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Down Write Wrong

-

the trunk never feels alone
it is just the branches
and the leaves
that pine

your bones again

I got to thinking
once again
about your skeleton
what you would look like
in a box
your chandelier hands
folded over your lap
a postured dignity
preserving your grace
above the dirt
I'd putter
giving footprints
to the mulch

give and take

they want it from me
they taste my way
they feel my words
they steal me away
they wear different faces
they say their own piece
they feed me tomatoes
they find some release
they take me from me
they know that i’ll give
they milk me for moments
i’m learning to live
we meet in the mornings
we walk in the street
we drift through each other
we sit in our seats
we build this together
i forget sometimes
equations are equal
this isn’t mine

samsara

every day
it happens
eyes open
head hits the ground
running
here again! and hungry
give my brain a banana
see if it's satisfied
every morning
i'm amazed
at the crust in my eyes
and breathing
while the cat sniffs
my face
every day
it happens
until one day
it won't

morning meditation

sit
in stillness

find the Bo
in breath

draw air
into grey

bring peace
into noise

forms

i don't want to be a geyser
flashing in and out of notice
everybody either waiting or forgetting
until - oh!
and then - oh...
it's not the fountain life for me,
either. all that consistency
and peaceful put-togetherness
and so it flows - ahh
and tomorrow again - ahh...
i would volunteer to be the ocean
but when i peek my head beneath
the waves, the depths strike fear in me.
i shiver
i surface
rivers - too poetic
whirlpools - too nihilistic
lakes too rife with mystery
sewers too unsanitary
it's easy to forget the water in me
formed in the shape of a human being
i start yearning for greater liquidity
forgetting the moon has its way with me

art if facts

i fooled myself to looking on creation
as something greater than distraction
it was a good trick
had me going
getting tangled
in a hedge maze made of legacies
all my artifacts in shelves and files
the things that humans
left behind for me

writing is no Titan, friend-
it's just another obstacle to
getting something else done
it comes down to a matter
of how you'd rather fritter
whither and whether you care to
leave behind an artifact
for someone else
to find
down the line

scrap paper

mountains miles deep and where am I?
dodesukaden dodesukaden
tunneling through evidence. I want to  show you
all the greatness in the solar areola
lickt erect and prickling gooseflesh
burning for the roughness of 
earthen skin. all of this is meant to
anything or trees make sounds and no one needs to
care. one way or the other I am always
hungry forest breathing thirsty city
bleeding drumbeat blistering. valleys
to the sky and where am I?
dodesukaden dodesukaden

steam

radiant alone

or so i hope

amidst the puttering and worry

i submerge in liquid crystalline

a timeless ticking

lifting me into a reverie

yawning in the eye of the storm

medium

the Hanged Man smiles at Death
beneath the World-
the Hermit takes a breath
beside the Tower-
everybody's waiting for the Chariot

I don't believe Bukowski.

I don't believe he never struggled for a word.
I don't believe it always roared
Or burned like the sun.
I believe he meant it as a challenge.
I believe he wanted to scare
Those of us who could be scared away.
I won't be.

girl on train

all dolled up in candy apple
plastic wrap accessories
blowing bubbles to stay young.
ignorant of memory
the sexless drip of readiness
leaves no room for mystery

cacophony

the figures in my head are easy to ignore
until they're not.
the clamoring begins under the rivulets of water
running down my ribs
each morning. a shouting match that no one wins
until I lift a pen.

Terence's haiku

knee high milky socks

overcoat of stripes undone

soft white belly droops

sunrise

i am the honeycomb!

exclamation points are

divisive issues.

(mar 19th)

pillow

life is thick

the moon is big

and we are mostly made of water

chemicals

at any given moment
i am filled with jet propellant
pesticides
the refuse of a million pills down drains
diffused into my drinking water
a Prozac cocktail with a garnish of
carcinogen.
our mother's milks are soiled
inescapably. even the Inuits, remote,
have poison in their breasts.
we eat what we were never fed.
i have a friend-
they found some molecules inside her car
tossed her in a cage
and made her drink from the tap.

loose-id

you showed up the night after thanksgiving

pushing sugar on my tongue and filling me.

you say it started earlier? a year before, perhaps,

the night my dendrophilia was fungal born and everything went

loose-id. sooner still? yes, there was the

nothing-badge and there was being born and sometimes when

i am awake but half-alive i can remember meeting you

inside a cavern warm and safe. lately i dream and,

even stranger, i remember. running through a valley

warped by urgency along a stream of vehicles all jostling

and then it hits me, fender up against my back. i walk to the

side of the road

and cry. my friend sits beside me tears like diamonds

crusted at the corners of his portholes. then i am running

through the aisles of the grocery, spiky fruit protesting my

squeezes, naked Anubis skinned and hanging like a three piece suit

in the meat aisle. you were all of those.

rolltop

in thirteen steps,

the Russian women shrink.

their bouquet becomes a bud

where my sister and I laugh.

it is there that Shiva dances

casting his shadow on a flower,

overseeing crystals

creditors

and my scattered creations.

what a mess.

i carve a space

and work.