neat brown seaside house
in a smart row of them

but this one has
a window

that is not centered

it is to the left
and no doctor can fix it

palm trees are long
swaying over green benches

a hush that says you

the sky is gray
but later the sun

will get through

waking men and women
of industry and promotion

gentle shiny cars
will nose out of garages

streets where

random thoughts
drive gentle shiny cars


*

Southern California
The day after the Summer Solstice
2016

some are epic surfers
others fearless mountain climbers

you have a talent
for getting the last word in


*

these last words
so ridiculous

like the click
of an old cap gun

with no caps
a stuck spring


*

i dream
i was flakes of snow

i wake up
i see i am flakes of snow

thank god


*

Q: Where is the cloud?
A: It is either here, or I don't know.

where was it in a dream

where was it in a dream
in 1972 or by the fireworks over the cement wall
of pets long gone and finals passed
of cities that change before my eyes
i had it right here
a whole life searching for it though forests of memories

waking up hearing the machine shop

nothing to be found
nothing ever lost

***

i have a dream
i am a folded newspaper

i wake up
i see i am a folded newspaper

thank god


*

i saw the moon high and three stars
so piercing and beautiful

i wanted to give my every hope and idea
and have them carry these

starting that solitary dusk with wind
and from then on forward

to a place where the ocean didn't matter
and neither did the mood

to a country up there where people
never miss one another


Bolsa
5.24.16

if i could stay in the logic of dreams
flying over a big bed like world
where the ground is soft and the colors splendid

no fall from grace there no twisted fate
only water that runs uphill and people who never die

visiting orchards always cool and sunny
blossoms spanish steps and ever clasped hands

the world ending there is no cause for alarm
because the next scene is forming and it knows
nothing old or news not heard of before

a face floats away
ladders of different colors appear

things so innocently dreamed
are later true as a cold hearth

senses do arithmetic
spoken nonsense takes up the shock

in the abyss i dreamed
not of revenge but of a green garden

where everyone past present and future
belonged and are welcome




x

i have a dream
i am a wooden toy

i wake up
i see i am a wooden toy

thank god



--------

Q: Do you know anything at all?
A: It depends on what you think you think.

i have a dream
i am a flying banana

i wake up and i find
i am a flying banana

thank god

if the poem is true
then it must not be clear

it will be strange

like a spider on a plate
or a skull and a rose


because sweet words
or symmetry unavoidably lead

to illusions

of happy outcomes
you and i have been the author
have been the source

simply because we asked for nothing
in return and gave fully with
happiness to see it given

others linger on the threshold
just outside of the circle of love
feel their empty hearts

in such keen poverty
step towards and not away
you will be caught up

there nothing i can do
and everything i can do

it makes as much sense
as if something could be

like a poem dancing
in space makes sense

we all are interlinked
and separateness is a fib

the disservice i do for you
and you for me

if i save me i redeem you
printed in the same space

if you will grab these lines
like a rope to ascend

you'll meet others like you
headed up

Falling Up the Stairs at Elm Street

i fell up the stairs
at elm street

into a tiny room
atop the garage

slanted wood
like a tent

the whole house
shook

bob laughed
how do you?

what falls up
anywhere

only thinking
defies

or a kind of force
of will

or youth flinging
into age

or is it me
still falling up

a different set of
stairs now


4/2016

there is the kind of prayers
that meet no answer and bear
no results but still the prayer
says them with whatever unhappy
motivation later exhausted
by the futile type of action
of saying empty prayers

going in and out of focus
when you are seen it is in maps
owls rooftops and cinder beehives
i don't know what i am typing
i don't know what i mean
but it must go and it goes
the only honest writing i do




2

there is nothing i can do
other than saying no to being angry
i'm in the barrel

a selfish man says he is selfish
not meaning it and making it sound
like realization

the only person conned is the liar
truly ripped off is the stealer
lost forever is the egotist

so when in doubt
add some compassion
look at intentions

you can't be a villain
all the time

penumbral lunar eclipse
i have been 6 years on the path

following the secret thread
found in all faiths and systems

incidental awareness of nowness
in the most curious of places

in the traffic light or scrap of paper
or lost doll on the side of the road

that is me lost happy
smiling but not needing help


3.23.10 / 3.23.16

I dreamed I achieved enlightenment last night, it occurred quite suddenly
I was very happy, if not a bit surprised.

Awakening, I am here still,
the fact I am not enlightened is not bothersome, I knew I was dreaming.

The electric candle is on,
illuminating the hear center of my Buddha thanka.

What a remarkable dream, and may it happen as soon as possible
if it will benefit you, dear reader. Or me.

May we all have dreams like this, to remind us that anything is possible
and just around the corner if you wish it.

it was a clean strong wind
fresh off the end of a storm

ocean ragged foam
waves never ending torn

motion light joy air
fury action activity birds

as far as the eye could see
up and down the strand

might and light fleck
glints of silver and gold

barely a footprint remained
from hours before

stragglers and sleepers
all home in bed

the ocean blows storm end
mightier than any horn

every molecule in a body
racing as the eyes scan

a clean strong wind
fresh off the end of a storm

prayers for lifting
whatever load
that never existed

god must be
the most patient
being of all

the fact
that i can't
imagine god

probably
means god
does exist

evidence
all around
in maths

in stars
in sunsets
and dawns

footsteps
and marks
indicating

a guiding
hand or a
light of love

if i dare
to ask i get
and i know

what was not given
was not asked for
thus rendered


**

some people write
because it is one thing
of very few things
you have the illusion
of control over

but can you choose
choose what to write
or is the muse beating
a brain like a drum
boom boom boom






###

i've set in motion
things i cannot control
or i have no idea
how i influence them

still i consider
what i might say or do
or think to have these
people places or things

especially people
you cannot persuade
very much to go or do
anything at all

but why even assume
a position to persuade

because even the attitude
i might have a suggestion
is arrogance or pride
how dreadful

why can't i sit
and be content with
the sun this morning
and clip my pace

abandon all ideas
because pick up put down
over and over again
is just expressing selfishness

abandon the inventor
when i thought
i started out so happy
easy and pure

i've set in motion
things i cannot control

in this see my attitude
see my continued
sad worship of self

i keep things in motion
i set going nothing
other than my own
selfish ends

i have an image
of a buddha
with an automatic light

when the light
comes on
before dawn

i say a prayer
for all of us
i send a prayer to you

i send you
my highest aspirations
of happiness

automatic buddha light
reminding me
of something that comes
totally naturally for me

wishing you safety
wishing you peace
of mind

naturally i desire
contentment joy
and happiness
for you

may it lead us
through the many
mysteries that
need no solution

may you always
find love and ways
to love always

she wrote of the exhausting
even doomed work of poets in cafes
or serious writers being beaten to pieces
one letter one vowel at a time
at some point knowing too much
too much nerves to have nerve
to take at literature or lines or stanzas

here my pencil is dull
my pen is running out of ink
there are not enough pages
even then when i feel it is the end

i also feel like laughing

who makes it as far as a donkey
like me

in poverty i see
a wonderful star

over rooftops

it is perfect
no one else has it

it says write
my heart leaps

the pure white literary gods
in their mansions

are asleep


-------


to Rosemary Tonks

last night i remember
my teacher in my dreams
blessing me quickly and getting away
so i don't remember and spoil it

every time i see him i cry



----

For Tsedrup Tharchin
10th lineage holder of the Repkong Ngakpas

Chötrul Düchen
2/22/16

to take an expansive view
on delight

where it crosses all boundaries
covers everything

gives courage without hope
resolve

understanding to stay a course
and go on

new birds are seen over
new shores

where you came from before
you barely remember

i read holy books
as if they are just easy reading tattered novels

it is better that way
because why ruin a good holy book with thinking

every river i cross
in my dreams does not get me wet in the least

i have crossed
missions of rivers in my dreams for holy books

\\\\\

i recite the 'heart of transcendent knowledge'
on the beach watching the surf come in

i remember the entire sutra
it took me three years to commit to memory

i do this for all sentient beings
and to short circuit my mind

i do this to rewire my power
convert the factory of a self to make no-self

i will keep repeating the sutra
until the bearings of my mind come apart

because there is no replacing you
on the beach watching the surf come in

accepting fear or fury
i become like a thief
i see hell beings love too
even angles are crazy

letting go of my will
staying in this moment
the fires go out and wings
cease beating non stop

a feeling arises
unimpeded of who or how
intricate details now seen
as little shiny toys

i don't know you
even though we met
we rarely get to know anyone
better to be safe

in this protection
real misery develops
unchecked by detection
goes on and on

waking up
from my illusions

the wall is
dazzling white

i will paint
a flower

or a bird
on a roof

finances fail
job gets difficult
people split
perfect really

lots to work on
it all being fresh
and stark as a slap
in the face

not a single
complaint
knowing
where i am

like finding your self
all over again seeing a starry sky
not thinking how someone else might be
enchanted or happy too

anything set aside truly
has no bearing on your mind
anymore than when you noticed the wind
and how it moved a drape

i don't want to forget
but i will and i am starting to now
not being reminded on the hour or day
consciousness smudges

the crisp recollections
start to dog ear and fade
a blessing for me who forgets i suppose
that is the way for people like me

when i open the door
i am devoid of curiosity or wonder
holding no reverence to the dawn i walk into
but then i see venus

i am amazed by it
i look all about me and every shape and thing
compels and reminds my heart is
cradled in soft light

i let go
as it goes

reading a zen story
putting rocks in my pockets

i remember
to be funny to myself

they painted
the wall next door

it is dazzling
white

a magic physicist said
there are possibly innumerable universes
each one happening at the same time
in parallel

i see someone far above
shuffling them and laying out a new spread
each new day and i can mentally
belong to any of them

dukkha does not mean just 'suffering'
it means i wanted the full moon three weeks ago
and everything spread below it in the night
with me and you

dukkha does not mean just 'suffering'
it means i thought of kissing you and i experience
two realities -- in one i did kiss you
and in one i am here

we study dukkha
i suffer from it

the story i create
out my thoughts

you had a part in it
and so did i

it was coming into
focus and beautiful

event changes
mind changes now

my ego loses
the tread of sense

i suffer from
dukkha my own opinions

my secret pride
curbed in the corner

just me and my pride
looking at each other

so a new story starts
dukkha

we keep studying
this

i can laugh about it
sometimes

how you
are not here

how i grab at
and how i deny
i grab

if i feel
i might make any
new pattern

of letting go
i have hope

you can't have it
because of your desire

it isn't here
because you can't see it

even relating
to it erases it

you can't even
preserve a cobweb
or dust

so get up an go
get down the path

other meadows
other sunrises

one must travel
broadly to have
a wide mind

like having a conversation alone
to a wall about companionship or love

or being at a filling station empty
in the middle of the night with no money

it is just one of those things
so you ride it out because it can't stay

every moment was made unforgettable
by this counting brain but now tired

looking out a window at the trees
with no thought as night falls



*

from disaster to disaster
is all we are

some happy accidents and
others dread

scatters every moment in
fragments

and the pieces look like
everything

i don't feel bad
never worry about me
it was just the tilt of my face
i wasn't caught pensive

or with a frown

to be self absorbed like that
is unforgivable and selfish
i never feel that way
no worries at all

look at us as light

impermeable and transitory
flickering a bit and then
fading away water
into water

i think my
illusions are real

not like
windmills that i mock

the farce
is i am the farce

believing you
are the reason it is so


*

Poem - i pick up shells

i pick up shells
universal symbols of hope

swirls round themselves
round another predictably

with a certain symmetry
they encounter themselves

over and over
in casualness and serenity

seeing this
in my hand i know

people see each other
even if i don't recognize you

even if the viewer is selfish

i will always see
something of you here

pick up a black
shell a nero i call it

on hand i surrender
to the mystery

that solves itself
through surrender


---

Jan 2 2015
Sunset Beach

i have a silly song
humming it to myself
or to those who listen

kind to be good
and good to be kind
right now never ever better

no to no
yes to today
the day before and next do not exist

i planned
hundreds of things
a thousand stories or more

just me
\getting drunk

Poem - ordered minds / bearing down / or bowing

you go
i read about
st joseph of cupertino
majestically
flying and floating
in holy view

rigorously punished
by his superiors

then i read
basil of moscow
naked in
all seasons
shaming ivan
the terrible

brutality of
creation
placated
by idiocy
impunity
through madness

ordered minds
bearing down

or bowing


____

New Years Eve
2015

Poem - there isn't enough at all / if i make it so

there isn't enough at all
if i make it so
i can believe it is impossible
and make it true
chase it right out of the room
or out of my life

what is the best advice
i'd give another -- even
to a fond friend?

it will all be alright
if you step back and let it be

be ready to catch
if your turn comes

then pass it on
any joy you feel

without delay
or a second thought



*

Poem - under the branches of a secret oak tree / on the top of a mountain

under the branches of a secret oak tree
on the top of a mountain

you watch as a storm develops
your hands scratched a bit

from climbing up the rocks
with your bottle and book of poems

the poem book fell
but you kept the bottle tight in hand

a warm consolation
you button up your coat

the wind increases
you hear the book feathering pages

until the rain spatters
matting the paper down

you drink from the bottle
wonder what it is like

to be stuck by a lightening bolt
under a tree in a storm

or what it is like to be hung
like judas betrayer of christ

the climb down is dark
wet cold and muddy

when you sit in the truck
see your face in the mirror

you look like you don't know
anything at all


*

Poem - i have seen two people see the same moon / rise through the night sky

i have seen two people see the same moon
rise through the night sky

they were together but in separate places
in inches years from each other

or possibly closer and closer
my car continue i see the moon too

in seconds two strangers lead
full lives in my mind and heart

how can the mind move so fast
i wonder in reality if they are closer now
or farther



*

PCH / Main Beach
Laguna Beach
December 2015

Poem - Charles Vance Millar

irresistibly i see him
balancing one or ten dollar bills

on the ledges of his windows
during a crisp fall day

so the wind would blow any bills
randomly into the street

stories below and
he's notice when it happened

take out a pair of binoculars
and observe who got random cash

laughing dryly
wishing he had a string

to jerk the money
out of the hands of the greediest




*

for Charles Vance Millar

Poem - memory fails when there is too much / memory

memory fails when there is too much
memory

one thing coming after the other recollections
overwhelm

like tracers or explosions so frequent to
blind

outwardly all appearances become like
lightening

shaped like people and things but none
abiding

thinking goes higher until it
evaporates

into a blinding scalding
steam




*

Poem - The Picture of a Chair

A chair that has had too much sitting
the paint flaking off

in a police station
at the end of the world

one winter day
when the light fell to the floor

cement and tile
co-mingling as they fall apart

two choices
boot in the mouth

manacles on floor
of cold dark room 3 days

or sign statement
in language you can't read

you are not
a tourist or photographer

they say you are a spy
or a saboteur

who gives a shit here

a small man
with manicured nails

and a very
shiny suit strong cologne

is high
as God here

you refuse
they laugh

all in good fun

they bundle you
into a van take you

on a mountain pass

near the border
in your socks

a sim card
is still in your mouth

a bit
bloody

you recall later

the last picture
you had taken

of a chair that has had too much sitting
the paint flaking off



*

Poem - but you are a saint

unwashed scoundrel

you the most unliked person
in all the world and
everyone loves you

how is that so
how many rivers did you cross
or prayers did you say

did you cross alps
on your knees with only
pants and a switchblade like i would

i am a ruffian

oh world
you hated by most
are wept over holy bones myrrh

you owed me money

but you are a saint
debts out of circulation
i bow to your shrine and steal

your toe bone



*

Poem - sea money in my palm

"Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'."

James Joyce
Ulysses


sea money in my palm
a prayer
to god who i don’t understand
here i am
with sand in my pockets

my day
may it be rescued from me
let it be
saved from all my ideas
then i know
things will turn out well

then i admire
blue sky
with the ships pointed this way
or that
sea money in my palm


*

Sunset Beach
12.07.15

Poem - there is a line / of ships on the horizon

there is a line
of ships on the horizon

i do not know
where they are bound

nor do i know
what cargo they carry

they could be
empty or full under sail

when i see them
i feel full of hope of life

they symbolize you
me and everyone else

all have something
undertaking a voyage

like the boats i see
destination unknown

i believe when we arrive
we'll know harbor

and be grateful
for such a journey


*

for Emily
12.04.15

Poem - freighters / bound

freighters
bound

for where
i do not know

they leave
on a cloudy day

ahead of
a storm

while i
find sea money

cap tops
and wood

some from
a tsunami

half a
world away

ships
laid out

the horizon
1 2 3

ready
to run

past
catalina

then go
west

as the sky
increases

and waves
crest


-----

Dawn
Sunset Beach
12.04.15

Poem - your own voice

the highest mountain
is in the mind
there is no peak taller
no finer edge to traverse
to a summit that readily
will raise itself
as you attain it

like looking for the devil
as you go you will find
the devil looks like you
because he is the one
you want

they tell tales of phantom ships
seen on the horizon or
bearing down out of night

peak devil or transport
all fade if you discard them
or any idea of their virtues

nightmares robbed of sympathy
become murmurs

murmuring turns
to a soft hum

your own voice



*

HB
2015 December

Poem - then all other things will follow

your phone is like a wall
i will never get over it
a device not for communion
but for denial and self reflection

i accept this and i hate my own phone
supposedly designed to connect me
it has separated and alienated
i must be the bad one

i remind myself to be the superior man
then all other things will follow
weak men of character encourage themselves
saying terse things quietly



*

12.02.15

Poem - a moon rises and we both admire it

time robs me of all my illusions
there is no happy ending

but then i disagree with myself
there is always a happy way

i set up automatic alerts to protect
from fraud and theft
my card is safe

the suitcase is light as a feather
for the homeless teen who
lifts it from my car

i am the broken window in the back
the glass on the seat and regret
there wasn't more

the robber and i are connected
by the promise of a sweet evening

a moon rises and we both admire it
he is happy in his way and i mine

inside we both have possibilities
beyond all conceptions



**


San Francisco
Diamond Heights
11/21/2015

Poem - hemingway said take as much

hemingway said take as much
away as you can and what is left
you may have written something
that is true but try as i might
there is a field at dawn and
i am not your type but who is


*

Poem - we took your yard from you

we took your yard from you
the one you liked to dig in
and tout trucks with loads
back and forth back and forth
from one imaginary work-site
to the other ones

i found out later
the neighbors looked at the marks
on the slats of the fence
where you stood to greet them
as they came and they went
you were gone for good
now on an opposite coast
they said they missed seeing you
missed you every day
since

when i knew this
all the time i hated them
was reformed and i felt
a double great loss for
your beautiful innocence
and my dark stupidity

since then i have resolved
to err on the sunny side of the mind
and we play all the time
in the park


+

For Daniel
2015

Poem: just a poem / can save the world / one line at a time

dreamers all
undependable dreamers
a poet male or female

some worked by gas light and had ink
other with just a pencil by moonlight
some had no paper no pen and no light
they wrote and remembered it
they spoke it in code or
they told the work as they were burned
in jail buried alive
in the madhouse forever
left on the island of poverty
unpardonable all of them

walking down the street
you saw them and hated them
wished them erased
disgusting and unemployable
not of any use

until you fell in love
with someone
or needed a reason to hope
couldn't understand or take it
not even for one more monument

a scrap of verse
who would know
a few trailing lines

just a poem
can save the world
one line at a time


*

Poem: a senseless book / of unrequited love / from victorian times

.. after 'Flights of Fancy, or Imaginary Scraps'
   by Charles Carrick

a tormented book
of unrequited love
from victorian times

i halt at it because
this could be me even now
doing work after work

creating a private world
as broken and limited
as the real world

a reality that can be
a prison of my own creation
inwardly expressed

or outwardly proclaimed
displaying a lack of faith
or a flaw in courage

*

create and have hope
spring from your sadness
or doubts mature into truth

that in turn invalidates more doubt

through rigorous action

*

but how i would enjoy
the attempt to loaf and bluff
say this too shall pass

how i would like
to linger with blots and stamps
late at night flickering flames


behold a sweet moon

and weep my heart out


**

Thanksgiving
Napa, 2015

Poem - The Hunters in the Snow, 1565 - a painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder

looking at it
was all i wanted

the frozen countryside
on a muted winter afternoon
the color light grey and blue
the rest white

paths between
frozen ponds

black silent trees

and a fire
outside the inn where they
roasted chestnuts

i wonder
about the heft
of the spear and
how cold your feet get

what the
overcoat feels like
and above all

sigh of
a swaying
half-broken inn

sign



*

from
The Hunters in the Snow, 1565
a painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder

Poem - the invisible library / exists in the sky

the invisible library
exists in the sky
read night or day
in every cloud

morality tale
or parable by the face
of the moon

exaltation mantra
or psalms from
the sun

star koans

blissful endings
in every deep blue
dawn or dusk



**

Poem - but tonight

i saw buddha
in a dream
only his eye fit in the room

he looked over
the top of the wall
and said a few things

naturally i can't
remember what it was
but it was good advice

awake i keep
looking at the section
of ceiling his eye appeared

but tonight
i will dream of a boat
or a fish or a squirrel



***

Poem - A Poem to Tu Fu

he walked down to the river
saw blossoms in the water
wrote it as a conundrum of color
riot hinting at life and death and sex

my river here is a ditch
it looks ugly at low tide
the stuff i see is trash
cars groan down the road

i remember another river
in a wooded valley steep
where nothing bad happened
and i was happy

knowing that the river
in the valley has not changed
or i am here still looking
at a muddy bank i'm grateful

i can go up north to see my river
with any blossoms that fall
or i imagine
signifying everything



**

to
Tu Fu

Poem - Joy is Life Itself

eventually there will be none of you or me left
even a stone or a monument will be swept away to make room

the sentient being who has to do this job will be pissed
of who the fuck put this gross old shit in the way here

so i'd advise you to be sleek clear and clean
and whatever you try to emboss on the world

let it be useful for shade or comfort of some sort
it may stay of it makes a laugh because joy is life itself



***

Poem - my writing is only as good / as my friends

my writing is only as good
as my friends

those who inspired
even through sadness

some of my finest ones
others i can't learn from yet

i hope someday i will
thank you

in the meantime
on goes the day

all hopes too
like magic



*

Poem - even have a smile when / it is getting dark

i remember

there was nothing of the braggart in him
nor was he foolhardy or oblivious to danger
a friend who truly had no fear whatsoever
towards fellow man or at least

he was not compelled to do anything
as a reaction to his fear
he was a keen observer of people
was interested in all the varieties and
how we all felt and thought

he was ugly and his eyes were bright
he had long fingers and he kept his nails long
for playing the guitar he walked as if running
he never stopped smiling a stupid smile
and beautiful women loved him dearly

gorgeous women wanted to be around him
because he was so ugly and smart and he never
took anything from them and he gave them
happiness and made sense from
what they confided in him

selfishly i hardly learned anything
but i did gain a great desire to be fearless
to tell the truth and to listen to beautiful women
because of him i believe in art

still i learned very little from him
but the desire to be with the truth is burned into me
it haunts me i am compelled to be like a bad copy
or bloodless shadow to him who is now gone

he rests

i must carry some of this way on
make life more than just a span of time
to never leave a room in disagreement

walk a city as one yet never alone
even have courage when
it is getting dark



**

For Rubin
Second day after November 2015
Huntington beach

Poem - who choose the / wrong trail again and again (but those who see / do not give up)

in denial i measure time
by how my desires for others arise then fail

a pitiful kind of cosmology
for one who lives in self examination

occasionally i gain consciousness
see how this game is played in my mind

i realize why they say
the best time to pray or act with devotion

is when it is totally hopeless
and such acts seem to matter not

because my ordinary mind
is full of ordinary thoughts

true awareness' view
is anything than ordinary

they speak of beings
whose enlightened gaze even into hell

can recognize and aid
if comprehended or asked

i'm like a million
other wayward fools

who choose the
wrong trail again and again

but those who see
do not give up

they are like light


*


om tare to soha

Poem - it is on the small things we do

it is on the small things we do
or in the ordinary seeming

that happiness is ready
to spring forth and surprise

because the joy in all things
is never far away

delight is the light
behind every star

if you see anything
that is God

*

HB
Oct 2015

Poem - the pond / is frozen

the stone won't sink
or go in the pond
is frozen

last week it could
through just a crackle
of ice

everything is tan
blonde or brown even
the earth

except things
whimsically
highlighted by frost

the sun seems
like an old man or
woman

peeking out a window
you can feel a ray
and then gone


*

Poem - brighter or darker

if you look up
the tree branches are bare
they wave in the sky

against this
the ducks and geese fly
you feel winter coming

bonds between people
home get tighter as
the chill commences

each lived in place
so familiar becomes
brighter or darker



-----

Oak Park
2015

Poem - the street psychic can cleanse your soul

the street psychic can cleanse your soul
for ten bucks or sell you a joint
if you want real help you can call
this number and ask for brittany

how long will you be in new york
and where are you staying not times square
midtown mahattan for you or near
bowling green by the battery

people like you are used and use new york
so who is the victim not him or you
we're like bumper-cars and cony island
and he thrusts his pelvis at your face


*

Poem - and i have gained by you going

i had no idea
of your dishonesty

and when you betrayed me
for another

i waited after you left
for what i do not know

i waited to see
the moon rise with a star

bright in night blue sky
to show me some new things

arising out of darkness
they are brilliant

beyond the sad whiles and plans
of those who are cowards and even me

so as the moon rose
i knew more would come to me

you have taken nothing
and i have gained by you going



***

Poem - i keep reading / i read about language

i keep reading
i read about language

i read about
writing experimentation
in canaan in 2000 BC

i am told M
represents water
drawn from the depths

a S
is a snake or serpent
who endlessly devours
its own tail

how Romans
were slow to
adapt Latin inscriptions

how it could be
corrupted Phoenician
or some other untraceable
Indo-European script


*

my mind travels
through different
alphabets

Coptic

Runes

Greek

Cyrillic

Ethiopian

each with a history
all with a struggle
all attempting
to capture

a loving thought
or a judgement of death

sheep owed
lost n found

lies jokes and
exquisite stories

scratches of lines

lives lost and saved

I did not believe him, I've heard lots of tinfoil hat schemes.

He was convinced that black self-driving trucks trolled the neighborhoods at night, their payload a concealed quantum broadcaster that influenced the thoughts of sleeping people.  In the morning everyone would have an overpowering urge to have a Pepsi -- or report any suspicious activity of their neighbors.

I did not believe him, I've heard lots of tinfoil hat schemes.

But when I lived in Quail Meadow, I had a neighbor woman who was completely out of her mind, she said that the government and local authorities were spying on her through her TV, computer, and light-bulbs -- I didn't believe her for a second.

It turned out the NSA was spying on most people in the United States any way they could.

Being in a surveillance state, a state with secret security laws, subtiley corrupts the mind -- I don't know what to think anymore. The shadow government has no idea either. I decide to start collecting old national geographics. I want to read about the past, have a gauge about what came before, as we shut down our libraries, discard the books, electronic document and history online becomes authoritative, and can be rewritten at any time.

Then I go back in my mind the 1880s and try to live there, before our data profiles could be pinned by a metadata needle to a state like a butterfly to a collection card.



**

October 2018

Poem - i dream you are nearby

i dream you are nearby
and i can save you
it is not too late
i call your phone
i am surprised to hear
it ring in a pile of rags
abandoned or lost
in the shack i am
standing in



*

Poem - but you never forget how it feels

while waiting
on hold

a song says
we get
run down
by dreams

other music
suggests
maybe
some day
you'll know
where
you are
supposed
to be

and to be
ready to
move on

all like
fragments zen
koans
speckled with
hypnosis

filled
with such
longing

malleable
as a play-dough
of desire

or mind
making shadows
light and wall
and silhouettes
simultaneously

but you
never
forget how
it feels

Poem - Perhaps

he is alone
on the beach
with a selfie-stick
going through the motions
digging in the sand
frolicking in the waves
sending pictures perhaps
to a woman far away

in halting
pantomime he moves
pacing out and redoing
one shot or another
getting the splat of a wave
against him how fun
how refreshing it is
see you soon

the choreography
becomes painful
the sun is hot for his dog
so he decides he has enough
with the phantom beguilement
he has spun
walks up the cliff
limping just a bit

when he is gone
i don’t know
if i should be angry
amused or afraid
the sun is the same
and so are the waves
his staggering dance
just holes in the sand




O

Poem - to break free of time through architecture (we arrive and depart unexpectedly)

we were beautiful and lived in the future
but the past caught up with us
like with everyone else who tries
to break free of time through architecture

because death is in every straight line
invested in every curve and plane
only apparent when time takes its toll
on the euclidean environments we erect

there is no rampart real or imaginary
bubble however perfect that will exclude
the gradual corrosion then final rush
into dissolution of all sensation and feeling

walls are like bookends and inside
the contents of life a story is bedded
any number of people are there to be seen
to grow up live love and die

who is watching and seeing some say God
others say the abyss no sight
the spaces heroically go up then decay
we arrive and depart unexpectedly

when we are not here there is a hush

like in a dream you might come back
look and say yes here was my table and chair
there was my window with the view
the moon or star rose and i was enthralled




*

Going Back to The Tomb of the HMO

I think, if a tomb is designed right, people will come by and see it and be your friend -- even though they never met you.

I go to the cemetery where there is a tomb that looks like a small office building. The guy who built it was the in business of HMOs. He perfected the concept, promoted it, was joyful in it. His tomb is made of grey marble, and there is a glass door to a small office, with two chairs and a television hooked to a DVD player. It looks like there has been no presentation for a long time. There are a few signed art prints on the wall, under glass, done in a tasteful LA style from the late 1990s, they are very expensive. Opposite the office there is a glass wall and a marble room with two stone covered protrusions that remind me of boobs or a pair of photon torpedo tubes from a science fiction movie.

This is where the caskets are implied -- one end of the casket, hanging about a foot and a half over a slate colored stone floor for all eternity. The other 75% of the casket is set into a slanting wall. I wonder if it is their feet or their heads, poking out of the wall. Part of me says 'feet' and the other part of me says 'heads'. No way of knowing, unless you want to get in there and crack open those torpedo tubes of eternity to see.

Everytime I see the tomb, I always leave feeling Death and Business are spectacular. When you combine the two realities in a tomb, I feel so morbid, I am amazed. I look at the architecture, and I want to work there, and cry at the same time. I am like a ghoul with a resume. I see my own death in a very nice silver suit, made in Italy. And I look good. That is what has got me coming back to The Tomb of the HMO.

The view is pretty good too -- you can see Catalina Island on a clear day.


*

Pacific View Cemetery
Newport Beach, CA

Poem - 3 AM

there is nobody here
but us and the freeway

the diner never closes
the flies never sleep

no local food no sleep
tables being disintegrated
one meal at a time

we've got to get to LA
or vegas right away
like you'll die trying

but which town
should we go to

we flip a coin



*

Poem - tooto hytho aliang trumo

to hide what i meant
i wrote in code

i wrote of love
i wrote of insecurities

this was a year or so ago
i have lost the key

all i have is the cryptography
and no meaning

the notes saying like

queto meego beeto tryug
sheddo skapso filgo eum

hyrida zeeto soggum palo
eenugo ummins chan so fa

and

tooto hytho aliang trumo
saang whythe erago turmpin

meeps frang tragral solom
baatch egrim tentro glama

i keep the papers
and someday i might make sense

of why i had to hide
me from anything



*

Poem - ( i take the picture anyways )

i can't take 'a selfie'
because when i see myself

i immediately suspect my own face
as that of a character

a criminal or suspect
not of anything heinous

but yet complacent of
abetting the most stupid of things

capable of threadbare excuses
and yawning laziness

transmitted through
words

(i take the picture
anyways)

Poem - let me make you / something / to eat

when a child cries
in the middle of the night
i get up first
this is how i am

cooking and washing dishes
doing the laundry
a kind of monster
i suppose

what happens when men
become gracious or helpful
the whole world
could end

or when women
no longer have to figure
a way out so as
not to impose
nor be a slave

*

but back to now
are you hungry or tired

let me make you
something
to eat




**

Sir Francis Drake and the Spanish Galleon Chorizo

In Bodega Bay, on a bright summer morning, I take my son Danny treasure hunting. Along the way I am able to teach him a few things.

1) Treasure can be ANYWHERE, you never know where it might by laying, and how!

2) Pirates were hiding treasure all over the place because of leaky boats and navigational errors in the swashbuckling days before GPS and iPhones.

3) When treasure hunting for buccaneer spoils, you must shout “AH HA!” and point dramatically from time to time. This is to keep all treasure hunters on their toes, and show places that could be significant — like a clue.

With these things explained, we are well underway, going down the road to the beach. Neat vacation houses give way to breezy vistas, hills going gently down where you can see Bodega Bay and the water glittering in the sun.

“Dad, what is sawshuckling?” asks Danny.

“Swashbuckling? That is a fancy word for dancing — pirates love to dance like maniacs before they attack.” I tell him, and I show him a few of their moves.

“It looks like karate.”

“Sure — Pirate Karate!”

We are passing the last part of the golf couse before we start on the trail down the bluffs.

“AH HA!” I shout and pick up a rock.

“What is it!”

“This rock is exactly the size and shape of the Star of Peru!”

“It is?”

“The Star of Peru is a fabulous diamond that drove sultans and emperors mad!”

“It is?”

“Of course! Didn’t you know Sir Francis Drake came here — he had three captured Spanish galleons groaning with treasure raided from the Spanish Empire? One was the galleon Chorizo — it was leaky and damaged from a storm Sir Francis Drake weathered, escaping from the Spanish warships sent from Cuba to intercept him.”

“He did?”

“Yes! Sir Francis Drake made landfall, and decided to unload the leaking Chorizo and bury silver plate and pieces of eight, gems and silk and pirate gold, somewhere around the beach and bluffs!”

“Wow!”

“And it has lain here waiting to be found, because Sir Francis Drake never returned!”

“AH HA!” shouts Danny.

“You bet! Keep your eyes open!”

We walk on the beach, drag seaweed on the sand and climb rocks. Danny finds a great stick that is a sword. Dogs run by, we explore tide pools.

“We must be getting close!” I yell.

“How do you know, Dad?”

“We are treasure hunting! When you are treasure hunting, you have hunches. I can feel it!”

AH HA! In a remote section of the beach, we find a cave, blackened by smoke from campfires. It is just big enough for a few people to sit in it. Danny and I see how far it goes back — back far enough where you have to crawl, and have a flashlight. We sit inside the cave, and look out.

“Do you think Sir Francis Drake found this cave?” ask Danny, very seriously.

“Of course he did.” I say. “But he didn’t bury the treasure here.”

“Why?”

“This cave too small!”

We exit the cave and I tell Danny about the adventures of Sir Francis Drake, and how he circumnavigated the globe. After building a sand castle, we get hungry and decide to go back to the house.

“Did you have fun looking for treasure?” I ask Danny.

“AH HA!” shouts Danny.

On the first day of third grade, Danny brought the rock we found that is just like the Star of Peru, and shared what he did during summer vacation. Now his classmates are interested in searching for pirate treasure in Corona Del Mar.

Because when you are looking for treasure, you can find it just about anywhere.

Poem - years ago / you were flying away from me / in a toy spaceship

years ago
you were flying away from me
in a toy spaceship

the ride
we all had one
it would turn us in circles

you were in front

time goes
and you go too
still flying away from me

and time
reminds me of being
like a toy spaceship

each body
going around and around
some go before others after

it is all we can do

free will as real as the
illusion the rockets fly

but then i don't know

  time goes
  and you go too
  still flying away from me




*

I Put Band-Aids Over My Eyes Today

I put band-aids over my eyelids today. They are very comfortable. I listen to Johnny Cash sing a song that goes "As long as the grass shall grow..." The backup singers are very lyrical. He's singing about something horrible, betrayal, but the backup singers sound cheerful.

*

HB
Sept 2015

Poem - the opposite of faith / is not fear

the opposite for faith
is not fear

it is faithlessness
and we do not have it

cast into a human shape
the form is faith

you can heave great doubt
or fear and still have faith

in fact there is a thing
called 'holy doubt'

it prods me to know
my faith

to discard superstitious
or magical thinking

to find the higher power
as i evolve

because as i revolutionize
the higher power does too

and i must keep re-
finding it

any static god
is not god

i follow what has
barely been touched
by books

i have found it
through action

it is experienced
right now absolutely

deathless
beyond suffering

joyful
and aware


*

Poem - how i wish i could remember / we don't always need to know

i dream of perfect worlds
where there is no sin nor fall from grace
i wake up and they dissolve

how i wish i could hold onto them
but i am conscious now
of how we can create a billion things

i hear myself praying in the dark
dedicating my life and everything too
because i am alive and day is starting




*

9.15.2015

Poem - by the same old liar

i wondered about it
then i didn't wonder about it

not thinking was not an answer
it just happened

like noticing particles of dust
in a sunbeam

or realizing you just woke up
to reality

a break from the customary
conversation of moods

now inner babble shown as
false predictions of some future

by the same old liar



*

Poem - i don't mark time

i don't mark time
if i exhaust the horror
of possibly dying

i don't get by
if i can really let go
completely

i can be here forever
if i stay centered
in the moment

i will have no fear
if i buff off my own
bullshit

clarity is its own
comfort

dedication
too


**

Poem - it hurts

they are gone there are no tears
only a dislocation
or something painful

fear or despair

just like that in the heart that loved
so smoothly and
automatically before

it hurts



*

9.14.15

006. Playing the Anachronistic Social Game with the Director

The Director is here, smiling, nodding.

"Hello men!"

"Hello there."

We wait.

The director looks at the dogeared papers, the battered books, the map, the small lead figures, the small rocks we are using to keep everything from blowing away. "And what are you men doing today here?"

"We are playing a game."

"Oh!"

"Yes, a game from our youth."

"Really!"

We wait.

"And how is it? How is it done?" asks the Director, blissfully unaware.

“It is a game based of social interactions while playing a persona in an anachronistic period of time, related somewhat to the Middle of the 1200s AD.”

“Oh! Using papers.”

"Yes."

"And those small things?"

"Metal figures on a map simulation."

"And those things?"

"Dice."

"Manual random number generators!" yells Terry, starting the Director. Nick shushes at him.

"How intriguing!"

We sit there for minute, but he does not leave. I see Terry is wanting to say something, possibly explode into profanity, but he does not. 

“Everyone has their own unique persona, based off a series of statistics.” 

“Interesting! In the interest of the community, for understanding, to be connected, I shall participate." the Director sits down.

He remains, smiling, utterly content. Terry is holding back profanity, his face a bit purple. 

“Then .... I will assign you a persona!" I shuffle papers. "You will be playing a rouge”

“Oh! How fascinating. What is a “rouge”?”

Nick sighs and looks at the sky.

“A rouge is – never mind.” I look though the old papers. “You will be playing a priest.”

“Priest?”

“Yes a religious authority. Someone who dispenses a religion.”

“Fascinating!” 

“Isn’t it!”

"Can I be a monotheist? A monotheistic Priest?

"Absolutely. So now you are in the wilderness.”

"Wait!" says Terry. "I think he has to be a pagan priest."

"Aw." says the Director.

"OK -- we are in the WILDERNESS!" I shout. 

“And why are we there?” 

“You are part of a party of several adventurers who have traveled many weeks to get to this place.” growls Terry.

“And why are we here?”

“Rumored nearby is a magnificent tomb, filled with treasure, and also peril.”

“And why are we here, exactly?”

“To find the treasure.”

“And whose treasure is this, lawfully?” he gets very serious. 

“Nobodies! I mean, the person who this treasure is, is dead. And their family is dead. And the local municipality and governing authorities in the area immediate and adjacent have no interest in it. It is not part of the meta economy, nor the macro algorithmic projections for the “good of all”.”

“So strange!” 

“It is a game.”

“Ah!”

“So shall we continue?”

He rubs his hand together, “Please do! I think I am getting the Nag of this.”

“Nag?”

“Getting the Nag, yes.”

“You mean getting the HANG of this. Anyways, your party breaks camp and proceeds down the valley.” I pretend to roll a dice behind the screen.  “There you encounter five brigands.”

“Brigands?”

“Socially irresponsible young people who take things from others without permission.” Growls Nick. 

“Ah!”

We sit there for a bit, the Director smiling, the sun shining.

“So now you choose to do something, to interact with them.”

“Well! I give them a – a --- a stern lecture!” 

I have never seen the Director so excited. He is beside himself, bouncing up and down just a bit, and he plants his elbows on the table. A few of the figures fall over, but he does not notice

“Ok.”

The Director waves his arms in the air. “I lecture them to convince them of the harmfulness to themselves, and others, by using those actions that take things from others without permission! I tell them about the greater social good!”

Terry stares. Even Nick is taken aback. 

I pretend to roll a dice again.

“The brigands are moved by your oration and decide to give up their life of crime. They depart.”

I start packing up the board and game pieces. 

“Well, that’s it!”

“Really!”

“Oh, yes! You won.”

“Fastest we’ve ever seen!” says Terry. 

“All done! Thanks!”

The director gets up, still a bit giddy. “Well, I do have to say, that was very enjoyable.”

“Well done!”

“My, I will have to come back and play the anachronistic social game again some other time.”

“Aw shucks!” says Terry, turning purple. 

“Well, then, I will see you later.”

Off the Director goes, sufficed with goodwill and joy to all.

"It's like he just got banged really good for the first time in his life." says Nick.

We wait until he is out of sight. I take the map and the dice out again. 

"OK -- where were we?"

"Brigands" says Terry. "I take put my bow and fire two arrows."

"I cast "fireball" at the biggest brigand and back up between the two fighters."

"Men at arms advance." says Montesquieu. 

Rengszal Retirement Village

formerly Palo Alto, CA

August, 2055

Poem - a floating card

a floating card
lit from above
with smoke curling below

behind pitch blackness

the card is the ace
of diamonds while in dreams
it means nothing and everything


*

you die
and your family
who knows no one here

swoop in and claim every bit of you

mementos they
rather not have they throw in the trash
or burn so it is all sealed


*

rage


*


it has always been
this way





_

A Poem for Douglas

this was when i lived in a huge house
and you pretended to swallow your arm
as we sat on the patio at night
filming this was your new bride

your video face and shoulders lit brilliant
we had a fire nearby that i kept stoked
animated you are and happy even sly
won over totally by new love

i found the mini DV tape the other day
both of us are divorced and someone else
lives in that house with the pool
and the manicured backyard

i regret some things and not others
more is not seeing you for many years
and how we are friends now separated
and how delightful you were to your new wife


9.01.15