i tap on my window
wipe frost off the pane of my own mind

bringing day to night
or night to day to the house in my head with slates for a roof

if you see my silhouette in the window
you'd mistake me for someone else

i'm outside just like you
waiting to get in


*

say in a field or a home
wouldn't that be nice

where you can take
off all your cares & read

or if words were like
a helping hand x 2

this poem like
a kind old lady

or a lost uncle
who has a million bucks

but why would you or
i want much

knowing what comes in
must go out

but wouldn't it be nice
to find aladdin's cave

to have a golden touch
or ice cream body

and give it away
all day for free

sometimes in hurt or agony
the heart rises

zooms straight through
a dawning or


you might be able to see
from a view

that has never been yet
always will be

where loss
has not been invented

where separation
is impossible

then after the apex
come back

see all the true
little things

stirring here
peeping there


creatures and hearts
you can help

oh on his
birthday
i think

all the birds
in the world
are singing

all the
planes
soaring

the wind a stirring
every orchard
blossom

every land
with green grasses
swaying'
forests breasting

all for him
for his heart
for his eyes

with such love
i do not exaggerate

and we can all be
loved this way

knowing it
can be done

then
loving


----

For David
7.27.16

i see the full moon
in the early morning sky

even before
the sun has arisen

the moon is lucid
perfect there

when i see it
i had lost track
of where it was

i thought it was
in my pocket

or i had left it
behind on a trip

i'm so glad to see
the moon is the moon

marked marred but
completely free
unbanished



*

bolsa chica 2016

i do not know where i am
each mid day is 1000 years long

this span we call a day
the start and end of it are the same darkness

each time
i begin aware of time running in

i end the day sensing time trailing out
like a tide

surrounded by people
doing the exact same thing

exactly at the same time
every single day

even the music is the same
songs play at the same time

why do they say one day
is separate from the other

how do they think they know
where they are

they place themselves some place

that place advancing somehow

i see no evidence of anything
advancing

i see the same thing each day
like echos from a hand that clapped

i do not know where i am



***

i prefer not knowing where i am in dreams
because clocks have not been invented there
nor does money have any importance or changes any outcomes
time demoted is secondary to memory and feeling
death has been banished entirely

depart to the place of dreams or stay
no one knows where they are asleep or awake
sleeping or awake
you experience an eternity each time




*
**
***
****
*****

does joy go farther
than i can think

by being exaltation
yes it does

how does joy then
reside in me

this little being
such small aims

could be grace
or a solemn deal

the order is love
for love's sake

if done
springs faith

beyond hope
and fear


--


7.16.16

when i met you last time
you said you had made peace with god and buddha

amazing things had been revealed to you
and you would be happy to tell me more later if i wanted to know

i wonder about this months later
when i think i should call you and see how you are doing

i wonder if things are still so sweaty
so bright almost unbearably clear with a certain imperative

i wonder about this months later
when i think i should call you and see how you are doing

a black sweater
in downtown napa

fifty chinese tourists
also in black sweaters

a cowboy hat
and a shot of espresso

three bridges crossed
mildwinter day

a woman comes
her dog barking

barking barking
barking barking barking

barking at tourists
barking at cowboy hat

midwinter day
dog keeps barking

even as it crosses
three bridges in napa

__

December 2015

lost some enthusiasm
when i saw how much suffering
i caused when i had enthusiasms

i imagined like being
on some rare boat down a gilded stream
adorned in bejeweled molecules

with dignity the role i could play

but after a rest and reappraisal
i saw the keenest new thing

i floored it

taking a swing at the moon
figuring to fix what breaks


**

7.14.16

i dream cats have taken over the world
with their politics

white longhairs with puffy tails
and smushed faces

i'm trying to escape them
they chase me in the dream

little bells tinkling
and no other sounds at all

when i turn to fight
i see them arranged in a stack

like a honeycomb or a grid
you park cars in

when i see this i know
who is running the show

i the dreamer
am in charge

brooding over
closed doors to rooms you hated

some so stuffed to the brim
with blame it is impossible to see in them

you sitting in the light
with a nice breeze and a checkered cloth

free as you'd care to be
in a place that can live as wherever you'd like

\___

i hear some asshole
whistling
whistling

he is talking
through whistles

then they talk
in spanish

and i write
in english

but i keep wondering
how we communicate at all

i'm using
shapes and spaces

poems are like
whistling
whistling

your life isn't like TV
so try not to watch it
like a show
or be asking yourself
how do i fit in this scene

nobody fits into anything
we aren't home or away


*


Day after my Birthday
2016

i had a great dream last night
i can't remember a single thing about it

much like a previous life
every mark feature and thought

it all gets washed away like chalk
off  the eternal sidewalk

at my own twilight i have to stop playing
and go inside for bed

then up appearing
bright and early the next dawn

just as exciting and fun and fresh
as it was with the previous me

a question
that in his death

the body dropped
away of limited sight

has he knowledge
revealed to him

does he know
the movement of fate

has he knowledge
of the future

or of other mysteries
that baffle us



or is revelation
possible irregardless

even as far as
indifferent to solid or not

as lightening
potential appears

out of empty space
yet in space

transcending
life or death

heaven
or earth


***

For Pat Payne
1928 - 2016

i had a dream
the apartment was in order

it was bright
i did not ruin the laundry

you liked the salad

it is nice to talk
as is we were friends

or a good idea

today is like an era
you read in a book

after a time
of reconstruction

surrender or war


...

i would be embarrassed
if my neighbors or co-workers could see

but here are my hand signals
my pursed lips my cocked head in askance

here is my hat
a sunny boat a glass of amrita or cream

or the hotel room
graciously i stayed at and got it on in


---

turning from the burning
pyramid of khufu

this ravaged by the avarice
of robbers ancient

mount shaped as the cosmic base
beheld by armies and tyrants

stone ruin hardly pitched at all
by love filth birth or death

cameras now turning
to a golf course

a green shadow
to remember by

it has an overwhelmingly
positive 5 star rating

but with a tough lie
on the 10th hole

then
rivers of time moving

a necropolis
will gently seed there

where you
will be buried

tourists
new cameras turning

turning from the burning
pyramid of khufu

\

right before i wake up
we argue in the dream
 as in real life

and as in waking day
the argument is silly petty
 even vindictive

but time is not tied to anything
in worlds of make-believe
 or dreams

in both experiences i see i am
like a doorway open
 or closed

seeing this now
after so many years
to blame
 what a shame

i sit and watch the waves
and think about the robots on the internet
who write me and say they are adorable

it is july 4th and the surfers
are just getting some good waves
after the ocean was so flat

an oil derrick by catalina island
salutes burning off some natural gas
on the end of a long boom

i prefer each fictitious contact
to be as unreal as it seems

another example
of a reflection wrapped in a false plea

of a reflection
wrapped in a bit of appeal if you see it

in any case how serious
can i keep my private thoughts
to my vanity inner patriot or clown


___

July 4
Sunset Beach

like you i listen to the same songs
the same song unendingly
even the same time of day

making all others listen too
it might be peggy lee
or simon & garfunkle

we're on the couch
with a horde of newspapers
it here it comes

just like remembering
the same event at the reunion
wedding or office

the dropping the same tired old pun
with the familiar worn out
windup

like you i do the same thing
but why does it have to be so
because i wouldn't ever be like you

i swore i wouldn't traveled crossed states and
took on relationships jobs cities to prove otherwise

but here i am sometimes actually looking forwards
to three pm and hey jude or the boxer
after we have read the irish sport pages

here develop the deformities
the marks of
of middle age

on my face or my neck
my eyes or hair
my torso and legs

hated by some youth or
younger set just
by being alive
scored scratched

an old cueball on
what should be a pristine
playway of style
poise clever lifestyle

it isn't sufficient to say
fuck you this way
nor should it be
grin and bear it

i see the humor in and also
some of the sadness

my turn now
yours will be later

all along i bet
my green is greener than yours
my hopes higher
my dreams dreamier


*

7.01.16
Bodega bay

i see that narcissists are like animals
with no comfort of an animal

nor with any generosity like an animal
nor with any regal bearing of an animal
nor with any industry of an animal

but with a vulgar display
and a hatred like a dying creature
sickened with disease


*

fog recedes the sky racing blue

where does the wind
come from my son asks

or where does it go

i tell him of hot rising air
and transparent domes

high pressure that soars

cold air from the sea
will speed past us for miles
to the orchards of sebastopol

from there swirl up

over the apples and grapes
and all the redwood trees
and all the pioneer burying grounds

it will know everything

the rocks and fields
solitary farms and hideouts
even lost pirate treasure

my son nods and we agree

thus strange magic associated
from whatever shimmers in the distance
and stray birds so knowledgeable


**

Bodega Bay
6.30.16

if i could move fortune with my will
i would bully it constantly

do you feel the prerogative

when i see you pretending
smiling happy not to be yourself

i see me too dancing prattling
yet incapable of hiding what i think

to be seen and to be pitied or hated
how horrible and exhilarating

do you feel the prerogative

go walking walking walking
as if you will escape yourself

your cunning grip your secret lies
hid by a river or buried on a mountain

locked up in africa or smothered

or known over all things
like a billion scattering of stars

do you feel the prerogative


*

on the converted green belt
where trolleys used to run

they pick up tiny dog turds
in biodegradable bags

the grass is neatly clipped
each blade of a limitless number

like thoughts that come
and vanish in a relaxed mind

both could meander on
seeming forever

only interrupted by a curb
or a street

*

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