On All Sides Sharp and Impossible to Embrace
On all sides sharp and impossible to embrace
A pine cone is a precarious starting place
For life in this wilderness
Some only to a forest fire spill their love: You.
Seedling, you say they didn't prepare you
They forced you free
All of a sudden you knew their coil of darkness
Because they opened to the light
Drawn out by a curious fear
Only to see a burning world
You escaped as soon as you could
On the hot breath of the breeze, never looked back
They turned to ash and then earth
The same earth upon which you feed
It was a rough childhood, but you are far from it
You don't remember much now that you're a tree
But you find yourself sharp and impossible to embrace on all sides
And this is natural somehow
It is how you came to be
Menstrual Litany
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.-Billy Collins
You are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
But you are bad magic in the belly
a ripe tomato crushed out of its skin
the sloppy morning mouth kiss
and a river stone worn to the size of a fist.
You are also not a beam in the roof
the grass gone to seed
a spoon in the silverware drawer
nor spider with the fly.
Nope. You are none of those things.
You are always a strange pop in the joints,
the wet fruit slice in saliva,
thunder with no flash of light,
and a shadow cast by a rolling ball.
But you are never a daisy behind the ear,
a stray balloon,
the of tinkling cuff-links,
nor snowflakes falling on a campfire.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.
Lake Travis
The sky was not blue but lavender.
My heart rose up with the water
floating on my back singing to you.
My eyes squint like a drunkard in your light.
But you never answer.
"Oh God, are you there anymore?
I was certain looking up. Now I'm not sure.
The sky seems empty like it'll never rain
and pain rattles inside dry as a bone,
yet I remain..."
.... nothing.
I wade in the shallows smiling
at my own sounds leaving.
Singing country style angry isn't enough for you.
That night I cried on my bed thinking
magic is dead.
I am never again to be winsome
thinking of invisible beauty.
Everything's ugly.
Only dirt and algae between the toes left.
Just minnows nibbling scabs off.
Droning motors boats going round
and round the same old shit
with assholes blaring top 40 hits
everyone's sick of exist.
God... ?
Are you the pause... between waves?
The wind? The space between scattered shells?
Do you hide in the water?
Are you on the other side of the penny or
at all with the clouds?
Which one of us is not lookin' for the other?
Do you notice me picking my bathing suit
out of my ass?
Can you feel me swallowing that fifth hot dog?
Why do I look for you as I flush my trimmed off pubes
down the toilet?
You don't care.
How could I expect you to answer?
Obviously, you were under rocks with the spiders
laughing your ass off the whole damn time.
Or something
And I just didn't find you out on the water.
Rest assured I'll find you
while you're busy not lookin'
at all at me lookin' for you
not lookin'.
You'll see.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Winter
December 7th 2009
Love Poem to My Heart from My Mind
The machine of Me is many mouthed
Chewing the ends of whatever I place within my understanding
Love of My Heart
Your shape I fondly nibble every which way.
Your blood, marbled within me paints
Universes that illustrate
And foreshadow the plot of my life so vividly
I cannot close my eyes
From the pressure pounding behind them.
The great eminent darkness
You cause when you stop
Gives me enough mystery
To contemplate every paranoid thought possible.
I can never truly be bored,
But I imagine it’s terrible.
This certain uncertainty you give
Warms Me, gets Me humming in the morning
Cleverly avoiding everything leading up
To what you’ve cooked up
OOOO oooo OOOO!
Stimulation!
The KNOWING of us together, my heart
In spaces of thoughtlessness
Vast timelessness where there are no machines
Because there is no work to do,
No where to go,
And no use for you to beat on
Your march so fuddlesome and delicious!
I still haven’t quite figured out
Where this knowing comes from
When I see how we work together
But, I trust you
You let me be Myself:
A machine that goes on and on
My heart, My heart
I love you so much.
February 20th 2010
Tiger Woods
Such a naughty fellow
Popping into the most desired mound
With one small hole at its center
Grass rolled over tickles the lower half
Of the spectacle sport
Bystanders never hear the sigh of the wind
Through the ever watchful sky
While one white insect eye lidless, silent, eternal
Flies through the great green trees encircling
With sandbag heavy fingers sifting from the slightly underside
I give one swift crack up the back
One big hit with that clubfoot stick
Of my swing-hipped smile and
Verdant celadon stretches the curves so far beyond
The boundaries of our sight.
Over Easy
You get to know the pleasure it is to swallow
As I glide down your throat so
Over easily
Much like your own insides
Simply moisture, solid, and space
I gush all over
Poked by the tine of a fork
Plumped by the heat of the skillet
My heart a tame and yellow yolk
Runs all directions unpredictably
Across your plate
Slowly undoes itself
For the kiss of your tongue
And the fullness of your belly
February 23, 2010
Snow Day
Quiet, cold, white bits of cloud fall on the ground.
Everyone is too afraid to go out.
No work. No cleaning,
Just movies, cooking, kitty, and hot chocolate
Wanting enlightenment is a mistake.
If I sat in the snow concentrating
On melting it, I’d only be prone to illness.
Whether it liquefied or not has little to do with me.
Ice turns to water every day. No big achievement.
To be on purpose realizes our vacant efforts
And lack of audience when you give it up
Better to observe my cat’s green almond slice eyes
Slowly closing in contentment, marshmallows
Melting into hot wet chocolate powder,
My head woozy, sloshing like a bowl of water from
Reclining on couches for hours staring at a blinking box.
It’s better not because it will awaken me faster,
Certainly not. Neither will sitting hours on
Well waxed floors and washing bowls with pickle slices.
Nope. If I and a Zen monk changed places,
We’d be equally uncomfortable.
He in my heavy velvet pajamas, me in his itchy robe,
He ignoring the cries of my roommate’s lovemaking,
Me prostrating over-eagerly to his Roshi for wisdom
Serve only to annoy.
Irritation only causes a crisper intimacy of distinction
Between that which bothers and that which soothes.
It is better to do what you don't have to tell yourself to do.
It just gets done. Still, no liberation occurs.
If enlightenment is beyond concept,
It could be that easy to just switch-a-roo
And be done with the whole nonsense,
But I doubt it. Ease and struggle
Must be far away from one who is shattered by the falling of a leaf,
Put back together by an earthquake, unmoved by the promise of death.
My cat side to side twitches her tail
Adding commentary by her unembarrassed purring
On a pillow. For her, the middle way is natural.
Moved by her gentle suggestions,
I wallow in guilt that I was swayed
To pretend frozen H2O will harm me
And truly anxious of whether it is OK
To curl up warm, still, and mellow
On a day when no notice or difference is made.
Love Poem to My Heart from My Mind
The machine of Me is many mouthed
Chewing the ends of whatever I place within my understanding
Love of My Heart
Your shape I fondly nibble every which way.
Your blood, marbled within me paints
Universes that illustrate
And foreshadow the plot of my life so vividly
I cannot close my eyes
From the pressure pounding behind them.
The great eminent darkness
You cause when you stop
Gives me enough mystery
To contemplate every paranoid thought possible.
I can never truly be bored,
But I imagine it’s terrible.
This certain uncertainty you give
Warms Me, gets Me humming in the morning
Cleverly avoiding everything leading up
To what you’ve cooked up
OOOO oooo OOOO!
Stimulation!
The KNOWING of us together, my heart
In spaces of thoughtlessness
Vast timelessness where there are no machines
Because there is no work to do,
No where to go,
And no use for you to beat on
Your march so fuddlesome and delicious!
I still haven’t quite figured out
Where this knowing comes from
When I see how we work together
But, I trust you
You let me be Myself:
A machine that goes on and on
My heart, My heart
I love you so much.
February 20th 2010
Tiger Woods
Such a naughty fellow
Popping into the most desired mound
With one small hole at its center
Grass rolled over tickles the lower half
Of the spectacle sport
Bystanders never hear the sigh of the wind
Through the ever watchful sky
While one white insect eye lidless, silent, eternal
Flies through the great green trees encircling
With sandbag heavy fingers sifting from the slightly underside
I give one swift crack up the back
One big hit with that clubfoot stick
Of my swing-hipped smile and
Verdant celadon stretches the curves so far beyond
The boundaries of our sight.
Over Easy
You get to know the pleasure it is to swallow
As I glide down your throat so
Over easily
Much like your own insides
Simply moisture, solid, and space
I gush all over
Poked by the tine of a fork
Plumped by the heat of the skillet
My heart a tame and yellow yolk
Runs all directions unpredictably
Across your plate
Slowly undoes itself
For the kiss of your tongue
And the fullness of your belly
February 23, 2010
Snow Day
Quiet, cold, white bits of cloud fall on the ground.
Everyone is too afraid to go out.
No work. No cleaning,
Just movies, cooking, kitty, and hot chocolate
Wanting enlightenment is a mistake.
If I sat in the snow concentrating
On melting it, I’d only be prone to illness.
Whether it liquefied or not has little to do with me.
Ice turns to water every day. No big achievement.
To be on purpose realizes our vacant efforts
And lack of audience when you give it up
Better to observe my cat’s green almond slice eyes
Slowly closing in contentment, marshmallows
Melting into hot wet chocolate powder,
My head woozy, sloshing like a bowl of water from
Reclining on couches for hours staring at a blinking box.
It’s better not because it will awaken me faster,
Certainly not. Neither will sitting hours on
Well waxed floors and washing bowls with pickle slices.
Nope. If I and a Zen monk changed places,
We’d be equally uncomfortable.
He in my heavy velvet pajamas, me in his itchy robe,
He ignoring the cries of my roommate’s lovemaking,
Me prostrating over-eagerly to his Roshi for wisdom
Serve only to annoy.
Irritation only causes a crisper intimacy of distinction
Between that which bothers and that which soothes.
It is better to do what you don't have to tell yourself to do.
It just gets done. Still, no liberation occurs.
If enlightenment is beyond concept,
It could be that easy to just switch-a-roo
And be done with the whole nonsense,
But I doubt it. Ease and struggle
Must be far away from one who is shattered by the falling of a leaf,
Put back together by an earthquake, unmoved by the promise of death.
My cat side to side twitches her tail
Adding commentary by her unembarrassed purring
On a pillow. For her, the middle way is natural.
Moved by her gentle suggestions,
I wallow in guilt that I was swayed
To pretend frozen H2O will harm me
And truly anxious of whether it is OK
To curl up warm, still, and mellow
On a day when no notice or difference is made.
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