Stones of quietude sinking silently slow through silky dark water to bottom of pond.
Settle into little nest of silty mud layer after layer collecting slowly baking critters and plants into
So it is with some of my thoughts and habits sinking like stones then rising to the surface now
and then rocketing into space all anti-gravity multi-dimensional and free.
Soaked wet foggy chilly rainy day. What a relief after 1,000 days of sunshine and 100 degrees.
O.k. I exaggerate. . . but, I only exaggerate the facts. My nervous system reports what it remembers,
usually hyperbolic and highly inaccurate, but, what’s the point?
The point is. Ahhhhh.
Ahhh. Deep breath of cool moist air and sounds of gentle percussion water falling off things
dripping after rain has stopped. Ahh. Another stone drifting down through sweet dark water
preposterous snowflakes of restitution.
snowflakes of many wheeled concerns.
snowflakes of horses running through burning barns.
collections of snowflakes hiding
inside Faberge eggs
snowflakes melting with abandon and bliss
the moment they land on the top of a wave
in the ocean.
snowflakes of peacocks worrying themselves
like supermodels rushing to meet fleeting rock stars through
the leggy streets of new york.
snowflakes of passion and amber.
snowflakes born from fire dancing up through chimney
to imitate stars and fireflies.
snowflakes beating their heads against the prison walls
wanting to take away all the pain
from every prisoner . . . for however long
snowflakes swirling in the heart, like in a snow-globe,
resting then swirling, resting then swirling,
ever re-newing joy.
fire to the bowl of cherries
glowing like cinders of life––
new tastes, and new tastebuds––
a ritual of saying good-bye
to old flavors.
fire in the bowl of the brain pan,
a forest fire of neurons,
chemical volcanos sending messages,
and meanings––the brain––
like a saturated gooey sponge
containing the universe, and
love and fear, and transcendence––
maybe tickets to other dimensions.
fire in the bowl of the pipe
that alters the whole fabric of reality––creates,
or uncovers a different brain––when the smoke hits,
but it’s been a long time since I visited that
ever changing carnival.
fire in the hope of the heart,
for nothing specific except heat,
and glowing aliveness while alive, and
courage when faced with the transition, or
transformation, or end.
but there is something about a butterfly
that makes me dream.
variables of sunrise
there. where you pierce the sky.
where the sky pierces you.
where the channel is opened.
People assert and deny all sorts of
thoughts, beliefs, assumptions––
I’ve never seen or heard of a person
who didn’t look up at the stars at night
and get the wind knocked out of them.
No one can deny the sky is there––
unless they were raised in a windowless basement,
and had never been outside, but I’ll bet there is
something inside their chest that
has a sense of the sky.
But why think of extreme exceptions?
There’s the sky.
Who is going to doubt it?
Who is going to argue about its existence?
Who is going to claim to know where it ends,
or how it got there?
The sun will come up in the morning––
not many people question that––
they have to be someplace by nine.
All that traffic. All the commotion.
While the stars hide
behind the light of the sun and watch us
in their roaring silence––
How could we not look like children––
like children playing at being grown-ups––
Our sun has been alive for five billion years,
and will live another five billion years.
We might live about 100 years, tops.
The sun and the stars try to teach us what they can,
in those few moments––when they can
get our attention.
Sleep in the crimson velvet
in the river of memory.
Sleep in a cartoon shape
among rumpled surfaces.
Sleep with clothes still on
disjointed and flummoxed
on the couch.
Sleep is not as she was,
she went off into the distance,
and I want to walk through the forest to find her,
and invite her back home, with candles and gentleness,
with loving preparation, and meditation, and gentle
as the day fades away.
I was not ready for sleep to leave,
but I was ignoring her, I’ll admit,
I did not even know she was gone,
until long after.
I want to apologize
for taking her for granted,
for falling into her whenever, however,
as if it did not matter.
Oh, how I long to be held by her
tender, loving arms,
Forever in another dress
or wearing a jacket like the grave
digging a clock with no hands
from the memory of a snowflake.
god with a little “g” for now so early in the morning…
want to leave god with a big “G” on top of the mountain for now…
god with little g feels friendly… god with big G feels old testament cecil b. demille judgement coming.
actually, god is God and God is god––it’s just my brain trying to manage.
um… well, I suppose no need to explain really even if I could.
god rides horses through my living room.
god is the cowboys and god is the indians
and when they chase each other then god is chasing god––
stirring up the energies of the cosmos and earth like how I get all wound up
playing backgammon or chess,
or the way football players seem to be the armies of mount olympus.
sending thrunder bolts and wrecking havoc and living like giants and gods themselves in valhalla
with riches and victories and tragedies. . . .so we can live through them and forget for a moment
the miniscule dimensions of our puny gone-before-you-know-it, here’s-your-hat-what’s-your-hurry lives.
why say our when I mean my life.
why say we when I mean me.
why say you when I mean me.
I assume it is habit of an endless sort of jumping out of my skin
or trying to dodge the bullet
or make a connection or invite someone into my thoughts or
god––I wouldn’t think––I don’t feel like god would want me to feel guilty––
about, uh, not following, a path that, try as I might––just doesn’t fit me.
god in the pumpkin
god in the shit
god in the blood
god in the vomit
god in the fever
god in the fire
god in the prayers
god in desire.
Why don’t they put god on a coin?
Why don’t they put god on a hundred dollar bill?
Then, that hundred dollar bill would only be used for good––
who could snort a line of cocaine with a hundred dollar bill infused with, and radiating, the
healing blissful love of the universe?
who could buy a hooker for the evening (nothing against hookers or those who give them money, it’s
just that neither party is likely to find the love or sustanence in the exchange that they wish to recieve,
although, who knows…), or, who could buy a hand gun or a bomb with the sense of abundance
and forgiveness and understanding and the pure-love-with-no-selfish-motives flowing through
your veins (awkward sentence)(but that’s o.k. with me)(for now anyway)(so there).
If god were on the money
and magically transmitted peace, would free will still exist?
Does free will require some of us to act out in ridiculous ways and do self-destructive and
other-destructive things to test the depths and limits of darkness and pain?
And what can that knowledge buy us except the certainty of it’s illusion and the desire for a god of
endless love and gentle forgiveness and gratitude in overwhelming measure to shine from us all for
no reason at all exept waht it is, in and of itself, as god and only god in all.
god is in the pudding
god is in the shark
god is in the trunk of my car
god is in the dark
can you believe even the air
is so full of atoms and molecules?
maybe I’m sleepy maybe I’m sick
maybe I wish something were different
but can’t make it stick.
Is it up to god? Or up to me?
It seems to me, to be up to God.
But we shall see. (or not).
That’s the mystery.
all I can say to god is thank you.
when I dissolve.
let it be a graceful way of dancing.
to music of the circles, music
of the spheres, music played by angels,
for invisible ears.
desire if a fire that burns all it eats,
attacks when it is in retreat.
desire is a tightrope wire
stretched across the abyss of
desire is a fragrance
so damaged by the rain
it has gone insane
straight to the gutter
where it learns it’s true name
and rises again.
desire is a longing
for something pure and complete,
like a circle or an expanse of
freshly fallen snow.
desire is a danger,
a temptation to consume everything,
even yourself, at the expense of your self,
like the furnace inside every star––and what else
can you do if you are alive.
desire is a pine cone in the center
of your brain sending visions as sure as
if they were standing right there.
desire is a panther, patient and sure––
it will pounce and I’ll be grateful
to have tasted its fury
before I throw down my cards
(monday morning pep talk from my coffee cup)
alive again, so surprising, I can’t remember. . .
were there others? does it matter? maybe not,
here I am and here goes the planet, spinning again,
a wobble, a tilt, a bit askew, like a beret,
sorta jazzy, it’s got the rhythm, its got the roll
of the ocean, like a jelly roll, all shimmy and shake,
rhythms of heart beat bounce off planet into sky,
rhythm of planet like big bass drum keeps it alive,
roll with the flow of the wobble spin, and again and
again, what goes out comes in, what comes in, goes out…
make me wanna shout.. sometimes… but I am so civilized…
make me wanna jump for joy at random… but I might explode…
gotta sing it or say it or pound on something round… gonna fly…
don’t matter how, I gotta take it all the way every time…
alive… how’d it happen… here I am… no escaping… alive… oh alive…
oh the confusion… oh the decisions… oh that aching nagging voice
in my noggin always joggin from sun up ’til it’s final demise… just blow
the horn, plug in the ax, let it wail in some mad dance, like Benny Goodman
Sing Sing Sing baby right there, nothing less, from the
inside out, be the supernova that brung you here,