Showing posts from 2010


trees have stripped naked again,
scandalous bark like hard nipples;
seeing for miles:
there's no where to go.

Cover Story

To study the multifarious strokes
of southerly wind on bronzed, oily skin,
to spend our time better, abiding
in the in-between, noting the finite
of infinite - the things right in front of our face,
we fail to notice everyday,
sitting in graying hues of black porous dirt,
bathing in the shallow orange of ageing September rays; it's
being spun like a cobwebbed earth, indiscriminately
catching all the comes its way: Today, like all the rest,
there's a mysterious twitch in the accelerating strings of time,
river smells of midafternoon spewing off
from the sputtering clouds; and a silence
in its whitish stroke, finally slowing the hasty universe down;
it's soothing, like wooden flute notes in our ears,
a calming ripple through the gravity that holds us all in place.
Get closer, and you'll see all amazing intricacies,
the earth, just shifting over slightly,
not even close to several degrees.

Jim from Jersey, I Hope the Falls Were Great; I Hope You're OK

We departed dark basement gate 16 to Syracuse
from the mess of New York's port authority terminal.
All was silent as,
everyone was OK with
letting loquacious Jersey traffic do the talking for awhile.

as we bumped and raged along, showing
no mercy for potholes or lane-changing-horns,
mouths began to move, and short
words began to form. The sun

was just scattered modes of light
on the tired PA trees, when
Jim from Jersey, sitting slightly behind
and across the isle, began to talk to me.

We quickly agreed that the Mayans
were masters of the stars, kings
of celestial bodies, resting
in astronomical intricacies.

We agreed that they weren't profits;
and it was just by some sick twist of fate
that the world is ending so close
to such an infamous, arbitrary date.

We agreed that life is crude
and that, if we could,
we'd make god
fuck the asshole of the moon.

And as the bus filled up with chatter,
and weary sleepers waking up,
we hit a dubious bump in the road
that sent th…

A Damning Calm (Nature's Rendition)

Harking laughter and tiny voices across the street
fill the air;
as carefree free as they are,
tomorrow isn't even a pebbled thought away.
Here, there's only a slinking string of time
and space, with crickets
fighting for the darkest deva sound; it's
in-betweens it all that there's a great...
pause - the leaves
forced upside down, the grasses
to be part of wilted vindication,
and all the birds coming back from the edge of dangerous
sleep deprivation. Yet one noise,
transcends it all: a hissing, damning calm,
saying: "It really shouldn't be that long now."

Good Morning Old Man

As old men in our mid-twenties,
let's be rebellious,
let's stay up past ten,
let's put down the good ol' book
we can't get away from,
and denounce sleepy eyes.

We'll give it up to
reading outside
the lines of our
circumpolar stars,
page-fold the space
and hold it out 'til dawn.

Don't breathe here!
Just wait...
for the august
of another sunrise.

A Tantric Touch in the Astral

We were amazing beyond worldly definition,
cosmic rivers of suffering
settling as oceans of desire in pitted bellies.

It was tempting waves,
an alcoholic thought of reverie calling on us,
two polar opposites as tides,
as separated light that blinds.
We drank from each other
then bathed until our souls caught fire,
our consciousness momentarily becoming one.

Shirtless, we glowed;
our essence: a raging silence that deafened,
a home of impermanence escaping the world.
We set fire to the mirage
and ideas separate of ourselves.

We fell asleep on warm concrete pillows;
transcending compassionate form,
it was OK to say goodbye to the dream, OK
to awake to the fading imperfection of the loving
Yasodhara and Siddhartha we'd become.

Watering a Seed (borrowing from great enlightened minds)

Restless mind, just listen,
like you know no better:
the days aren't days,
or minutes that are fragmented
seconds of the infinite.

It's a suchness of life not separate,
a song that pervades us in all directions,
yet only touches us when we're carefully sober,
not praying for sun or rain, nobly
resting unattached in a middle way.

Why not oblige the stillness?

Everything else has been wonderfully set in motion
We have nothing to do
But to not have something to do.

It's only when we sit still that we feel;
we are truly being moved.

Wholly, You, the Earth & I

If I squint hard enough, the snow storms outside
appear as a dust-bowl in your eyes - dry
and thirsty for the taking. It's
a comprise,
we'll accommodate each other in great
stretch of middle ground, arms
drawn for what still lies inside:
My half
your half as
we become whole.