Alone (Schooltown Downtown)


ALONE (SCHOOLTOWN, DOWNTOWN)
Lying in bed with the sound of rain on a tin rooftop,
space heater churning blue flame and little heat,
the sour smell of night sweats on a paisley bathrobe,
Chopin nocturnes escorting Night into her bedchamber.
Dawn sleepily moves across the landscape, and with this
the day breaks upon the city, day breaks upon the already
melting snows. Blue sky and cardinals, green pines shrugging
the cracked ice off, and bend, bend, bend, creaking,
seems it’s me not the trees creaking, leaning towards
the kitchen and all the ways of waking that are waiting there.
Funny, the way the voice shakes in a hushed stage whisper
as it moves in pitch towards the bellow and shout,
towards the un-muffled, the hallelujah yeah that says
this is the moment: a place I’d like to stay.
Step outside on the warped pine front porch, well, well,
the eyes start to focus through espresso steam
and Camel smoke,
and it seems out here all the roads connect
on a downtown trek that’s ever and always leading somewhere,
and I look and look and look at the streak of wires
suspended and swaying beneath the weight of winter winds,
they too are going and they’re not coming here…
And for this minute the dawn tastes good, it tastes like life.
Yellow sun rests on the wet roofs and lawns, gleaming, awake.
A car door slams, a car shifts gears and slides to a stop,
a car rushes round the curve and hill, sounds a whole lot
like late for work and I’m glad I’m not, then a truck rumbles,
a train howls and grinds, screams through birdsong
and soft morning thought, and reawakens the knowing
that commerce has no home or heart, it just roars,
tears down wall and reconstructs, full throttle, full throated.
These are the sounds when the city wakes up, with sounds
like this, with iron gates crashing. Sleeping,
the beast is beautiful with it’s neon crown,
it’s candent towers, fuzzy halo and steady hum. And then,
the city wakes up with all the subtlety,
vulgarity and calm of Moloch rising after the feast.

Content And Context Breaks Apart, Comes Together


CONTENT AND CONTEXT BREAKS APART, COMES TOGETHER

1 (the journey)
A better song, a deeper majesty, something about a place,
the temperature, a thing unrelinquished…
the open hand waving by the side of the road
where the line between corn and simplicity is really,
really thin, but you take the gesture as it is,
as it is, you wave back and drive on, on road, on stereo,
on still toward the place that’s humming in your throat,
somewhere here to the side of the hill…
somewhere here where it all comes together….

2 (the metaphor)
Falcon struggles and falls into the water, fins splash,
seconds later the water breaks, tiny waves,
the scream, a bit of justice. Watch, wait and cast,
thrashing, coax a rainbow in on a weakened tapered line
with a tied stone fly. Storm comes in off the flats
of Charleston Harbor, boat runs out of gas,
drop a favorite fly rod into the water. Let it go.
Ozone cracks across the bow, phosphorous glows on your
fingertips, gets a little choppy, get a little scared,
pause long enough to smell the mud on the water,
fermented, primordial, the earth blows across the water,
and when you pause long enough…
the breath of God moves across the face of the waters.

3 (storms rise, the past lets go)
Back home, Son House flails away on a National Steel Guitar
about a death letter come this morning to the door.
Do the same: Keep checking, keep checking the road,
do a little mock cross, Hey thanks, mailbox snaps shut,
no magazine, no visitors knock, no telephone ring.
Day dreaming, gazing out the bedroom window:
Cool breezes warm and the leaves turn over,
startled thrashers rise to the sudden thunder,
they know the look of a coming rain storm; and me,
contemplating blue curtains and wilted flowers,
I see the sense of being, but just can’t feel it.
There’s no need to name, the words are all used up,
prose locked in reflections, in the currents of my past,
still trying to break away, and then…yellow sky to green,
and then the world drops away, tornado hits the marshes,
the weather brings me home, and I know right now
that some things must change, yeah,
and there it is, a death letter standing at the door.
And this time around I refuse to answer.

4 (baptism)
She saw constellations. The sky was good.
Pink hearts…Hello moon, and the stars would swirl.
Sheet lightning in the East, bright, bright flash,
then the winds: Gale winds storming over rounded hills
pulling a hot shroud over hunt poised Orion,
and the clouds rolled over on their dark, full sides,
and the rains did fall; and she kneels by the river,
skips a piece of slate across the rippling Oconee…
Alone, she watches and feels, feels the stones flight,
feels the river and the rain, and says good bye,
good bye to all the loss in a night that found itself.
Uuummm May, volatile, seductive, all sparkle and kiss.
Wisteria heavy air clinging to her damp hair,
she shakes it back and sings shower songs, stops,
sings Ave Verum Corpus and knows that tonight
she felt the soul as though all things were beginning.



5 (encounter and awakening)
Wind slows down and an immaculate moment
now romances…everything. Hey, it’s the first of May,
wash my face in dew, here’s the cat-like light begging
to be scratched, and here I am with sunset eyes,
she and I in a mass of shadows just falling away.
Through a Baudelarian gothic hour into this night
I cross the hearts knife and open to this I, this she.

She blows kisses to the past and then to me.
River road stands warm, water gurgles “Summertime.”
And I forget the flatted third, chromatic slide chords,
I forget what it was that drug me down before.
OK, so I obsess on the past…Let it go. She is here.
Her midnight hair glows. I let go the broken loves. Try.
Now….it’s not just this, wish it was, wish it wasn’t…
Now…she glows…wish it wasn’t so Romantic….so more than her…
so hard to go on, but I do: Easy. Yeah? It’s not.
Silence and the blues are smooth, so is she, and we touch…Now.

Every Now and Then a Silence Is Just Too Much A Thing As Is


Every Now and Then a Silence Is Just Too Much A Thing As Is
A blank space,
peels of parsnip and carrot skin
in pretty curls on stainless steel,
all it takes is to breeze on by in col de sac winds,
preferring nothing spoken over
death grip of hateful masses,
smell not to rage but to taste,
so take it all out
on vegetables and dried tofu,
tamarind powder
and buckwheat ramen noodles
sprayed with walnut and wasabi oil,
a touch of sweet orange water,
and the mediation table waits,
Oh! and Dr. Seuss shaped bowls,
black chopsticks to pull it all in
to celebrate the rains of Spring,
enjoy the cool nights until light,
and be glad for what’s to come
maybe big vision, perhaps events?
of pampered lives no way!
not dead
but I have ridden Death’s coach
to neighborhoods end and woods beginning,
talked across the prairie
to be again with wonder
watching and breathing the mighty Pacific,
and turn around,
turn back into the Mississippi River,
hold my breath border to border
across Alabama till I smell pecan groves
and rich fields of land
live oaks brimming with Spanish moss
and curious, hungry fat raccoons,
bordering the Okeefenokee
and pouring out the highway
here to Buford, Georgia
where a neighbors rooster wakes
me throughout the day
and this circle of street becomes
a gift of light, of green meadow
and hardwood groves, hardwood forest,
where by the barb wire
I sit and watch the tall grass bend
and whisper in gossipy low tones
that to pause and meditate, ‘
to give in and consider
this moment is more
than a passage of clocks fascinated
by how things change;
here the grumble and croak
of cicadas and low flying planes.
Pass me the Sencha tea
whose leaves so electric bright green
seems unnatural in its naturalness
or pass on by, really, just
pass on by singing Isaac Hays
and pretending
to believe in having never known
the scenes idolized
are those best by being felt as best.
As being as the best I can.
Be.

TOUCH 2020


TOUCH REVISITED

Highlights in the high room,
a foyer by some, but just tall by me.
Single tracks stream through
silken dust galaxies;
they swirl into these rains,
new rains beyond, but just enough
out upon this new green meadow,
this into, this-as, this being there,
it is the spirit of Love, Beloved,
here leaving new dark corridors,
seamless tunnel rising, driving,
a long passage without sides
which we may reach into, yes,
yet feeling slow warmth,
only air.
it’s only air.

Hanged Man (3rd version based on “King and” or “Arms of Mammon”


[note: Read slowly, forceful, accent on consonants]

Hanged Man

Vanity towers bury bonds
Calls friendship an illusion
A way to shelter for self grandeur
These ash washed grave robbers
Worship sincerity in gray mirrors
The reflection is a liar god
Do not breath same air as they
Who live as one cluster
Defy the shallow knave of swords
False heart, vision cannibal
Moments, like some earth of the dead.
Sell what cannot be sold?
You are true, of heart and soul, Run!
Rise up and remove from those who beguile
There is no ruler only those who are ruled.

Morality in the Neo Fascist Anti-Constitution American Dictatorship


AS WE BECOME SUBJECT TO NEO FASCIST AMERICA WITH ENTIRELY NEW RULES OF ANTI-ETHICS AND ANTI-CONSTITUTION AND ANTI-GOD, ANTI-MORALITY, CAN I BE A MAN OF FAITH AND CONTEMPLATION, OF HOPE AND LOVE, AND STILL BE AN AMERICAN?

This is one of those things I will delete or hide from timeline in this day or next. After enough writing and thought I ought to reach a satisfactory point of exploring this in a lighter and even deeper content of my soul. If I do maybe I can speak more wisely on the subject, but as things go this is a form of revolutionary thought and action. Point at me and tell your children do not be like him.

Any pronoun can be used, be it I, me, you, her, him, she, he, it, us, them, one or ours, is perfectly applicable to what I write. This Is not just about “I” or “me”. This is an important point as key in an introduction: any pronoun can be used and I use the “I” as a means of expression that makes it more easily understood.

I do wish some kind of comment, but expect none. If there is one who is in search, who finds the life the saints both East and West. Who considers the lectures of the 5th and 11th Buddhas, and importantly the songs of Milarepa as well as the books of the Law, of the Prophets and the Apostles, then you are one with whom I am search of commerce, commerce being a wealth of mind, the exchange of words and life, of actions and meditation which looks and asks ‘how can I become a better person?’

Many times I have sinned against my soul by impatience. I meditate and sing to God as I exercise and lean towards gathering energy and wisdom of the cosmos as a way of helping with my tendency towards impatience when faced with corruption and injustice. Yes, I am flawed. I asked “what is patience?” Then I ask “what is the culmination of events which leads me to be impatient?” What goes beyond our desires and becomes a phantom, a being without shadow or definition? How can I go beyond the many folding veils of deceit and lie in order to feel safe in country and safe in mind?

Must I defy the words of Christ and of the Prophets and give into the current great Lie? Must I give up my beliefs, my ongoing understanding of how to unite Catholicism and Mahayana Buddhism in such a manner that the way of Peace, of Love, of Hope, Of Fatih, Of Compassion is corrupted by hate and misunderstanding?

Must I go against all that I believe and strive to communicate as this great Hope and Faith in the Godhead is daily faced with an American government which commands we go against Fatih and peace, and place hatred and violence in its place? Must I LIE to be a follower of the Trump doctrine of hate and violence, must I beat up journalists and reporters, must I condone slave labor and sex trafficking in order to get along with nations that do?
Must I be silent and just go along?

Thomas Merton, for whom I believe is in Gods grace and died being brought to Him as part of the heavenly host, was martyred by bad electricity while meeting with Buddhist leaders to discuss the ways of likeness, of how the philosophy of life to over come desires and free ourselves of suffering, who was anxious to demonstrate through action and writing that the Mahayana and Catholic Christian, Scripture, are more alike than they are unlike. The salvation does come through the sacrifice and the blood and water of the Crucified Son of God, and we do reach towards the commands of action and faith. I can read and meditate on God and the supernatural nature of Christ to the end of my days without becoming closer to God because of my isolation. I can meditate and think through the 8 Fold Path and the way as taught in the Sermon on the Mount which we know as being the deliverance of the Beatitudes to the world. This was revolutionary. It remains to be revolutionary.

If I am to live I Imitation of Christ I must keep changing how and what I do and think. I am always pulled back into the path either by reading the essays of our Popes and Saints, and blessed writers such as Scott Hahn and Thomas a Kempis. The Agony in the Garden is eloquently explored and detailed by Cardinal Ratzinger in such language that you can feel his hand guided by Archangel Gabriel and his love by Archangel Raphael in his magnificent and lush with holiness and grace book “Behold The Pierced One”. You cannot read this book without being changed.

The same but in different manner of composition and direct speech is found in the pamphlet by beloved and so meaningful to me, Saint Padre Pio of incorruptible body 62 years after his return to the house of the Heaven, “Agony In The Garden”. It is maybe 10 pages but in meaning is as long as my life. I read each in time connected and keep going back to read passages when I am afraid and lost.

In “Does It Matter”, a book on our relation to materiality by Alan Watts his five page chapter “Planting Seeds and Gathering Fruit” The quality of change and of surrendering to a divine Will is the fertile seed becoming fruiting tree and sustaining life even when the winds of humanity and mutability to the earth is greater than we can take, then we must give in, we must plead mercy, that we are so small, we are but a speck in the tail of a comet yet we must learn and find wisdom to pass on to others so that our mistakes do not become their mistakes, and that the good and holy we have learned becomes a part of the lives of others who are wanderers and searchers towards becoming better in soul, mind and actions. If we are not striving we are not bringing to fruition the teachings of those greater than ever we could hope to be, so we take the teachings and are always in a state of becoming.

At times it hurts, it hurts deeply as I kneel before the Eucharist and am immobilized. It has felt as if St. Augustine is holding me down in place until I understand why and how my sins brought me to this place. I am held until I am given the slightest understand such that I may write and speak in a manner that best embraces the Light and the Truth of Being. I am always being towards. I wish I could be otherwise. My desires are at times mightier than my will, but I do not always, in fact rarely, act on desires that are in opposition to the great Teacher and Teachers of mind, morality, ethics and God, the Godhead, the collective consciousness of the world. When I see evil take over our nation as if gobbled up by Mammon and the words of our government are crumbs dropped by sloppiness of the evil one, of the army of Mara, the Whispers of Lucifer. I speak of this in the manner of a country blues guy from the 30s and 40s.

I wish I was eloquent enough to communicate the teachings and how we may apply ourselves in this early 21st century. I am such an easy target because I think so much on the page and wish for someone wiser or as curious and in love with God and the teachings of our great teachers East and West. So I write essays hoping for communication or that I may reach a conclusion in which I find myself in the way of the Holy. It is so easy to look at me and my life and call me a disgrace and shameful. I understand this will to power by denigrating me to a lowest caste in the American caste system. It is so easy to make fun of me because I speak openly of my experience and crazy actions. I say if it makes you feel better about yourself then please do so. Please repeat, please chant the darkest moments of my life as if a spell to lower me down for an easy kill and to make yourself feel better by being so powerful as to crush a man when he at his lowest point. Well done. But do not add self reflection to ones action, do not seek self actualization because by crushing one who is a searcher, who wishes only the love of God, and to be devoted to becoming a better man, then do not look into the mirror for you will se only the face of the devil, the face of evil.

Can I be an American and a man of Peace and Faith?

What Is This Land?


What is This Our Land Becomes
What is this where I have tumbled
What is this where I have been denied
What is this my life and labor
This thing that was my heart and love
What is this where waters flowed
And now rubber tubes clog and litter
What is this I looked upon and adored
Only to find it eaten and destroyed
What is this my work left behind me
So undone unfinished desired and waiting
What is this I tried so hard and found
Dead in the leaves of the gutters above
What is this knowledge denied and rotting
That for thousands of years was designed for now
I held my hand to feel the rough edges
Gone now are my knife calluses soft
And cumbersome where once they raged
What is this when I walk alone unafraid
And still in search for a challenge
Who are you in my garden today
You who would rise up to snatch my life away
What is this I believed for so long
My love of faith spat upon by of course the faithful
Where are you when I speak of my love
Who am I when desire and the sexual
Are fed to the dogs waiting outside the door
And so I know what this is when life rests
And says no more so I accept who I am
See this flesh wilting from my bones
There is little else to smell but rose and jasmine tea
The smell of cigarettes makes me want to vomit
I cannot stand the stench of tobacco and addiction
Long freed from needs of drunkenness and the wild
I was still looked upon as if sparks would
Fly from my fingers and all around bursts in flame
What is this I have called my family who scowls
When I know just how they see me
Wishing I was no longer a man better dust
And a marker with just my name
A thing to be forgotten left lame and rotting

Poem: Material Essence


 

 

 

 

 

MATERIAL ESSENCE

A Pot left sitting in the grass
On the roadside
A four lane intersection
Lights and roars,
Talks and shrieks,
All things being what they are
The Pot sat silent
Till one day it grew
Two legs
Stood and walked away
To another place
Being a pot it needed to be used
So it found a home
All filled with dirt and tomato seeds
It became itself
Finally
The absence of being long gone
And far away

Prose Poem: Look Me In the Eyes Judge Me & A Part Of You Not Me Dies


I said I don’t know how it is happening, this rolling through hidden, painful diseases, migraines unfolding over the years suddenly, calmly, admiring the sun casting shadows over the horizon edge into the elms, oak, maple and yellow pine, thinking this is beautiful, this is sparkling and bending into a kaleidoscope with Isaiah steaming and proclaims He shall not be broken…

Darkness. I don’t know. I was sipping orange blossom tipped water and then I awoke in a bundle, water all over me, time what time? There was no marker beginning and ending.

I looked at my right leg, my leg, knee down and around my arch and ankle back up again in splotches of gorgeous purple and saffron bruises.

I stare. I cannot stand. My entire body was stretched and beaten, reformed and disassociated. It was a seizure. I was terrified. Five more in a few weeks. So I told my neurologist. I was afraid to speak. But I did. Thus began two years of barbaric tests and medicines. Time to time they still return, shadows pulling me to a cavern Of night. A cavern Of bright souls singing from Psalms and sometimes chants, songs of Milarepa as I swim through the Bardo and again awaken. My lip swollen, tongue bleeding, I know where I had give and reflection makes it a whirring set of waves of fear. Few things are stranger than never knowing when they will emerge. Seizures. Meds no meds many meds new meds murderous meds then meds work ok looks good let’s cut back What? Ok so I do and click Jello legs and hello floor. Scratches. Bruises. Gazing into the wooden floor and hoping here nothing was broken. Deal with it. Give warnings when Lyme’s takes new forms old forms beware stay back it strikes do not touch me the muscles more powerful than the steroids they were injecting. Life. Deal with it. I said Doctor, the only thing that really worked without burnt bay leaves and thyme in my mouth without side effects killing me or making me wish it would was medical marijuana. Thank you, Georgia. Lack of legislation for medical for Lyme’s and all the disorder leaves me tsk tsk tell me no drama so fuck off it hurts keep personal effects out of my definition. Through cancer through the many legged Lyme’s nerve damage disc disorder white blood cells contour and dominate into another gate of hell and idiots try to place blame on divorce and I cease speaking into that void. I lived. St Padre Pio St Raphael St Patrick and the 8 fold path. And so as Lyme’s rises as it does now stay on track understand that all this pain is not a choice.

So I laugh find a way Rise. This is Lyme’s. A strangers sneeze could kill me. So benefits are cut and SNAP goes down to $15 a month I ask do I starve or face the hydra headed threats of death in my veins and dna. It does not matter between Medicare and the state I wonder who will pay for my ashes. Look me in the eyes and say you understand That is all I want Just understand.