did you ever mock a stranger / mercilessly in your life

did you ever mock a stranger

all unknowns were angels 

and you made such a great sin 

but you can find redemption

always being kind

by that way even

crude fools like you become clear

thus is perfect freedom 
of great ignorance 

through facing fears 

surrender them and transform

every obstacle and trap

liberated in itself 

in muck and stain

hovers view as lucid as a rainbow 

---

For Jetsun Milarepa

i called the time of my father’s death

i called the time of my father’s death

now i remember it every april 22nd

the moment is in the morning

looking clear but it also might rain

there’s a strong breeze flying clouds

.

i’m the clock with a brain and eyes

noting how his last breaths go in and out

his pursed lips as if he were taking air

under water through a reed

each breath a little less and a little less

to the point where i had to lean over

and listen & listen all receding into silence

then nothing how could he be so still

.

later we had a wake and cut slices of cake

there were sunflowers

he loved sunflowers

i never knew

there was much about him

i never knew

.

we flow from moment to moment

in this life like we are fixed here

or as if riding on a gentle stream

but the current is deep

and it ends in oblivion

but enough of that

enjoy the scenery with me today

look at the banks of the river

the sky and all the things we can see

choose to enjoy it despite the fact

it ends in so many ways

though exalted and amazed 

in what you receive 

everything granted

is also being taken back

tut tut let go let go

breath

breath

breath

....

...

..

.

.

.

love this 

and you will 

find freedom

----

for my Father

i say i will

i say i will 

not shudder

but i do 

and i feel 
a certain injustice 

that says more about me 

than you 

and you 

knew this 

and i do

too

men and women see places in the night differently

men and women see places in the night differently

men see doors and the kind of entrances and exits

women look to the windows and all the glittering 

i lingered by the base of the tarpeian rock on a winter evening

and i imagine the kinds of shadows and echoes that floated

high over plaster ceilings with oil lamps held by slaves 

and the ramparts supposedly secure a night owl calling to another

we are responsible for everything we do hero or villain

the response and magnifications of the world are harsh 

even absurd to the level of myth that keeps one forever wondering

when were we truly innocent &

trying to remember all the feelings

when one was 

that way  

*

 

"Honey, Mr. Bee is not from dimensional space ... "

 "Honey, Mr. Bee is not from dimensional space, so his attempts at humor will be different from ours. But he is not harmful. He never has been." 

"Yes darling, but when he turned your face blue, it was just for an afternoon, and Mrs. Simmons wasn't bothered by rhyming every other word over that 3 day weekend. She said it felt novel. She is a poet, after all, and she still teaches him poetic theory on Wednesdays."

"I will talk to Mr. Bee and remind him, most firmly." 

The caller then noticed me, after he had placed his phone in his pocket. "I do apologize if my conversation was too loud." 

I shook my head.

"In any case, our lab is funded though the public, and anyone is welcome to attend ... a totally open and above board program, with no hidden agendas." 

I nodded.

"Here is my card, you are welcome to drop by anytime and talk to the Departments."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Oh, the Departments? Time, Space, Novelty, Linear Theories, Circular, Things, Clouds, Weather, and Harmony."

The train pulled up to the station.

"Goodbye!" said the caller with the card.

at dusk i hear a man whistling

at dusk i hear a man whistling

just a few notes 

he's going somewhere

on the sidewalk up front 

the sound of the tune

has to bounce just right 

to reach my ear 

in the very back room 

as i type

.

.

.

but how do i know

he's a man or he's going?

or they are whistling

a tune?

i go to the front

and look down

no one is there

*

say i am thinking about nothing

say i am thinking about nothing

i say i am thinking of nothing

what i am thinking about is how we take on new names

i am thinking about when separated we all get older

i am thinking about the soft shock sometimes when we meet

after many years and what that would be like magnified by never dying 

vast trees and mountains with a view of the sea never move except for growing 

what is seen is always in sight for them so they are not disturbed this way

i will never be immortal nor will you always coming and going 

meeting and remeeting each other over waves and foam of beginningless beginning

we should become like little birds that ride on the tides of becoming & destruction 

never ruffled or afraid or feeling away from home as the swell goes up or down

even when time seems to break into a storm 

full of prayers we go along

and then when the air is calm no concerns

**

every day should i allow myself to enter it with grace

every day however i see it and allow myself to enter it with grace

becomes that absolute solace of 'everything is new' but acting so seals the deal 

.

no matter what this is the first day of all the days and my lack of mental control

makes it seem like a bouncy house i blame you for the turmoil

.

later of course i love everyone like the statues of beings that love 

i have gathered a few over my bookcases and paintings

.

they are as indispensable as railroad crossing signals 

or the offramps trucks can ride into when they have no brakes

.

if you are there look at the chamomile blossoms on the hillside and red stone you tread on

i took them all for granted but now let us set that aside and have this new day 

---

1/1/24

down by a lost stream after the rain

down by a lost stream after the rain

in the back of an office park seen better days 

.

ducks by small pieces of trash the ducks looking good

earth on the riverbank black with glistening roots

.

i've lost the love of someone it happened the other day 

ducks in the water now swimming splashing washing 

.

they can be fine in a castoff creek by a shamble of a place

so i can be as well no matter what or how i think 

.

living with broken plans until they are not seen as broken

an Almighty dwelt as if from a great distance with aims

.

then no distance no other personality or plans or mind required

faith by not believing in what seems impossible but through seeing 

.

realizing what one did and a few vital actions

while visiting the ducks the trash the stream

*

12/31/23

One More Evil Trifle for Your Deluded Senses

 

A report from the edge of night

A report from the edge of night: Bikini clad girl immerses herself in the waves, the surface looks like silver strands. She adjusts her top and dives under the curling water. Someone methodically breaks down a beach umbrella, clack, clack, noises almost like shells and stones rinsed by the surf. A father holds his son’s hand as the small boy goes round and round and round his father. Now the sand looking like aluminum in the fading light, streaming sheets of water put up by the surf. There is a claw of a cloud that raises up to grasp at the half moon, but it is untouchable.

In the fading light at the beach, it becomes light purple. On the horizon are rain clouds, across this view teenagers run to the surf. They grab each other’s hands and run back up away from the waves screaming. In the fading light a solitary beachgoer doomscrolls, then they put the phone down. They sink into a trance, resting their chin on one hand. They’ve connected with the horizon and the rain on the edge of view with the fading light. More people appear talking and talking … ready to take pictures of themselves, then forgetting in the fading purple light and the smell of the ocean overtakes thoughts, pretense, assumptions, perfume. The half moon overhead, over everyone’s shoulders. It smolders like a white ember in the sky, or possibly it signifies a clock half run to some end. The solitary beachgoer grabs their shoes, and goes.

— -

Cove Beach

we can / wait

we can

wait

whenever

i wear

eddie bauer

everyone 

stares at me

then i see

they are not

staring at 

me

if you die

before me

i will become

a vagabond

in laguna beach

strolling at dusk

homeless/ half way

homeless

bathing in the

ocean caring not

of any social

conventions

that is what

i would do

----

we accuse each other/ of living mediocre lives

we accuse each other
of living mediocre lives

almost posting about it

thinking it could be funny

we are quite content actually

with our heroic hearts

and our unfulfilled fancy dreams

have a sense of fulfillment 

because of so 

but if we are not satisfied

we could still write a poem

with perfect freedom

to see through thus

---

for Deborah 

The wind blows down the riverbed, there’s no water in it now

The wind blows down the riverbed, there’s no water in it now. I've gone over the fence. I sit on the River, on the sand. The wind is the only thing flowing but I know there’s water underneath going to the sea. The sand is rough with hard white flecks in it. You can see where animals pass, birds, coyotes, deer, and the wind blows up the river banks from the sea. The cars going over the bridge here sound like waves, the cars and people in them as unknowing and impartial to the river as waves at the ocean driving suffers and boats or people into the river even into death or revere on a pleasant day like this one. Sirens far away going further. Gold flecks on rocks then silence. The wind blows harder, it is so true, so reassuring. It will always be this way, forever and forever. Even after it has ceased to be.

I wasn’t very good at writing though I thought I could be

I wasn’t very good at writing though I thought I could be, even great, but still I wrote “Ruth” or “Rita” with all my heart until I believed it somehow the same as the truth. More lust and lost ambition than anything, really. I can recognize this without regret, I’ve climbed and climbed to even higher thinner grassy vales. But here you can see the sky turn deep night blue, and not even think because everything is laid out in a great golden swath. Tall and low equal, along with the fearful, the brave and the fools. Then there’s a million million stars below and above. And we are in the stars and they are us.

I get older and I stop believing in anything

I get older and I stop believing in anything. Or believing I can do anything normal. Like I can’t be natural, I can’t go anywhere and be relaxed and not thinking something. Always making up some boring bullshit mental activity. And it is true, yet false. I do think too much, I do wallpaper reality too much with what I think it is — based off by my self thinking. But the moment can get though, and when it does it is sudden like a plate breaking, or a vampire being turned to dust with a single ray of sunlight. What a release!

Before

before you'd have 

nothing to do with me

i thought we were friends 

but some friendships  

fade over time 

just like in the sky 

or in a great tree

culled by time there's

something natural 

in the departing 

even if i wanted 

this to last forever

things come and go

and i don't know

all the answers 

though if i see you

you'll be in my 

grateful heart

never separated

always here 

just like always 

a sky that i can't describe

 

a sky that i can't describe
so let me try to put it
into words 
this evening 
no i can't

i spoke to an empty room

i spoke to an empty room
but it was your phone
but it was an empty room

i did this for many years
as if speaking words to someone
but it was just an empty room 

i hope you are satisfied
with the thought of this 

even one day say
you spoke in vain 
to an empty room

i was not there at all
for all your speaking 

but part of you
was there 

so thank you 

for the room

and may all

our heartfelt 

dreams 

come true

----

SoCAL

8.1.23

The Chaining of Christ

christ was young once

he was free

with his group of friends

roamed about the countryside

barefoot with walking sticks 

they had a good time and 

they'd whack a devil out of someone 

as soon as go to a party 

and turn water

into wine 

now time and guilt

disguise this bearer of light

enthroned in the overbearing 

body of jupiter 

offensively grand

all this old god's sour 

whiles and moods

towards mortals 

a fortress face

with pits for eyes 

christ chained to the flesh

in your mind while he is 

a bird a cloud

or halos in

a sunlit sky

---

Sarcophagus of Marcus Claudianus. Circa 330-335

Jesus Christ mosaic in the apse, Monreale Cathedral, Monreale, near Palermo, Sicily, Italy