Dust 5

I can see the day every night
as I wrestle myself to sleep.
The day when the cats can't wake me.
When you can't reach me on the phone.
When you finally stop by a day later
just in case I had fallen down the stairs
or choked on the poison sky in a glass
of water that I forgot to filter.
That day has a certain look to it.
That of a house vacated during an emergency,
and no time to pack a bag
or worry about the cats' next meal,
or who will dispose of my life's work
which didn't count for anything
to anyone
except to me
and I am gone.

DUST

I bury my crimes with their illusions.
The dirt breathes.
Cemeteries are Hospitals where our
money disappears.
I imagine all the empty coffins with
their mouthes open
waiting to be fed
with the dust in the light.
*

The Beginning of Everything

The Beginning Of Everything
 
now I think I will bite the blue ice in the toy box
with an ocean of maturation
cat whiskers in chains
a bridge from the harvest to my face
that storm tossed ghost ship
that solo cobbled together
with tales of longing and a few clouds in passing
wish softly sister
the mad world is a light dancer
nameless colors cascade into a red lake
urban homesteaders fly by in a fog
shaken lovers stir the city
with a loaf of bread in full bloom
baked with dynamite
what time is nighttime tonight?
tango with the black widow
or talk to the ventriloquist in the mirror
it is sunset's day off
it is the beginning of everything
again
*

we were warned

I remember to remember
a hail storm on a motorcycle
it took me
it shut me up
thunder and lightning...
hurricanes that broke glass
and bent the trees back like Odysseus
bending his bow
a flood that had huge sewer rats
swimming down the street like they owned it
and a pregnant muskrat with an arrow through its head
and a turtle on fire
and we played in the clouds of insecticides
sprayed from above
we were warned
but we were kids
it was magical
and defiant

before dawn

they are at the parade by now
after noticing the time
little numbers
that adjust the sunlight
to the waiting corner
getting the box of shade
the chairs lining main street
where the sharks feed
were bait for the initiated
with the kids following along
too late
for me
I rise before dawn

The Theft

the birds in the trees and a wind chime
 in the slow breeze
 that is exceptional in muting
 our talking
 quietly
 the jaws relax
 we float together on the flying moment
 silenced and willing to go on
 further into the day's magic
 stolen by the theives of our days
 and we feel we are stealing back
 what was ours all along
 *

just for laughs

I see many points of light in the dark night
fires in the void
as if the void loathed itself
a white wash in a black hole
I too would call
it from inside it
no
no message
I call again
and again
just for laughs
and their echos
*

love poem

I love you shamelessly
and quietly
directly and immediately
here and there as you come and go
*

namaste

I bow to the spirit in you
with a lower case pronoun
the first person singular
agenda
dissolves
into everything
a plurality
ironically a unity
bonding us in our chaos
without both of us in each other’s way
*

don’t be negative
when your head
is buried
in the
sand
you are already one
dying
to be two
and so on
through
the entertainments
(...)

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Astonishment

“I no longer want to be astonished.”
A declaration made by Antonin Artaud during the last
years of his life. When I read this I was astonished.
Why did he even bother to write this down at all?
Could he imagine the effect it would have on a reader?
The impossibility of living without astonishment
is terrifying to challenge. Is that what we amount to? Terrified
slaves to wonderment? Bewilderment domesticated?
The codification of self-delusion?
All the myths of deathlessness lead to the preposterous posturing
of civilians who adopt the attitude of happiness as a strategy
of denial. Happiness has become a Cult with vast numbers of adherents.
To live without conscious awareness of death is like being unaware
one casts a shadow in the light. Dreams have become consumer rubbish.
Dreams and Death go hand in hand into the forgotten Shadow’s land.
*

Farewell

There is a heart
behind this shield of fear
with its aura of hatred
pain and ambition
commerce has nothing to do
with the gift
you gave me
at the office
and at home
you probably caught me
red handed
in a dream
or two
over the years
the gift of time
with the trees
and herons
the collective solitude
of song birds
singing farewell
with joy
at dawn
if we could only unchain
(...)

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