick unspoken in- between.
It feels quite evil, quite inimitable
one must need something equally evil to erase it
and invisible,
since it is unseen.
It feels quite ordinary.
It doesn’t belong here in this magical realm.

Shall we put on the magic cloaks then
the ones in the shelved and dusty books?
No one will see then
perhaps then the fear is gone.
Without the fear  the distance in- between,
the unfelt, the not allowed, the held in
which serves no one and has no charm,
where memory does not exist,
the distance dissipates , 
the mist miraculously clears.
and in this sensate world 
where one can breathe, 
the vistas are endless.

 
ART MEN/SAD AND LONELY
Hot and cold extreme
Etched in memory
Nothing lingering, not worth mentioning.

Mostly tedious
(spoken) Fingers trace an outline seered into yielding flesh
Grey, oblivious
(spoken) Deny all that is fragile.... not a sentimental quiver, no, but a devil’s mocking glance.
Unacceptable
Inescapable.
 
Clouds obscure
Nothing sure
Seek compassion, plead in honesty
Hold close to you life's memories.
 
Mouth wide open, silent whispers
Shifting paaterns, brightness of the dawn.
 
Sad and lonely men
(spoken)A  blink of an eye and the dust settles.
Chained to suffering
(spoken) The mind---prison of longing.  Passing landscapes where thoughts remain as if the geography was nourished in this way.
 
Hold dear in your heart,
Love's clear messages
 
Mouth wide open silent singing.
FANTOMAS/ THE DIRECTOR'S CUT
Ragged raging cattle cries
Disappear into a mafioso waltz.
Whining, yet musical never-the-less.
Like Dracula sucking the blood of the sacrificial virgin. 
It feels good
those
lowly whispered commands
and the sweet ecstasy of surrender.
 
Giddy up, giddy up
Jump onto my spiny back
And feel the pulsing between your legs.
It is destiny, 
It is only a pretense of civility.
Underneath is the true emission
Like a broken shield separating you from me.
 
The wall is up, it was built overnight
From one moment to the next.
It makes little sense, but is, 
never-the less.
The gliding tones of  intuition of what the other world holds
far away from reason.
Thoughts missing elsewhere
Like a theremin unleashed.
It is also an undeniable truth
A beautiful undeniable truth
to hold and cherish as a small  bird cradled in your arms. 

GUARDIAN ANGEL
There is something to be said about how you soar
above the others your wings unfurled
and the stillness that you instil and the 
pealing of the bells
the last chords most beautiful most thoughtful
most secret.
Most cannot follow only watch in gentle awe
I cannot even fathom where you were birthed, a rare bird
and am often left behind unheeded and alone.
I am not a necessity,
but I remember the times you took me back without reproach
and although I had to win you back, you let me.
I can only walk in your shadow I’m afraid 
and your silent thoughts more profound than I can fathom.
You are well-read in the quieter ways
and in that I am left watching from afar trying to impress you with my frantic antics.
There are books written about your attention span.
I cannot compare you with  the others. 
this time, not at all.
There is no comparison, for certainly you are most unusual
Guardian you are, protector you are,
perhaps not mortal after all, your namesake, an angel.
the hills and valleys, peaks and deep ravines
match the uneveness of my emotional terrain.
sometimes violent avalanches and thunderstorms lull me to sleep.
You breathe steadily in and out, the rhythm constant.
Your eyes gaze fixedly ahead, calm and true, unswerving
Mine dart incessantly, peering around the corners, 
looking back over my shoulder, opening and closing like shutters.
Yours are far apart, mine close together.
How you cradle my hand, so small, in yours, almost unknowing
and your other-worldly eyes see past me as if I’m not even there. 
I am insignificant, so it seems,
And yet you are always there to pick up the petals as they fall to put them back in my hand.  
photo by Michael Moore

HEAD ROOM
There are rooms inside my head. many of them.  The north, south, east, and west wings are filled with chambers of varying sizes, a cluttered maze of lefts and rights, alley ways that wind  in a circuitous pattern, in and out of focus and clarity that open  miraculously into a well-lit idea.
 
Each room has a secret name, there are too many to name in entirety: the room of desire, the room of willfullness, the room of action, the room of fear, the room of revenge, the room of hate, the room of compassion and empathy. Each room is decorated in a different style.  Where to put the bed in my head?  the chair, the table. the sofa, the lamp? The wall paper and curtains can be a complete disaster, only a drecorator  (dr·eadful decorator) can cope with retro vs vintage to post modern and hippy squalor.  And what must I wear to enter each room, a new personality?  What must I don to attend the party given in my head?  

Ambling from room to room, the colors change, the lighting changes; the music knows no bounds, from dark and mysterious, to light and playful, wistful and rueful. symphonic to electric. These rooms are tangible as a detailed thought, a dream, a wish, a hope, a desire, a fear. 

Some rooms in my head join together to make a suite, an alliance to take the most space in my thoughts; and  some are isolated and  illusionary, solitary dreams  and hopes, unfulfilled and ignored, while others a nagging pinch  propelled into action, spontaneous and sometimes violent.
It can get very noisy in my head, all the parties in competition for attention and press coverage.
 
The real estate agent has made an appointment to assess the value of the mansion of my mind. Like a psychiatrist inspecting each and every corner and nook and cranny, checking for peeling paint and cracks in the foundation. Shall my mind be declared a disaster area or a national treasure? I am afraid there is no viable market  for my mental compartments. It would take a much too excentric and enormously large family to find comfort in my head, and above all, pricey. 

These thoughts are equally confusing, I think I'll retreat into the safe room in my head,  but first I'll have to wander around and find it.

WALTZ OF THE MEERCOOT 
Flotsam and jetsam have found a place of honor in
the birdie penthouse,
an amusing entangled mess,
a  skyscraper of organic technology and urban crap.

We witness the tug-a-war rearrangement of corrugated cardboard,
moving day disagreements
juxtaposed with the bobbing of the cradle.
 
The sudden activity seems not to stir the fragile baubles
embedded or perched,
depending on the present arrangement of the so-called furniture.
Do the inhabitants, protected and warmed by the oddest assortment of protective coverings, 
know what lies in store for them? 
The interior decorator’s fate of breeding and the sentries watchful eye?
 
A list of things might help
a map, a grid, a faucet, or a switch  to turn on, 
a button, to turn  off.
Instructions of how and where and why, 
Action to stillness,
Rambunctiousness to quietude.

Fresh winds and currents  escape this plastic servitude. 

SHOE STORY
He had to listen to his shoe yesterday.
Really!  
It was buzzing quite loudly, impossible to ignore.
It was trilling and shaking, mysteriously.
 
First he looked at the heel.
The grass was still stuck to the dirt of the paths recently travelled.
The heel was firmly in place.
The toe was encrusted with tiny jewels and shiny beads, 
They were all in order, every one.
The suede sides were soft and worn, they looked tired, yes, but firm.
Not shaky at all.
Still the trembling persisted.
The shoe reverberated in his hand.
 
His whole being sensed the mysterious movement,
the entire room began to move and be displaced.
His face, afire, twitching .
His hands fluttering like veiny autumnal leaves in the wind. 
His limbs akimbo, in perpetual motion
His voice shaky, an uncontrollable vibrato.
His heart pounding in his chest like a gigantic marching bass drum.
Nothing could stop itb
The whole world at that moment was mirrored in a buzzing and trembling shoe.

Everything turned violent and dark.
He stomped around, trying to control the shaking.
Seizures set upon him.
Tidal waves of undulating muscle spasms.
Everything was magnified, gigantic.
No rest. No peace. No calm.
None at all.

Then it appeared, timidly out from under the in-step
Black and shiny, and small.
Confused.
Trembling, no flight.
Wings broken and hanging.
Buzzing uncontrollably, the last throes of life left its beautiful fading body.
 It grew still in his hand, quieted, comforted
the trembling subsided.
Life's breath released.
 
Now this was the fateful moment.
It was as if this little life and death hidden in his shoe 
had released an untapped moment in his searching soul.
Never again to be complacent.
Stillness, forever disquieted.
A wandering lustfulness for life reborn.
He turned and saw the wings  sprout on his suited back
a new fluttering, trembling, buzzing erupted.
He shook uncontrollably
One halting step after another.
Forward, then back,  as if intoxicated.
His step grew steadier, lighter, more sure.
He lifted off the ground, spirited.
He left those old shoes behind.
Soaring above and gliding below, observing his mingons of tired broken shoes
worn, and out of fashion, 
and left for much more verdant pastures.

A SONG
We all have our hangups
We all have our stuck places
We all have our tape- recorded stories looping around in self- inflicted glory.
 
But so what , we’re still  good people
We read good books and care about important things.
 
We’ve all got  our neurosis
and  lots of terrible bad habits
Some smoke, some drink, some seek love and  swim in psychosis.
 
But so what, we’re still good people
We  look out the open window further than the horizon 
and care about human suffering.
 
Some days the air  gets too heavy
and clouds obscure the light
and personal sagas create suffering 
to fully cover up the night.
Lack of restraint and  impulsive action
disallow the good to grow, 
and too many times things slip through your grasp.
What you reap, you will sow. 
 
I can see your eyes glass over
when the air gets fiery hot. 
When words like
darts and spears flying 
hit the wall 
and leave their aural spot.
We  can be so hurtful,
cruel and worse than awful.
We can rant and rave and yell
then yield and  flinch under cruel offense.

But still we open up our mouths
to plead in honest defence
But still we open up our mouths 
to speak in honest repentance.
 
Go find your cup of golden
that you can hold out at night,
and catch the final rays of light
to hold dear in your heart.
These are the gifts that come to you
they are blessings from within .
Seek compassion, not glory
As you give , you will receive  

 
PECULIAR
Its so peculiar, the way,  it  goes through your mind
through the tunnels and mazes of matter.
One door shuts,  and one opens, and through THIS you go
slipping and sliding like Alice  free flow.
Floating and  gliding, while warbling away 
with a sweet rhythmic contrast that makes you all sway.
 
That the pictures you make in your mind  could be fake
is a joke we all share, let us  just all agree,
Whether inside or out, there’s still quite a fee
exacted , and pried out  from  humanity.
 
So let us all gather in some quiet dell
and listen with purpose to what is to tell,
No chirp and no murmur is carelessly spent,
in contrast man’s rumble is chaotic and bent. 

THE SURGEON/CHIRUUG
The surgeon walked into the room and grabbed his scalpel off the metal table 
polished by a flourishing Practice. 
 His face momentarily reflected in the glossy surface, a sneer of capability passed over his face , 
He perused his patient -victim, unsuspecting and gullible.  
 
No distracting thoughts to postpone or prevent the precisely executed incision, 
a ravine-like gash, in the soft  and fleshy  defenseless target, 
no temerity  no vacillation,   zorro-like, the decision sudden and unstoppable. . 
a masterpiece in precision. 
Beautiful, yet cruel.
 
The clock ticked in the background, a lulling hum, 
day- in day -out, day in day out, day -in-day-out.
This occurance merely a passage of time- 
An ordinary day at the office.
 
The lips are the first to go. 
Nothing left to say.
No supplication, No lament.
No whining or wailing
Absolutely nothing that may sound melodic
 
The eyes follow the lips, 
He said.
The mirrors to the soul, 
They say.
Dull that shining glow.
Gouge them out.

Now the blood really begins to flow.
The passionate burgundy color 
quickly fading as it
turns  dried brown. 
Coded Blue and orange mixed to
become this dried  brown.

Then he goes for the heart
still beating strong,  even after all this time, 
“This is much more difficult to quiet, all that history”.
 He says, reaching for the sharpest most delicate of  blades.

Tracing a  terribly disturbing pattern 
severing the alpine-like roadwork of arteries and veins,
one by one separated from the main flow of inhale and exhale
and discarded .
Gentle throbbing stilled and stopped.
Now a mere object without feelings.
 
Research about violent crimes say that the moment just before and the moment just after the terrible act of violence are moments completely devoid of love and compassion.
Numb ,  Inevitable,
The victim a mere object without feelings
 
The sharp edged splinter , seething under the skin
exact  razor blade precision.
The thin line of blood tracing history; 
A ruthless story.
The thick impermeable  mist
before the eyes turn to stone.
Grey stone.
Cold and distant
Remains that way.
 
RARA AVIS/FOR MICHEL
No more no more
No breath no skin no  hair 
No mouth no speech 
No sound
No more.
Eyes sunken, no sight.
Limbs shriveled, no reach.
Hands frozen, no touch  
No life
No more
No life
No more

Past laden with  sound 
Tangible presence
Strong gestures symphonic semiphores 
Elaborate wired tactile thoughts
No touch No sound No more. 

Pulsing twitching prayers visceral 
Glissando sirens.
Pulsing twitching prayers visceral 
Glissando sirens.

No life
No more 
No life 
No more

The distance bridged between science and feeling. 
Technology masked in simplicity of emotions bared,
Now stilled.
Present, now  memory 
No future.
Only shadows and corners 
Where others will stand and remember.
He is no more.
 
High forehead waxen
Angel hair unfurled
Ears  strain to hear  a whisper, 
Eyes stare to see a pulse, 
Blood surging through the veins
Inner stream of life 
There is no stir.
Plug disconnected
No current. 
He is no more.
 
Rara avis
Flying to the heavens 
Borne aloft on the electric and sonic beyond
Comrade of Edison Tesla Bell Franklin
Spirit that lives on in the unseen eternal
Spark that lives on in dreams  and lore
Tied no longer  to this  earthly plane, 
Ferried across with the a child’s gift of the pretty bill in his pocket 
But called too soon for those left behind.

No more no more
No breath no skin no  hair 
No mouth no speech 
No sound
No more.
He is no more.
He is no more.
He is no more. .

FOR DEB
The ladies are wielding their spoons in a glorious manner
upright and proud like flags hoisted on a flagpole
proclaiming superiority over all other utensils,
the lowly fork,the untrustworthy knife,
not even the  stainless steel kind, but a rusty and spotted aluminum.
 
The ladies line them all up in a festive parade of corresponding sizes.
Feminine recepticles, enticing and forgiving,
concave and womb-like.
Reaching for them one at a time
in a sort of kitchen communion
as their deeply painted and smiling lips
enclose the cold metal vessels 
full of all things nourishing and tender alike.
FUNNY SONG
no sound is no sound
not spoken not heard
no not one word
nothing more absurd
a big fat zero
certainly no hero.
then what is all this riot
no silence no quiet 
 
fantastic.  frenetically frantic 
simply simplamatic
totally misconstruted
rootatoot tooted
diddlediddledat
sizzle sizzle snap
dipple dipple dap
//ha di bop
ha di bop bop//
 
dip dip dip daaay
 
down to the cages
spent all those wages
slipped the coin in the slot
and swung, contact sought
what was she thinking 
certainly no thought
whiz went the ball
energy chaotic and fraught
again try again try again try
contact is made snap on the spot
what was she thinking
certainly no thought
trip to the dregs
fat toothless and grey
for this one must pay
for at least 56 days.
 
sizzle sizzle snap
dipple dipple dap
//ha di bop
ha di bop bop//
 
dip dip dip daaay 

ALMOST JUNE
Newly green trees
suffering the tangle of winter still.
Optimistic passer-bys 
sandals with socks and overcoats.
It is spring isnt it?
 
The shimmering of the canals
and the quivering trees
the rain  dampens 
spirits uplifted 
everyday a new day full of expectations?
Tomorrow may be better.
 
Bells ring from not so far
despite sun’s absence
and time marches on. 
The hands of the clock barely visible today-
fog mist rain hail, obscure like a veil.
The motor scooter’s purr
announces day’s duties
deliveries, pickups, appointments.
People hurrying from across the canal
faces grey, hands held close to the body
like sprinters trying to get out of the way of the weather. 

 
A GOOD BEGINNING
It's a good beginning
It should be in the archive don't you think?
Its very pretty but it is so different
It makes us feel uncomfortable
Is there a button to turn it off?
 
They seem to be selling copies on every street corner
They should stop, don't you think?
The factory workers in a row churning them all out
door to door
There must be a button to turn the whole thing off
 
 Let's get all the things in a neat little row
 to see if it's in the right order.
 Is there a potential candidate?
 Who is the director?
 He looks german cause he likes to fish.
 Is there a button to turn him off?
 
All things considered
The lowest side is on the low side,
right and in the middle.
Something light and crispy 
Something more transparent.
Let's keep things going forward and friendly here
When we run out of time we simply have to stop
and turn the whole thing off. 

THREE OBSTACLES TO ENLIGHTENMENT 
 1. Craving: This Burns

 Certainly an ancient addiction,
 a primal hunger
 piercing  the heart.
 A blazing arrow  of desperate craving
 hitting its mark with  
 perfect marksmanship. 
 
Not Eros’ sentimental quiver  but
a devil’s mocking lance.
The finger that traces the outline,
muted  or frenzied of hot and cold extreme;
a freezing or scalding pattern 
etched in  hunger’s memory.
The pain of the sort of desire
where everything  is questioned,
and nothing is answered.
 
The abyss looms wide 
waiting to be filled with anything but agony.
Like the solitary suffering 
of  an innocent being
penned in an irrational corral, 
reaching and grasping at spectral needs-
surrounded on all sides,
the searing mark of pain branded in its heart. 
 
Seemingly inescapable, 
this need, this addiction,
like a corset tight and unyielding,
encased in the leather of craving and desire. 
Suffocating and binding the flesh in 
masochistic  uselessness.
 
Mouth wide open, foaming, silent scream, 
skin, hot and feverish to the touch.
Simply addiction to no reprieve.
 
2. Aversion: This Enflames
 
Eyes turned quickly hot and glaring-
unseeing laser- beam x-ray vision
that pierces like a scalpel  
and undresses all pretense of civility;
Something soft might touch the heart,
a  momentary vulnerability.
Unacceptable.
 
Instead, anger and rage rise in response-
commoner’s pastimes-
grand violent gestures  mistaken
for personal expression.
Repulsion  most ordinary- enflaming
as if our birthright is to disdain.
More than an impulsive reaction-
premeditated and hurtful.
An obsessive  repugnance
of anything needing attention;
soft and tender.
 
3. Indifference: This Paralyzes
 
Devoid of temperature
supremely tedious
grey and oblivious
no beauty 
no wonder 
no intensity 
boringly indifferent
casual,
apathetic
nonchalant.
Tomorrow holds something far more interesting,
Delusion abounds.
 
This intellect, not worthy, 
That temperament, foreign or polyrhythmic.
Eyes  flitting and unfocused-
blind to what is there in plain sight-
senses numbed and disused.
No  apparent reflection. 
No footprints on the ground.
No scent lingering.
No imprint.
No resonance.
Neither presence nor absence-
simply not noticed.
Not even worth mentioning.
A cold, cruel, and lonely demise
with no one to mourn. 

2 EUROS A PIECE
The narrow slit in the pale yielding bread roll,  widening bit by bit
to encase the luscious salty flesh
soft and slippery and wet.
The delicate thin-sliced onions slightly pungent
and sharp on the tongue as it caresses the first bite of the delicately firm and virginal skin 
giving way to the succulent and juicy  sweet meat - 
A sweet impassioned surrender-
sliding down the throat slowly and purposefully
mouth savouring the emerging juice spurting forth from that first incisive bite.
 
Long yeasty finger wrapped around the overly pink flesh 
mixed into an almost spermicidal salty paste.
Barely  animal -like, aquatic gender unknown,
No texture, no substance, but soft, velvety still, like a hush. 
Two luscious lips seductively parting, expectant and inviting.
 
Two long finger-like tentacles like legs spreading to surrender.
The saline sweet juices emerging from the primordial soup
lie coyly a top the bready bed. 
Mossy green condiments lining the crevice 
like rumpled satin sheets.
Soft jelly like lubrication glossing over the fleshy substance
sweet and salty alike,
hard and soft alike.
Waiting in sweet anticipation of that first lick of the lips and the mouth that slowly approaches opening just wide enough to encompass the entire form completely. 
With a moan of full appreciation swooning into the supreme arduous sacrifice, 
as the teeth do their dirty and lascivious deed. 

   

THE BEGINNING OF THE END
I have to describe this feeling.
a clogged and stopped up feeling deep in the chest.
A burning in the eyes, an overwhelming fear. 
Not a medical condition, but one of time. 
and the quality, there of.
Time passing and as soon as it passes, forgotten.
marching across the inside of one’s hopes and dreams.
The only thing we really know about time is that it passes,
and the quality of how you fill it is up to you.
The tenderness of the spoken and unspoken moments.
The moments of pure and beautiful feeling 
now stopped away into an agenda
and promises somehow define time in a way that is not allowed.
 
We don’t have the rest of our lives
because the time  passing before us,
is now.
There’s not enough to go around for the rest of our lives, at this rate.
It is a horrible stifling feeling, this pinching in my chest, 
this grabbing at my throat, my stomach upside down.
My limbs  twisted and wrestled into knots. 
This is not what I want to feel.
This is not how I woke up feeling,
But this is how I am being sent to bed. 

 
BLIND DEVOTION
I will follow you where ever you want to take me
down dark alleys and bright avenues 
my eyes closed and feeling the wall
not as a person blind, unknowing
but fully conscious and with resolve .
My eyes, wide open, see every turn
and narrow straightaway,
feeling beneath my fingertips the contours of the journey together.
 
There are a myriad of choices many beautiful as they unfold 
and show their vibrant hues and textures.
For me only one choice
to follow you for you are my heart,
even though it beats firmly in the womb of my chest,
and when you are gone  is with me still,
a steady rhythm and pulse growing in knowledge 
of your gentle presence in my life,
even in absence.
In the wisdom of restraint
in the joyous union that lives in dreams.
 
This is an amazing journey 
lonely and obscure and not without dangerous unchartered terrain.
Many levels, parallel lives, tremendous splendor
The silence of  secret treasure that we  hold and protect,
the intimate legacy  we give to one another,
courageously , with a simple meeting of minds and hearts
that leads to  the creation of something quite beautiful and tender.

Thus I follow you with willing heart and knowing mind.
I acquiesce to your wise choice of left or right
or straight-a-head, 
Your tempo I shall match.
All paths lead to the same end,
a place through the mountains of your make up,
the oceans of my past,
wild and omnipresent, 
The power of these elements
reverberating in the pure essence of  connection, 
The true treasure and expression of love.  

34
Is this a gasp without exhalation?
Is this a period at the end ?
Is this a downward spinning spiral?
Is this exhaustion with no rest?
 
Is this the eyes  shut oh so tightly?
Is this the sun’s last  ray at night?
Is this a question gone unheeded?
Is this a winter with no spring?
 
Is this the rat swallowing its own tail?
Is this the female  eating its mate?
Is this the fledgling pushed from the nest?
Is this the great escape?
 
Is this a distance insurmountable?
Is this a void so densely packed?
Is this a day with no tomorrow?
Is this a tomorrow without a past?
 
Is this a scent gone undetected?
Is this a piercing cry  unheard?
Is this a quick sigh of  immense relief?
Is this a lock that has no key?
 
Is this an end of a beginning?
Is this the beginning of an end?
Is what was  written purely intended?
Is this  quiet death really a death? 

MR AND MRS EYE/EAR
Two halves of need
Mr No Sound walks hand in hand with Mrs No Sight 
She follows His left and rights
He sways with Her 3/4 and 4/4.
She staggers  unseeing, feeling the walls
He lisps  with no tempo, no inflection.

Lives of necessity and no escape 
Barely alive, in cloying supplication
Soul mates in wrong decisions and cruel circumstances
What a more perfect Hell is this? 

 
KEYS AND DOORSTEPS
Everyday I have to find the key that opens you.
The lock is rusty on the opening of the door to your heart.
I seem to have an ever-accumulating ring of keys:
Timid,  tender, armored, restrained, indifferent, heavy and light.
It is such a chore to go through each one.
It is so guarded , your heart.
Like clockwork, oiled and efficient,
precision is the key
complicated like plumbing,
one faucet leading into the heart,  twisting around
the ravines of the arterial pathways,
the other faucet leading out, a convoluted indescribable game of shoots and ladders.
 
Each time I try to claw my way through to the lovely  garden on the other side
Where I can breathe
Where the air is pure
Where there is no door
The door  of your heart keeps closing, slamming behind me
I have to pry it open.
Fastenings and hinges, cogs, wheels, medieval portals
metallic groans
clanging, scraping, wingeing, wheezing, rusty and ancient.
I look down at my hands shredded and in pieces
my fingers broken and shrivelled
my wrists shattered  like glass.
 
I am going to build a platform high overhead
Where things can get acted out in an exaggerated manner.
Indescribable things,
Life and death things,
Hideous and dreadful things
Beautiful and graceful things.
Pulsing gyrating twisting writhing slowly and purposefully
the rhythm of your heartbeat, a dithyrambic two-step,
An opera of the heart.
I would perform a ritual exorcism 
I would carve and cut out your heart like a sacrificial lamb.
I’d rub my hands in the dark and sticky blood, electrified,
Spread my arms out for all to see, sinews, tendons, soft flesh
A full scream, a wrenching cry 
Every pore open 
And proclaim to all how grateful I am to have survived your heart.
 
MISSED KISS
I used to wait outside by the bikes where  they were parked during school.  I would take a long time to unlock my bike, sometimes locking and unlocking it,  to occupy my time as I waited. I did  not want to appear too anxious. I did not want to appear as if  I was actually waiting. It had to look like a coincidence, a serendipitious synchronicity, something predetermined, fated to be.  It had to seem special.
 
He would stroll over to his bike, fumble with his books and lock,  and look up at the last moment to see  me with this look of recognition, of understanding. Sometimes it almost looked like a sigh of relief, as our eyes met.  

Since we had to go the same direction, it was decided wordlessly  that we would ride together, and we would both get on our bikes, simultaneously and  side -by-side on our schwinns  and leave the school yard.  This happened mostly in the spring when the air smelled sweetly of newly- mown grass, and the sky, full of birds, was cobalt blue. 
 
The hills were coming alive  with the vibrant green fields of spring and the  shade of the full cork oak trees. The  jasmine, a delicate white flower  with its seductively sweet  smell,  followed us as we made our lefts and rights through the maze of suburbia into the golden amber dusty hills overlooking the city.   With the sun beating down on our backs, we would not speak much; we were too concentrated on the sensations and the promise of another afternoon where time slowed way down. It was a luscious and fertile time of year; the time of  secret meetings .
 
We had a few favorite places: the amphitheater, ringed with euculyptus, with its gentle slope down to the grassy stage area,  or the field filled with high grasses and flowers where we would lay on our backs and  look up at the sun and the slowly moving clouds. We would watch the  curling smoke trails of the distant airplanes flying overhead, and the hum of their faint motors would provide a lulling drone to our reverie.  I remember the feel of the long  stalk of wheat grass as it would trace lines on my face, etching the patterns of unfulfilled and innocent desire.  It all occurred an arm’s-length away, as if there was an invisible barrier that was respectfully observed in our innocence and inexperience.  There was sometimes a stolen touch with the fingers along skin, hot and furtive, and this was most tintillating. There was something forbidden and shy about it.
 
Sometimes  we would talk, our lips close together. I would watch his lips move as he spoke and he would watch mine. We could smell one another, the smell of sweat.  Our youthful athletic biking exertion mixed with the bouquet of the outdoor canopy overhead.  We could feel one another’s breath. It would envelop us like a second skin that bound and connected us.  Sometimes we would just be silent and gaze at one another.  His  eyes were very dark. His hair, long and Indian- like,  blue-black and shiny, proof of  his  ancestry, fell into his face and I longed to push his hair gently out of his eyes.  Our lips , though close, never touched ; that would have been  far too  awkward and abrupt, that would have been too final , and we would never again have been surrounded by this innocence of unspoken desire, which to this day I still recreate in every secret fantasy. 

 
INSIDE /OUTSIDE
 Outside
I’m the workaholic here. I scrub and clean on my hands and knees to suit you. Climb dangerous ladders, scaffolding and rigging to wash the windows  until  they shine like a mirror,  to reflect you. I rearrange the furniture so you can lounge languorously as if all time has stopped to serve you.   I change my clothes to color coordinate to your style, the expressions of my face to match your mood., I wish I could follow you from one parallel world to another, sit next to you as you navigate your trajectory, an invisible presence, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-being. 
 
Instead you turn me away as  a job applicant with insufficient credentials. All the positions are filled it seems- although the help -wanted sign is still on the door. I see the women coming in and out the door with their makeup kits in hand, dressing for you and twittering on their high heels to appear more bird-like. One long stork-like leg in front of the other. Some stay longer behind the door, the silhouettes enticing, but they are eventually turned away with boringly cruel predictability. 
 
The days come and go, and you hole up in your castle like a wayward prince with lofty ideals but no character. You busy yourself with solitary things that serve no one and yet you claim to be a great philanthropist, your arms flailing this way and that, keeping time for an invisible orchestra. With a single gesture you sweep me under the carpet, you stuff me in the closet, you file me in the cabinet. 
 
Inside
Above and beyond the heaven  a supreme exhalation of space and freedom. No boundaries but infinite and humbling essence of spirit and meaning,  much more than this cardboard box of life  filled with treasured things, all shiny and useless.  Where is the single knowing look where eyes meet and lock and see beyond, the tender touch imbued with true meaning, a kiss where thoughts meet with no words. 
 
I’ll keep my heart inside the womb of my chest. It isn’t really your’s, you know that. It remains mine to give and take as needs entail. The fact that I can hold it out to you, to anyone,  as a precious gift to treasure and cherish and that can  be held it  gently,  is never something to  be taken lightly.

PASSING LANDSCAPES
She thought of all the countrysides in which thoughts were left
in passing landscapes; 
Mental postcards of thought’s architecture .
The geography seemed somehow richer,
nourished  in this way.
She  wondered what other unspoken things 
have enriched these views.
 
The flat landscape never suited her
and the mountains of unrest were too familiar to him.
He gravitated to them as if by second nature
clung to simply because it is familiar.
 
An ordinary wave of the hand
sweeping the dust out of her face.
An annoying buzz of an insect swatted to regain the calm of the balmy afternoon.
The picture changes  with a
blink of the eye, strobe-like
Things in the present do not reflect the past
There is  no resonance.
The dust simply settles.

COMMANDS
Close the door!
The door is closed.
I said, Close the door!
The door is closed.
The door has been closed?
Yes, can’t you see that it is closed?
Is the door  closed?
The door is closed.
The door, closed?
A closed door
I see, a closed door.
The door is closed?
Yes. the door is closed.
Door, closed, yes?
Closed, 
The door.
 
Open the door, 
Its hot in here.
Open the door
Its hot,  here.
Its really hot  here.
In here, hot.
Open the door
The door, open it
Hot here.
Open it, the door.
The door, open.
Here it is hot.
Hot it is here.
Really hot, here, it is
Hot.
Open.
 
There’s a draft here, 
Chilly.
Close the door.
Close the door there’s a draft
Its chilly here.
Close the door.
Close it, chilly.
Cold here, close the door.
Close the door its cold and drafty.
Drafty cold, chilly.
Its chilly here, close the door.
The door is closed.
Is the door really closed?
Closed, really?
Yes.
Ah.

Its hot and stuffy here. 

THE TREADMILL
Spinning in one place
twirling into the void
stepping wildly with no progress forward
running in place madly and deliberately
chattering non-stop and unintelligibly
grasping and clutching at unattainable mirages
repeating oneself incessantly
a choreography of meaningless gestures
wasting energy on mediocre pastimes
mindless internal monologues 
stuck in old useless patterns
walking into the wall  clear in sight 
missing the final exit
blind to things plain in sight 
 
There  is a new day arisen
cold and succinct
and icy temperatures 
metallic cut  to the core
eagle eyes see through to the bone
a black and white negative
of feelings past and present
its good to let these go
like dust in the  forward momentum of  the wind
up and away
joining the invisible stream of ancient cries
and laments 
an angelic and devilish chorus singing together 
in harmonic convergence of
dissonance,  haunting and beautiful. 

OMINOUS
Things are terrible now.
Just awful.
The sky, an ominous and hateful black and blue. 
A huge bruise.  
No birds singing, except the screech of the vultures waiting to suck blood.
The character is shallow and weak.
 
There is something supremely hideous about the dark.
Thoughts and words avoided , made to disappear,
as if the cries were unimportant and not worthy of attention. 
An everyday occurence.
It is ominous.

This is an impossible situation,
Unfathomable .
A truth far more sublime and palpable is at hand,
To acknowledge unspoken things because there may be no words to speak them, 
Yet are recognizable
and held up as fragile birds.
As you give, you shall receive. 

For M
At first a whirlwind of presence 
A tornado of ambition and  insightful colors
Striking gestures here and there 
With outfits and proclamations
A veritable Imelda of shiny crystal shoe boxes 
A flair unequal
Carving a special signature on the airwaves
Like a child’s marking pen
Bold and indelible.

Some may have felt her eagerness like a machete
Slicing through their jungle of possibilities
But that is often the case with one so bright and curious.
No comparison really.
Things come and go as they are meant to be.
 
Things were easier then
Or so they seemed.
Things have changed now
And not merely through the inevitable march of seasons
That is too obvious.
Things have re-arranged themselves
The space displayed in a different manner,
The levels surprising and wonderful.
Some things replaced,  re-arranged,
Others found secretly in their place
That this can happen, can still happen, is miraculous,indeed,
Life-affirming.
The flair not tamed, only deepend in hues
Not  complacent, but a ripening of meaning.
The unhandy gracefullness, like a foal struggling first to stand 
Legs splayed, gravity tested,
Transforms into the majestical being 
Magnificent and intense that can listen to the birds song 
As intently as a child searching for its mothers voice. 

 
MAGICAL THINKING
Magical thinking takes the I out of actions
removes the responsibility of consequences
as if things preordained, fated, really exist
and there is no choice but to respond and 
act a pawn in some chaotic master plan.
 
Questioning is necessary to build character
Answers clarify definition.
Unanswered questions, over time,
are an avoidance , slothful and lazy.
Quickly answered questions 
without rumination and careful consideration , slothful and lazy .

Silence is  an answer.
Silence is an action.
Non-action is an action
Not knowing is an answer.
Actions can be questions and answers. 
And further questioned.
Questions can be answers
and can have more than one answer. 
Answers can be questions.
Answers can be changed, and challenged 
 
Listening and hearing.
Hearing is passive and does not require much thought.
One hears noise and music alike
They wash over you and demand little involvement
Listening is active and implies some sort of recognition
and  subtle movement within. 


 
JUNE 4
We almost died up there on the pass.
I thought about pushing you, 
forcefully  and ruthlessly, into that gaping ravine.
I could see in you visualizing my thick inheritance .
I heard the plaintive cries and the twisted screams of vultures above.
 
We woke up next to one another instead
as if from a long sweaty sleep,
The  kind full of hallucinations and delirium.
The sky embraced us.
The horizon, a circle above our heads 
and our hearts beating gently  like  wingless birds.
 
It wasn’t such a long time ago that this all began
and yet kilometers  traveled  to get back here,
through thickets and brambles and undergrowth,
A veritable jungle of emotions,
through an inconsolable wasteland.
The  path is not clearly demarcated, there is no map.
One can easily get lost in this minotour’s maze.
What appears etched on the inside of the heart,
dreams and hopes and desires,
These are the  signposts of life
leading  to a paradise most lovely and sublime.
 
On the  other side, the loud punctuating tones
Ringing powerful and true
Make it difficult, this.
Can  comparisons be made between  thought and feeling?
This is a world  not without danger,
Yet the challenge is to keep the intent pure and good,
Guiding the way to that most eloquent garden
is an occasion like no other.


DEPARTURE
Each time he leaves there’s a trace of him left.
An echo resounding across the hills and valleys of her soul.
His tender touch leaves an imprint on her smooth skin
an invisible indentation that is perceptible only to her, 
like a sweet aftertaste in the mouth 
and  desire  a solitary thing.
His departure  leaves outlines of his once- presence  like a stop action image
notating the choreography of his exit, silent and swift
and etched into the negative space of her memory.
 
The distance,  bitter and sweet  
with the anticipation of what the longed-for return might hold,
a union of like souls, 
and the terrible uncertainty with the realization that he is gone
and the return, 
a silent return
to  an unknown world.
 
Patience is a virtue, they say,
and  the trust that is then bestowed, a tender and pure gift, 
which is  fragile.
There lies the beauty and the pain.
The  utmost desire to give,
and the sense of peace to just be able to sit 
and revel in the thoughts of another, without fear
is a noble goal ,but  difficult.

Therefore one must collect all the treasured moments, 
of shared thoughts and recollections;
a pandora’s box full of memories and longings,
and place them prominently in one’s secret hope chest, interior and contained.
This is where faith and destiny dwell.
These are the elements of a beautiful story to be told 
when all else seems illusionary
These  treasured moments  now  themselves things of the past and a part of the  distance 
carry their own powerful and eternal reverberations
in the indelible network of the shared experience.
They are the golden rays that connect , 
and they hold the  simple belief that the just and deserved reward
will be  bestowed upon the pure of heart.
This, one must believe in, for this is the path of true love.

CLASS
It is easy to recognize class, not in the hierachical sense, but a classy human being, one who with
his or her graceful demeanor and attention to detail  take the human experience a step forward. You can see it in the care they take with people, a gentleness and willingness to make things right, not just for themselves. It is sympathy, it is empathy, it is integrity, it is kindness.
 
Most often one comes across lack of class: boorish, self-centered people. The ones who go through life as if they are on motorcyles, not only disturbing the delicate balance of the sound barrier, but emit noxious fumes that others must breathe,  and drive too fast and never see the carnage along the side of the road. 
 
Take my neighbor for instance. He operates in a world of his own creation with  a sense of entitlement, buzzing through life in his  black and red striped motorcycle jacket.  Tight fitting and shiny leather,  with a matching motorcycle.  From these big open windows I have  seen him tear down the street . It is quite a sight, a color-coordinated concept, a sad couple at a square dance convention,  man and motorcycle, sashaying around as if everyone was looking. They are looking all right, at a member of the master race of cruelty, with that  swagger and hooded eyes that peruse every opportunity to see what is there to take, and then discard.  He tears around the corners of life as if the world owes him homage.  Get out of his way, or he will run you over and not look back. 
 
He ran me over time and time again, until it was obvious I had to get out of the way, except that purr of the motor kept seducing me to stick my head out from behind the corner there, just to wave-just  in time to have my head ripped off my shoulders, again.
The emergency room in the local hospital has a permanent file on me.
 
When the sun starts to shine, these class-less folks think the sun shines for them, so much so that that is all they can talk about. That is safe, when in a bind, talk about the weather, and  they march about, guts hanging out, hair stringy, a musty smell about them, the smell of  shell-like houses. closed and cramped and full of stale air.  They do not  open their windows, as that would be let the world in.  Nor do they close them as that would imply something is going on. They live in private domains, they have secret treasures, where they make the rules and justify all actions. 
 
Once I had the misfortune of knocking on his door and he would not let me in. He stood there and laughed and told me to get a philosophy.  I didn’t quite understand that one, but it was humiliating, the way he ridiculed me and called me pathetic, and all I wanted to do was to hand him some mail that had been wrongly delivered. 
I could see the row of motorcycle coats all lined up like an army standing at attention.
 
Then there is the other neighbor; the neighbor on the other side is classy. When you come across class, it is easy to recognize because it is like a fresh soothing breeze. There is simply an unstated condition of  care that permeates every action. The hand  extended in need, without hesitation, without question, reserved, perhaps, in a polite way, but the feeling is there, regardless. What is at first noticeable is that this neighbor smiles, and  the eyes flash with kindness. Funny how important that is, and how very easy. Anyway, once I was in such despair and wailing with fear that this neighbor came and said that everything would be all right.  That is all, very simple. May be he was in a hurry, maybe he had other things on his mind, but for that one moment, he was there. THAT was nice.
 
But the others, more abundant than you’d ever imagine, learn to recognize them quickly.  Memorize the tone of their voice, do not be taken in by polished exteriors. Everything corrodes from within.  No amount of polishing the exterior will soften the heart. You get the hell out of their way, because they will run you over, plow  right through you. Call the cops , get them out of your house, do not invite them in, and if you do,  do not invite them back. 

 
ANTS IN MY KITCHEN
A balmy day will bring the bugs
 and the insects
 I’m afraid
 
A windy day brings cinders
and falling leaves
dead and rotting
 
A hot day
brings tired smelly feet
and people complaining
 
I have ants in my kitchen
how far did they travel to get here? 

 
CONDITIONAL STORY
 I could see them through the window. They  might have been so animated that it could have been a heated argument they were having, or it could have been a party. He could have had on the shirt  that I bought him last christmas but I couldn’t see as clearly as I could have had the curtains not been partially drawn. She could have been smiling at him the way she cocked her head and threw back her hair, but then the sky grew suddenly very dark and ominous, a cloud could have passed over the sun and drawn in all the merriment. I just couldn’t tell . I just couldn’t see clearly.
 
If I could go tomorrow I would,  and then it would probably be better if I could speak to him first.
If we could avoid this  it could make a difference. but I could phone him now, and she could answer. I could knock on the door, but she could open the door, or perhaps they couldn’t hear the sound through their own involvement. 
I could still hear how the door resonates, hollow and resounding when it opens and shuts- first a prolonged squeak as the hinges swing open and a gusty draft as the door opens invitingly. Then a pounding thud, a blow to the solar plexus of the door frame as the door shuts them in, and shuts me out. We could have fixed that squeak, a little oil could have done it. It could have been our salvation, funny, such a little thing like that. It could have been that we just needed a bit of oil and the door frame transformed into a warm and sensuous arbor.  The lock on the front door could have just been rusty and that is why my key couldn’t turn  in the lock anymore..
 
He could have told me about her.   We could have gotten through all this, but instead he couldn’t remember that he had promised that we would be together. He couldn’t remember all those times we spent laughing. I could remember. I could have helped him remember, but  by now he could have already  set the wheels in motion. I could have stopped him had I known. It could be too late now.
 
Long ago  I could feel free. Long ago I could still trust. Long ago I could still believe in love. Now he could just be gone, now he could just be with her. Now I could be the only one who remembers. Perhaps i could talk to him before its too late. 

 

A DAY IN OSDORP-HARDBALL FRENZY
 
The ladies were rounded up like eager cattle prancing around waving their green little flags. To the kitchen, to the kitchen, they bounded, their obligation worn around their necks like first place medals. They were met with red faces and hooded eyes as  they sashayed, or tried to waltz, even, their way past the utensils and plates to get to the percussion instruments, big drum-like -recepticles filled with who -knows-what? They were met with such a resistance, it  was  as if such a thing had never happened  before. Extra terrestial heifers had landed on the lonely kitchen planet. There was one that seemed to be in charge, at least she did the most smiling and chewing, and the others followed behind waiting their turn at the trough. Waiting around, standing in the corners for barked orders to cut, carry, lift, lug, slice, spread, drag, fold, and spin like tops around and around. I tried to make myself invisible, that seemed to make the most sense.  
 
Madame Caduceus, the secretary-heifer, was not present yet and they all seemed to cower at her name as if her slicing was holier than the rest.  In any event she apparently was the mistress of the yellow goop in the tub and seemed to hold the secret of how to pour it in.  In her absence they marched about in twos and threes with decisive purpose, marched about, marched about, first in, then out, then in again. That went on for quite awhile, I think you could call it participation but in the end it just seemed like endless useless dervish spinning.  Toes pointed and proud knees, high and mighty.  
 
The inner sanctum not really being ready for their frenzy, they decided 
en -masse that this was indeed the moment of  the important shuffle and sliding of the sacrificial altars.  
 “They should be here”, said one, choosing a cozy  corner away from the preying eyes and fingers, and immediately they set upon the task like hungry vultures.  
Drag and carry, drag and carry, drag and carry, three times the charm. It must be done.  All things in place and satisfied. The  yellow rubber runway replaced by a far more elegant puke green paper -mache miniature golf course. 
 
 “How lovely”, they said, satisfied.
 
A resounding “whoa ,whoa” is heard from high, “It isn’t  done so, it is  done SO”,  with fingers splayed out in all directions,  and a very ungraceful dance nearly began out of some oddly placed feeling of propriety and force of habit, and all the dragging and carrying  undone.  Thank god the whistle blew just in time and they all deflated  before it was too late.  Finally the original choreography in place after another bout of drag and carry,  something about checking the storage bins for the sacred planks which inconveniently were located right behind the placement of the altars, but they turned out to be the type that the holy trinity  used and were not to be touched by heathen heifer hands.  The spectre of Madame Caduceus seemed to carry a lot of clout. 
 
There was also a disappearing act involving table cloths, folded, arranged, folded again, arranged, folded again and so on and so on until they were finally found  unceremoniously lying in a heap on the floor like a puddle, replaced by  yet another miniature golf course, this one the length of an airport runway. 
 
The thrones were set in place , all 55 of them, that was the easy part, although  the marks on the floor might belie that.  
 
The inner sanctum began to call like vespers sung by a gregorian choir and cauldrons and kettles and potions laden and too abundant. appeared in the arms of the vestal heifer-virgins to be placed judiciously on the golf -course- cum- airport -runway .  There was some initial jockeying  about going on before they really got the hang of it, but eventually the ikebana  flower arrangement placed first  up high, “how lovely”, and then  back where it began, “also lovely”, but this time with a Real Purpose, other than pseudo -Japanese- Zen- aesthetic, met with guarded approval by the heifer-in-chief. 
 
 In the corner the decapitation of some nutritional vehicles, oh so terribly white, blindingly aryan and still frozen, had begun visciously and terribly. This was all done to prevent the primeval clawing and grunting that was to be expected by the invited masses decked out in their full  ritual regalia, feathers, clubs, shields and all: the real heathen with names of thieves and cuthroats,  bottom-feeding-birds, and magical mythical animals. Still the tub with the sick yellow goop, like an eye-sore, awaited the arrival of Madame Caduceus, she, in the know and uber alles, , a terrible reminder that even  an advanced degree in house -hold science means nothing when faced with the earth-shattering dilemma of pouring and mixing. 
 
There were a couple of serious mishaps., front page news, I’m afraid:The primary aryan vehicle, the volkswagen of breadsticks, the condoms for the donkey genitals, had to be rearranged for lack of anything better to do, and  the heaviest, fullest ,and clumsiest  edible mix, something foreign for sure, as it had at least more than one color,had to be transported three times in and out, in and out, in and out, a hilarious but back-bending parade, for a secret meeting in the inner sanctum looking for a translator,  and only finally reappearing with grandious permission (Madame Caduceus, I’m afraid) dressed in a whole different outfit as if that would make it more palatable, or at least, color co-ordinated. 
 
Finally the all important moment arrived  when without even a drum roll, (the volunteer heifers were never actually  allowed to get to the percussion instruments, they had no back stage passes) the yellow tub, upended in one fell swoop, yielded its offspring, without any pomp and circumstance, natural science never failing, and blended and swirled  naturally  to spawn thousands of blandly and unappetizingly colored children. A sacred spoon did the trick.  
 
The heathens  finally arrived, grunting and growling as expected,  and tore into everything with sharp and dull teeth. since everything on the sacrificial plates was more-or-less the exact same color. Meanwhile everyone,heifer and heathen alike ,took their little green flags and marched about in and out, in and out, in and out,  waving and applauding the magnificent profile of Madame Caduceus 

 
CORONA DREAMS
Outside
there is an invisible boundary
of no go
an unseen fence electrified by thought 
yes is no, maybe is no,  no is no.
here is only no never stop watch look out beware 
vigilant stares glares fingers pointing
lines drawn on the ground in the air around about through out
persistent ever- present all -encompassing never- ending
always present
lurking, lying in wait, malicious, dangerous
and yet unseen. 
hidden faces, eyes untrue masked intentions
hard to breath hard to hear hard to listen hard to feel
anything but the thought of persistent danger
time passes and nothing changes except  possibilities that are yet to be seen
and believed
yes is no maybe is no no is no
no is no
 
Inside
A felt presence of beauty  once held in the hand
thoughts of shared space
soothing breathe and soft caress
invisible 
but truly sensed uplifting and lusciously awe-inspiring.
a prayer of thought full of life and hope of future
that sustains and entrances
surrounds and protects
A community of now and today and tomorrow and beyond
a ribbon of sound and breath that gently connects in a harmony of yes
yes is yes yes is yes yes is yes .

 
A  DREAM
You have to go over now
the bridge is there before you 
high and narrow and swaying with weight.
Have you felt that before? 
When the rope beneath you starts to swing violently and uncontrollably 
because you just can’t get your weight  down beneath you?
The knees feel the trepidation to take even one step, 
and that essential quivering belies an existential question of , 
to step or not to step-but step you must.

They are all waiting 
and They are getting impatient and restless
and violent  even.
A long line of Them with big bones, 
and a blonde hand on the shoulder pushes you forward.
 
Your explanation that follows is very clear 
with motions of the arms and hands that illustrate the span above  and the abyss below. 
The narrowness of it all and the great height and the fear, especially the fear.
It is hard to cross that bridge, 
unhinged from  within a dark secret place  and the feeling of unsteadiness, 
the first true sensation of a need for great change, 
of finally taking upon oneself to cross to the other side.
Like a spark,  propelled forward,
a rocket lurching into the unknown and...

All those people standing in the line with expectations do not help!!!
 
Across the grand divide, a bit of a geographical anomaly, but never mind, so is it with imagination, and grand is-
The fear riding on your  back like a second skin.
With  decisive suddenness the you of you is safe  across, 
fears conquered.
Breathing deep, a passion of survival  deeply felt, 
safety in front, danger behind.
The rush of flesh en-masse, pink-skinned and red-cheeked,
Weight pushing forward and down 
A snap and collapse, a fall, free form and spectacular, into the ravine, 
like flames of pentecostal tongue
One can hear the screams,  cries for help.
A pleading choir of need.
 
I guess it is the sense of responsibility that first is called upon,
an inherent instinct, 
a young boy, hero in his own fantasy.
In the corner of the eye, just behind the retina,
a flash of blue, or is that coded color,
or just an attractive wave and
lingering scent that distracts 
and impedes honorable action.
And so it is with good intentions.
The you of you, overrides the us, the we, the them, the they,
and ordinary frivolity wins again. 
 
OLD WORLD GIVES AWAY
The contours of the landscape barren at this time of the year
bear the unspoken promise  of rejuvenation.
The green land lush and wet carries a secret that is revealed 
with each tender bud that emerges in spring.
Each step sinks down to an entangled underworld of new growth.
 
Tendrils snarled and limbs encrusted with the mould of the bygone year
in an attempt to stay frozen in past hopes and dreams,
to suffocate the onward forward march of new growth
which does not succeed. it never succeeds.
 
Only the total collapse , 
and the disintegration of the old world way,
rituals with forgotten rules  memorized
to mark the fact that things have indeed changed.

 
WORTHY WINGS OF HUMANITY
Do you remember
when time went quietly
and a thoughtful gaze?
 
Do you remember 
when  simple things 
were the future,  a noticed moment,  
stilled time 
and a wistful glance?
 
We make our own futures 
We  tread at our own risk.
We arrive through  mistakes 
intentions, trial and error
which makes the final destination
not always what we predicted.
 
Listen to the murmur of ancient and future voices.
These things last a lifetime,
worthiness, humanity, good will, and grace.
Take the broken wings of human kind and place them
carefully, just here 
the fresh wind above and currents below
To soar and glide , and soar and glide. 

 
STILL LIFE
The harsh concrete block, 
an unsurmountable wall 
impossible to see over.
An infinite thickness 
impassable.
Paradise is just there behind
straining to see a complete waste of time.
The blackness so complete and unthinkable
It  is  not possible to scale this wall. 

The body like  a  petrified tree  frozen in movement
the emotions stiff. 
A grimace in time.
The movements hardened  in paralyzed gestures.
No fluid spine reaching  in two directions. 
roots grounded in the viscous mire  
and the stretched out limbs like gnarled  arthritic fingers.
A tangle of knots. 
A massive fist raised high in the sky, 
defiant yet sadly ineffectual
convoluted and pathetic.
 
Mouth open, no sound, 
not one.
Sounds  stiffened and swallowed into 
an absence of expression.
Out of this pain comes only silence,
beyond grief, beyond mourning.
That would be a relief.
This is far more tortuous.
There is no escape,
 only annihilation.
 
The depth of feeling now contained 
 has no counterpart in the waking world
 manifested  in  the wrenching of guts
 internal organs splayed out 
 for the birds of prey to feast on 
 leaving an unbelievable emptiness 
 of denial, dismissal, and profound distance.
 
 There is no way back from here.
 There are no  more sign posts. 
 There is no secret code.
 The warm color code, the designated appeaser 
 disgusting in its emptiness of feeling.
 Too easily dispensed
 like a daily chore completed
 superficially and post haste. 
 
NO STOP
 If i could stop this, I would
but I keep getting encouragement from all sort of  birds 
outside peering in as they sing 
They warble and twitter their full support.

The ants brought back from Portugal
are busy multiplying on the dictionary 
leaving little markers here and there by words
they find particularly evocative or fitting.

The  feline monsters getting bigger and more complacent
have taken to sitting on guard, in turns, 
and watching with their steady green eyes 
never wavering,
despite an obvious struggle with a turn of a phrase 
or a particularly gory detail.

The dark tortured twisting
solitary and melancholic.
Face, paler, and eyes darker, gothic even.
Fingers retracting slowly into the wrists
Lips parched and cracked
I  get compliments on my appearance.
This  seems to be the height of fashion.
 
The phone starts to ring 
People I don’t even know find me fascinating
I am confounded.
The supreme struggle  to delve inside one’s silent being 
to the very depths 
and find the correct  way 
to express what lives in the feeling realm
to touch with words those most sacred thoughts.
Perhaps there are no words fitting.

All these words go into a deep dark unknown hole
but still I receive
encouragement.
Sign posts on the street say, 
go, green light, keep on, let it flow, yield, straight ahead. 
Books fall open to inspirational pages,
with quotes underlined.
Friends and mentors smile encouragingly 
and eagerly await my latest missive.
I am mystified.
My reference book seems to indicate the
beginning of a clear case
of a masochistic-narcissistic co-dependency
but even that seems to hold interest.
The birds, the ants, the cats, 
strangers and friends alike are more attentive it seems.
There must be a conspiracy here.