Lord, you have graced me with life from a most beautiful woman,
Dorthea, Gift of God, into this world.
Thank you, I have felt your blessings of Peace and Love,
Your gift to me of the Arts and I have fought against every evil
And even good intentions to stay true to your command.
Why allow the curse of demons conjured into my life?
I know to both confront and to pray they find Grace and renounce
The fallen 4th Archangel by every means ever given to me by You.
I arose from the mighty sins of drugs and alcohol which both
Tried at different and same times to take me before my time.
Thank you dearest Christ for leading me from self-destruction
At the hands of a family curse and pray that darkness ends with me.
Often I argued with you; and asked why must I exorcise each curse
The Darkness lays upon me. I see others live in comfort and wish I could
As well, yet I was marked early in life with this ordeal.
Love will not hold me. My too many, yet in each one I found your
Ecstasy begging I leave before they may love me in return.
This wayward life. This Time I live. I have been through the terrible
Gates of Hell. I have twice died and revived. Seizures took me through
The Bardo of laughing dark angels and fallen souls,
And then you pressed on and I awoke bruised, cut, tiny holes in my arms,
And as I lay alone on the cold floors with froth from my mouth,
With wounds from my ordeal I never lost Faith that you gave these
As lesson to carry your Word. And so I praised you for this malady
Yet at the same time prayed you release the Devil’s grip,
Free me from the seizures where my head felt it explodes,
My visions rode like St Paul across my own known world.
How have I survived? Why have you given me so many chances?
Why have I felt abandoned when I most needed any Love?
I love you my Lord of Lords. The Trinity is my vision.
When death was brought upon me with Lyme’s, DDD, skin-cancer,
And then the threat of Leukemia!!? What was your design?
I cussed at you, I argued, I sat inside for two years because
My doctors ordered I could have no sun and could not drive.
The loneliness neat took me. My blessed Mother and a few friends
Showed time to time and helped me out of the margins of darkness.
St Padre Pio and St Raphael appeared before me. Who would understand?
I prayed, I begged intercessions and rosary from me and my loves
In your One True Church, they prayed, I prayed until my knees were scared.
One blood test and I was guaranteed death.

One week later my blood was cleansed.
Padre Pio’s woolen gloves were left in my rose garden. I was afraid.
My Southern soul considered

a past girlfriend I left simply to write and be alone
Had laid a root on me; then I saw them for whan

they were and did not touch them.
The doctor calls again that all is gone to their own amazement.

I said I pray the rosary,
Your nurse came in and asked what I was doing and I said I did not want to die.
You always drop me with others who lived the flirtations of Lilith, of demons,
As had I in my early years, middle years, and now again.
I understand your purpose Lord. I pray until my knees bleed
And my back bends in pain as I labor to form a new home.
I have read your blessings. Mounted your moment as the Pierced One
And filled it with waters from Lourdes and the Jordan where you
Were Baptized by the seemingly mad soon to be beheaded John
Of the wilderness, fasting, living on honey and unleavened crackers,
Give me the strength and your Love my Christ, and Savior
To again recognize when dread, luscious Lilith draws from the shades
And tempts this ascetic and traveler, yeah I know, I know,
But at times I wish I had a different life. I am fallen. I am a sinner.
I pray through the day to lift my soul, to show me Grace,
And then there it is your Gifts and Graces I have ignored.
Thank you for each day, for each moment, each conversation,
Each love, each kiss, and each time I eat after my day of fasting,
And I pray please remove each demon in my path,
I pray you heal my sister whose heart is much greater than my own,
I pray you heal the angry from shaking hammers at me
And th3en you remind me to love not to fight,
So I hugged him and said I love you, put down the hammer,
He began to shake with fear and anger, it was all I could do,
As you commanded me to cease fighting and to Love
To Love even in the face of harm and pass on your Grace.
I was sent running from my home when told the Law was on
They’re way to arrest me for trespassing as I cleaned my old home.
Each day I packed in the pouring rain. Each day I labored alone
Until you sent my good neighbor to my aide; thank you God
For his help as I am the Philistine, cursed to roam and be alone,
Yet not cursed and not alone; strange things, holy things, horrors
Have all come my way. I thank you for each and every one.
Pray save my sister. This is my prayer, my long intention.
She deserves life more than I who has walked in darkness and the light.
She has brought life and joy while I sinned and ran from death.


“The Owl of Minerva Rises Late”

“The owl of Minerva rises late, always late…
Please understand when I see I have been all used up and can give no more. Understand your happiness in my demise.
Smile a mimicry of the Morning Sun just before telling God you and your gang are much greater than the Creator.
Yeah, gather self confidence as I pray and meditate hour
upon hour working to save my soul, to pray for those who are still Sleeping and for those who still seek to pull
more spring water from this busted thing I call “I”.
So what are you in the grande design, molecules are bound
by God not your unholy fist shaking at me
when I say No, I can give no more in this loving family
of families in the Faith, but please do misunderstand
and damn me, call me names, till your teeth shatter,
trembling with anger that I must have what is left of me.
I have wasted my time, I have damned myself
So dig a man who speaks and hands over the ammunition,
I make it easy to be conned and taken advantage of: me.
Here I am in my vulnerable hour, take it, call me names
what are you going to do about this shameful, disgrace,
this erratic being who decided upon waking from praying
to live in imitation of Christ and I see the good old
dark armies of Mara, the curse whispering dark angels
are busy today, so pause, look into your own mirror’,
I thought my heart hardened enough not to care
but I do, I care, I love, I long for conversations where the t
Of the other Speaks words that are real and the neuromancer stands ready to stay or go. it’s all up to the general you not you “you”, just a parish, a family of souls, THE family
of souls where I look and know for whom to pray mercy,
I am no longer worthy and am just here for I
can be used for and nothing else,
and how much of anything is worth
fighting for (everything) to hold onto existence and to serve and pray.
Time sharing God is precious. Words have existence.
Please, anyone want to knock me down when I have nothing
More I wish to argue with your mirror and you?
Find more wrong with me Just go for it. Lash away.
Have fun. Keep score. Cheer on when my name is called
I can give no more. I myself have been turned into a beggar.
Want something of me, want to wave a cruel sword,
you know I will remain silent. I will not fight religions.
I will not fight what I do not understand.
The hard the prayer, the work,
to keep my vows to do no harm,
to seek peace and the love our lord gave us. Yeah.
This very thing so many on their “high horse”
or horse high just have a blast swinging the gun butts
against my torso and neck, thank you.
Thank you for teaching the margins is where I ought to stay,
I just ain’t made for these absent souled, I am broken.
I give up. Do what you will. Say what you will,
just have a blast breaking the 1st and 11th Commandments,
and don’t forget the one about gossips and lies.
Lay it on me. Tell me I owe when nothing is shared.
Let me hear how wrong I’ve always been.
I am done. I give up. No Mas, No Mas.
Knowing one’s place in the world and understanding
I am NOT to write nor compose anything at all anymore
because the money ain’t there, it is all vanity
this soul I was given, just a waste of flesh when
so many need so much more than I.
Probably should have left 34 years ago.
Death or sobriety that fateful hellish day,
I confess it all, whatever is wished. The Trinity.
I am an empty well. Don’t ask. I am pretty sick
of hearing how all that’s bad with me. Heard it before.
Just saying. Not asking, I am telling.
I am broken, ugly, old and ruined.
The spiders are busy spinning webs and beds
around my heart, eating my gall bladder,
Hardening me up again to silence.and desire.
I am better there. Sing to God and no one complains.
Read aloud alone from daily Mass.
You, the universal unidentifiable ‘you’ who
treasures in one night love languages open heart.
Then the next never relate, words without definitions.
Never rest in tearing me down knowing when I
rose to be with people again all I wanted was
honesty, peace, love and peace, close bonds
formed my dream. Heard in conversations on The Faith,
In my false hope that Love can be known.
I am.. It’s cool. Dig the silence and desire.
Happier there for sure. Just hate having to do it.
All is better for it. Say what one wishes.
I call Peace. I call Compassion. I hope it answers.
We ought to love one another second above all else.
Thank you Pope Francis. Let the adult children bicker.
You are an inspiration. Turn from evil and do no harm.
Turn from evil and do no harm. Do not gossip. Do not lie.
How hard is that? How hard is it to be what one seems?
Silence and desire. I’ll take both, please.

When The Third Book Was Opened

When The Third Book Opened
Yeah, I know, I know I am one of those,
Those upon their knees, crying, laughing,
Feeling vast. I like to feel vast. It’s cool,
I know the prayers will accept me,
Yet then small visions banging
On each side inside out my head,
They were not my own, and I asked to stop…
Then I knew I better not,
For something there is bigger than me.
God and confusion: each masters of my domain,
This room of books and song, of prayer,
Of labors I’d rather not do but they
Have needs beyond my own.
Telling me exactly what and why I am and I am not.
So I speak each vision into my iPhone…yeah,
This ridiculous new age that ate my pens
And took away typing when I felt the visions
Rise again, and so I had to wait to listen
To my skin, to the air around me,
To the asteroid shower gleaming above her
On a grass hillside above Jenner and the river,
Above the Pacific where they shot and left trails
And it looked like suns birthing around her head,
That blond mystery, I am afraid of them,
I am afraid my soul will be eaten alive
Before I can say my last Holy Father,
My last Hail Mary when each breath
Was that heavenly inhale exhale
Within one another, it was all I wanted.
Then I saw the hillside collapse,
And there was nothing but she above me
Blond hair like a forest of soft thin grasses,
And I saw an angel, my angel,
Lay her hand upon a page I could never read,
And I wanted, I desired, I knew I could not,
So into another night I drew constellations
Of song upon this high ceiling, the sky,
Through this air, or was it sandalwood scented hair?
All I hear is this knocking, demanding,
Every life stands upon my own, Humility,
You angry creature, you have kept me bent
Over all my life even standing tall I was still beneath you,
You, dear God, You; I am just a man,
Doing my thing disappearing into another sunrise,
Saying YES, I hear you to each tap on my mind,
And yes, I write her beauty as you tell me,
I walk alone and sing. Then we along the coastline
And take her hand, watch another star shower
And admit that things are not always what they seem.

Banks Excuses of Dyadic Operators Still Being Used? Grow Up You Young Killers. You know you are Killers. Darkest Night Shining



Waking and gazing into an asteroid shower at 6 a.m.
Knowing that I was robbed not twice but three times.
Thank you new banking system where you destroy on automatic or lay enough delays to lose your home after being twice hacked and treated as a criminal. Killers making excuses silk thin bringing little deaths upon us all. The poem is a curse. Daniel as he prayed was for a curse that the lions find another meal than his own flesh. As David praying his enemies be conquered and he dance drunken in the streets celebrating and then realizing not by the curse as our government and banks would wish upon us little tiny people. We do as we are told, then throw a CD player out the window and blow it apart with a 12 guage pump Mosburg looking like indie 70s movies playing in slow motion.
Now, this poem incantation as the young sorcerer Milarepa, later Buddhist mystic song writer, would have spoken into his yak dung fire no different than Biblical warriors a thousand miles away. So I paused inside my language to feel the anger rise and subside in hope “change is gonna come”.

The second is a song-poem because I could not decide to sing or recite. My plan was to play piano, but I scrapped that idea after listening to the power again of the rising sun through this brightly lit green edge of the forest where colors you cannot name them all, yeah I dare even a gin and sprite drunk Frank O’Hara could not name. So I left it as it is, an unaccompanied poem sang into each ray of light, sang into each whistle of night bird mocking bird doing their night bird thing, you know, mocking birds singing back as you sing to them and they as well whistle the dawn awake and calmly pull the covers over the last glimmers of night. Yeah, this is late night August night where thunderheads or soft sunshine bring the day alive. . .you just don’t know until it is here. Rushing along the sidewalks, the lawns, rushing into the wood just to hear the peace of a slow river slow soft swirls of water caught circling around a lone rock just past the 1951 bridge pretended to be repaired but it looks like gorilla glue and duck tape to me. This is not death. It is an optimism. The young sorcerer Milarepa stidll looking to find the light of the Diamond Sutta (from the Pali text it is sutta not sutra, that’s all, just respecting the language) after hoping that of the Lotus Sutta would wake his body into life.

A Pure Land Language..

I recorded my morning singing bowls and meditation on Amitabha, third level of Heaven being Pure Land, happiness, pure happiness among other Bodhisattvas and Buddhas. And so I haad to play the vocals through different knob settings and played around with a mellotron for proper background holdings for the bowles when eah ran free of it’s vibrations. There are messages in the poetry throughout but you really have to listen closely. It’s about ways of reaching Heaven, of at least being freed of the travails of the ever mortal shell in which we reside.

Concerto for Those Who….

This is a concerto I have had in my mind for a while and was just able to play and edit it late and today. It is love.

But there are those who think if I name them FB will be onto them. If you are on FB you are known way beyond your imagination. A lovely concerto for those I love who despise my naming them for thanks or simply as an act of positive action, I apologize for the pain I have caused you. So here is a nameless concerto that ends in a pretty beautiful two or three minute solo piano extension on an idea of right vision and right speech as forms of expelling the hardened heart and allowing the love to exist rather than to destroy what is good and positive. Be good and positive. One of my beloved said to get over the friends who reacted out of hate. But it’s hard for me. I believe in the positive power of friendship so much that even in the face of hatred or negativity I must offer love and do not harm. No matter the struggles and harms of this life there is still the love and years of friendship worth keeping rather than burying it over some gossip and forms of misalliance. always remember, there is a “hide from timeline” button so no one will know you know me or are beloved even if you yield a hammer over honest conditions. Be love. Peace. Be love now.
I am still working on bringing the poetry back into my writings which is what I have published the most (350 and two books), but until the muse returns to bless me again for leaving her behind in times of pain and struggle, I must create so in music is my poetry and I hope that you feel the poetry, the words to my beloveds and those who seek harm and distance over the friendship that stood strong for so long. I pray for them. I meditate on their actions. It’s all I can do. I’ve called and went to voicemail and left loving messages but no return. I guess some things must be accepted as they are no matter how great the anger towards for things I do not even know I did that were so socially wrong that by being me and speaking openly, living openly as me and me alone, I have broken social moral codes that are unforgivable; yet I have no idea what secret handshakes and magic words I have missed. But I still love. I still care. I would do anything for them. But they choose to make me an outcast and I am OK being in the margins, not like it’s new. SO, when words are denied me I go for music as my vehicle and inspiration.
I hope you enjoy. I hope you feel the poetry and love that is this concerto

Namo Amitabha Meditation and Pure Land Talk, cause I want more people to talk to who want to know or who are on the same path, NOT ZEN.

This is an oh boy! or an oh hell not this….
It is a thirty minute meditation with morning singing bowls, a poem on highlights within a stream of light, Pure Land Amitabha meditation and explanation of what Mahayana and Amitabha Buddha teaching on three levels of heaven with the highest level being Pure Land. So many read really awful world religion texts, translations from 1900 and very prejudiced and unlearned expositions upon Mahayana Buddhism. I real Pali text translations and Sanskrit as they are closest to the 7th Buddha, our Shakyamuni Gautama Buddha who become the Enlightened One we mostly speak of when in reference to Buddhism. Being true to the teachings is not easy, as you progress over the years one begins to enter a stage of Bodhisattva where the supernatural nature of the noble truths, noble paths, and of attaining to a state of heightened knowledge and spiritual evolution, it is not to separate from others nor is it a substitute for Heaven. It just means that some of us work very very diligently to overcome our inner suffering and to attain right vision and and right action. Peace. Love. Charity. Hope. Compassion. Now there are differences, and throughout my life people have relished finding ways to stump me on the beauty and transitional nature of living life to feeling and knowing life as it is lived as an ascetic. I go on. Forgive me.

Cool Scene

Spring snow on the coastline
in a note in an illuminated night
she was there an episode opening
an episode on the way sea foam
Coagulates then bursts
Out into the flurries
White against a star burned
Night a night illuminated
Wander along dodging
Gulls crashing against
The sounds against the way
This singing night lights
Fire on the dawn
Dawn and spring snows
Coaxed back into the sea
This is a beauty
Pretty stars lighting Venus
Light shine light adored
This is how I remember you
A bright star in daylight
Will o’the heart
Willed away and I never
Had the chance to say
Please stay please cross
The dunes find wild roses
For me for you to stay

Milarepa Freeing Channa of his Demon

This is from a story from the 100,000 Song of Milarepa, a Buddhist mystic, poet. It is the third in a series I am writing in combining his works so they are understandable for the modern age. The repetitive nature is essential as it is a chant/song, that echoes the Diamond Sutra. Milarepa’s cave above Devils Lake was always being invaded by one thing or another and this time it was 3 demons. He understood their evil nature so he fed them, get them drunk and then chanted holy sutras to free the bodies of the demon. In this case it was a demon who became known as Channa. Channa, the man, built several altars and a Buddhist temple in the Tibetan to Nepal plateau in honor of Gautama and for Milarepa. Much was done to get his works out Tibet when China slaughtered and robbed their way into a friendly annexation with Tibet. So, I am rewriting some works for modern times staying with the story itself and in the manner of repetition and chant as used to remove the demon so that the man, Channa could live. The works are amazing, beautiful, are of a Buddhist prophet and posses great meaning throughout. I hope that it is not too boring but a good story sometimes takes time and this is about an hour at best, but I promise if you let the words and the meter do their thing you will feel the depth of Mahayana Buddhist devotion and beauty in love for one another for a better world.

To Say God is Love Is All There Is: We destroy his gift of this earth we destroy ourselves, so share love, share God. God is Love and when we Love we Share God: Perhaps I should say “What Is:

I kinda think the title says it all. To Love is to Express God. To Express
God is to Love. There is nothing hidden here. The poetry is the final Steinway play during the last three minutes. Some of these are extremely difficult to play though they may sound similar to other of my work, I guess you could say that in this particular format it is a style. It is my way of prayer, to communicate and to be with the real presence of God. Thank you angry, judgemental Catholics for thinking this is musical heresy, I appreciate the misunderstanding as I have appreciated similar throughout my life. You make my skin thicker and my soul more open to love. I dedicate this to Aaron Julian Wegelin and Liz Kerlin.