Savage Peace A Mountain Lion Gaze


Savage Peace A Mountain Lion as My Guide

Many a’ time past I’ve seen this present before as savage, a catamount of me hunting.

Once at war with Creek and Cherokee, the British and then against one another.

Always where the moon touched closest to the Suanne, Dog and Yellow River,

These lands around where I was born and grew to live most of my life wandering

Stone Mountain, searching every line in granite to see the footprints of history.

Later it was anyplace where I heard the Oconee and Broad, their many branches,

Home it was when water was near, wild in the Straits of Mackinac on The Island.

When I could hear and smell, see the California Pacific my American soul was born,

Everything was big, the waves, the tales, the trees and then the strangest, Yeah.

Funniest creature alive I saw while walking alone in the Mendocino ocean side forests.

Electric celestial yellow snail by my left boot there beside the ferns waiting to greet me,

Welcome to the hills and cliffs, Garcia, Gualala and Elk River, unbelievable waves,

Grey whales sailing upon the dark deep waters slowly breaching and hypnotic,

Dig my soles down to hold onto this quivering land and I looked eye to eyes

With another ancient inhabitant to this “here”, a potato bug turning his head

As if spring loaded and crackled sounds so sharp I swore it was speaking,

And so here I knew more than life more than dreams more was waiting to be

To rise and define what is me; this North Sonoma, Southern Mendocino

was not ready for this Southern, wild, drunken, woman crazed, culinary flash,

Fog walking sands of Manchester, coasting acro the grasses of Haven’s Neck,

Finally knowing home is wherever, and I’m just digging life more smile than frown.

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.

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.

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.

SONG ABOVE THE CAVE OF MILAREPA (2nd draft line changes)


Meditation Song Above the Cave of Milarepa
A darkness upon your soul rises.
There are many paths
A darkness upon your soul rises.
There are many paths
A darkness upon your soul rises. There are many paths
A darkness upon your soul rises. There are many paths.
I meditate where the Lord places me and all evils return 
to laugh at my trials.
I meditate where the Lord places me and all evils return
to laugh at my trials.
I meditate where the Lord places me and all evils return
to laugh at my trials.
I meditate where the Lord places me and all evils return
to laugh at my trials.
The first with rotted scalp and beautiful face says his
prayers and meditations
are folly.
The first with rotted mind and fallen face says his prayers
are all wasted
and drawn from lies.
The first with love for the Great Deceiver tells me my prayers
could be turned to ways of disordered mind and deceit.
I say no.
Leave me or listen. You have the choice. 
Listen. 
Demon flesh is not sexuality.
It is destruction of self.
God gives us compassion I say. I can only wish they find
the 
path that leads to God and frees them from this demon flesh.
God gives us compassion I say. I can only wish the find the
path that leads to God and frees them from this demon flesh.
God gives me compassion I say. I can only wish you find
the 
path that leads to God and frees you from this demon flesh.
Love, I say.
When is it not enough? We must Love. 
God does not waste his love, he maintains
and holds strong for 
any who come to him, who contemplate upon
the Sacrifice.
God does not waste his love, he maintains
and holds strong for
any who come to him, who contemplate upon the Sacrifice.
God does not waste his love, he maintains and holds strong for 
any who come
to him, who contemplate upon the Sacrifice.
 God does not waste his love,
he maintains and holds strong for 
any who come to him, who contemplate upon
the Sacrifice.
Choice. We are given Love. But evil rules our land.
Evil dances across the land and the fallen worship hatred, 
here stand the enemy
and the will to love is yet even stronger…
Evil dances across the land and the fallen worship hatred,
here stand the enemy and the will to love is yet even stronger.
Evil dances across the land and the fallen worship hatred,
here stand the enemy
and the will to love is yet even stronger.
  Evil fucking evil dances across the land and the fallen worship hatred,
here stand the enemy and the will to love is yet even stronger.
I know who lies.
I know who lies. What names you choose is up to you.
I know who lies. Our dharma is our choice we build upon….
I know who lies.
All that is solid melts. I pray my eternal soul 
melts and flows endlessly flowing
in and out of Life’s plan.
I know who lies.
They dream on in phantasms of a dirt soul and only of ends,
never the continuation of action and reaction.
They dream on in phantasms of a dirt soil, only of ends…
never the continuation
of action and reaction.
They dream on in phantasms of a dirt soul, only of ends,
never the continuation of action and reaction.
In all our oceans
and the streams that feed them life changes
and adapts, many die, as will we
.
In all ahr’ oceans and the streams that feed them life changes
and adapts,
many die, as will we.
In all our oceans and the streams that feed them life changes 
and adapts, many die, as will we.
I see the finite and hear their shallow heartbeats, thinking sin
and salvation does not apply to them.
I see the finite and hear their shallow heartbeats, thinking sin
and salvation does not apply to       them.
I see the finite and hear their shallow heartbeats, thinking sin
and salvation does not apply to them.
It does.
It does matter.
It does matter for all we do is wrapped in cause and effect.
It does matter for all we do is wrapped in cause and effect.
It does matter for all we do is wrapped in cause and effect…
It does matter
for all we do is wrapped in cause and effect.
You worship deception and a larceny of faith.
You worship deception and a larceny of faith
.
You worship deception and a larceny of faith.
You worship deception and a larceny of faith.
Thinking it a win to deceive those who offer trust, all you do
is dig deeper
into coal mountains, death your lover.
Thinking it a win to deceive those who offer trust, all you do 
is dig deeper into coal mountains, death your lover.
Thinking it a win to deceive those who offer trust, all you do 
is dig deeper into coal mountains, death your lover…
I know. I must repeat. I must chant.
I know it is easy to say anything at all and not believe a word.
I know, I, it is easy to say anything at all and not believe a word.
I know it is easy to say anything at all and not believe a word…
I know you.
I repeat because I see you. 
I was you. I destroyed that “I”.
Even as I pray and meditate you think new ways of harm.
Even as I pray and meditate you think new ways of harm.
Even as I pray and meditate you think new ways of harm…
I know your lies.
They are known. Leave me dark spirits.
Many paths. One God.
Shut up you gossips and fools!
Giving over to the home of Siddhartha, hammered singing bowls
Of seven holy metals that ring then vibrate me in to sleep and Awake!
I sleep upon the floor where I console and sing, feeling your
song vibrate through me, I love you my friends, I love God who 
makes it possible to love my friends and family.
I sleep upon the floor where I console and sing, feeling your
song vibrate through me, I love you my friends, I love God who
makes it possible to love my friends and family.
I sleep on the floor where I console and sing, feeling your
song vibrate through        me,
I love you my friends, to love God who 
makes it possible we love friends and family…
Holiness shimmers through each ringing bowl as I stretch
my aging flesh across these thick, slow barley and bamboo mats.
Holiness shimmers through each ringing bowl as I stretch my
 aging flesh across these thick, slow barley and bamboo mats.
Holiness shimmers through each ringing bowl as I stretch my 
aging flesh across these thick, slow barley and bamboo mats…
I see the growing thunderheads,
heat lightening…..strikes.
Oh, I stretch because I see so much beauty, so to love,
 so to thwart the minds
who think to fight for life is sadness,
 but that is to have it wrong, so terribly wrong,
we live to live,
 to strike back demon Mara’s devils and those gone to fight Ezekiel,
for beauty is daily and daily reward we live as grace as eternal.
 To strike back Mara’s grinning evil and risen dark angels, do it!
New paths for beauty and skies seen like ocean tides as wind.
Each path begins from suffering and evil, and each path ends
 when skies are sky
and beauty becomes us; not as struggle town
but as gift, each path begins where Life has suffered, yet pure
heart and pure intention is not enough to paint sunsets orange.
Never stop, always never ever stop, for if we do then it has ended,
and with ends come dreams of was, when what we need are times
of is
and then
the works of yet to be. I could say, to the glory of God
I cannot help it,
this compassion I love. I beg, in your own wisdom
to understand we must scare the demons away as Milarepa sang,
to enchant the devils as Ezekiel fought that they die this very day . . .
And yeah, that’s it . . . yeah, that’s it.
(and this crew for conversations with my beloved friends,  the table I dream of as last meal and conversation because you all inspire me. My dream of life. They each wish to be unknown but here no links condemn them to me for my wanderers life.)