Not Meditating

Mining This Sun

Why I Left Dodge

Shafts of Excavation

Moon Food

Mother Mirror

Cracking The Archetype

Anticipating Stillness Via An Art Flick



Not Meditating

All attempts to meditate are the abject denial of it.---Krisnamurti

Sometimes when I sit on the ground
for no reason, bills paid
deadlines met, stomach
neither full nor empty
my quiet spreads and fills me with sky

from brain to big bang
I am the blueprint
a marriage of flesh and sapphire
discovering the opened eye

Sometimes, I become the laughter
of sunflowers or tickling bees
I grow louder than sirens
the dogs howling
from their backyard prisons
I forgive the intersections
that haunt me, face
after ink-toiled face
sealed behind glass
unaware that even seatbelts
canít save them.

Shhh, I say
the snap of breath against spine
the echo of saliva
moistening this heartbeat
calling me back
to right here
to the size of myself
where I donít have to remember
because my funnel opens
and stars pour cream
into these bones
inviting my arms
to wrap around
all that is everything
and squeeze



Mining This Sun

Pour me into skin
let me spread wild
precarious and wide
wind billowing into cells
blood burning with sky

Let me join you
sweet body
more than mere human
make me home
to microbes and galaxies
hummingbirds and Hermes
an atrium of dreams
with windows that spill open
so light can slip
through unencumbered
dust me with lips
that never disappear

Remind me to breathe
when I am afraid
and my thoughts canít bear
the loneliness of visio
encourage me to sing
even when the birds
have died
and all I have
are ashes of joy

Forgive me for hating
as I come to you now
the years of starvation
of gluttony
of blaming you
for every betrayal
almost behind me

you a survivor
a friend
flesh to hold my mind
a place to rest
unravel these bones



Why I Left Dodge

"All Marin County does is talk"
you say, rushing along
on your own private Ganges
"and finger paint cosmologies"
I listen, phone strung
between ear and shoulder
both hands flat
against the fever
of my favorite mug

I want to ask
if you saw the moon last night
or if the 9am sun is painting
your bare thighs gold
as it urges the cherries
into bloom

instead, I let you rant
unable to sully
your soapbox like everyone else
become yet another
excuse for tears
and metaphysical ascensions
restless, I pick up my new pen
run my thumb along the carved wood
my neighbor feeds his rooster
I watch its red chin disappear into seed

and you squawk on
something about an important party
insisting we go together
so people can see whatís happening to you
I ask why me
I feel you tighten your grip on the receiver
as you remind that Iím a witness
to the "psychic restructuring of your consciousness"

I donít laugh
not because I know youíre serious
but because youíve told me
how it feels to be you
I muster maybe, trusting
your THC-marinated memory
will overwrite this conversation
lure a more-innocent voyeur into your debut

It doesnít matter because already
youíve launched into mystery school rap
absolutely no absolutes
and your trinity--a future
of three books, packed workshops
a healed flock

I picture your invisible mentors
realize your pendulum act
might make you a Best Seller
take you all the way to People magazine
your face familiar to millions
of readers like my mother
whoíd be proud to tell her LA friends
she met you over a latte in Sausalito
whoíd want to know
why I donít have your ambition
forcing me to repeat
what I once tried to tell you
that I would rather
dig in the garden
plant carrots
chew from the earth in front of me
wait patiently for death



Shafts of Excavation

Can I touch the pit of my fire?
the bottom where I am so black
I see colors without adornment
realize your smile is the same
turned upside down
where my devotion doesnít change
when your voice pounds me
into the thick forest of childhood
leaves me groping for the ferns and flowers
I planted not so long ago

to know the mirror in all its faces
is to see beauty in everything
in these masks of bones and skin
we are no different
when breath reaches our toes
and cracks us in its morning flame

Please, letís thaw these palaces of misery
retire the lonely nights, the guards
who moat our pits
protect us from the pain:
those loves weíve decorated and battled
paraded past our imaginations
let us torch their charred corpses
mottle their remains
invite Earth back into
our darkness.



Moon Food

I hide
like the new moon
giving stars
their spotlight
till the sun
shades my blackness
once again
forces my bowl
toward the heavens

slice by slice

I emerge
for the four hundredth round
growing fuller
with each bite
of myself
the spices in my belly
reminding me
to chew slowly
explore the nourishment
of each discovery
push the plate away
when I am



Mother Mirror

I hear Rumi
he's telling me
to go slowly and run
unhammock the web of myself
drown in its empty cup

he wants me to dive
through this porcelain body
wake up at the table
stomach sourdough with strangers
with the woman whose form
baked this body
whose heat nurtures longing and fear
tears my freedom apart

he's telling me
to drink from her
allow her
so I can digest myself
write these words
because I am nothing else



Cracking the Archetype

There are moments when I am gone
integrated so fully into now
that all awareness sets
into a twinkle and disappears

no prayers, no sex, no silence
can measure this nothingness
flame rising from a candle
this beacon is steady
my heart the wick
belonging to no name
not you
not even God

When I return
to the raindrops splashing
against my windshield
my tires spinning a trail of dirt
I climb back up the mountain
ready to meet this unknown fate
a pen and its alphabet
as my guides
the three of us wandering
through places I never left
couldnít leave even if I wanted to

vistas as vast as emptiness
carving my ascent
Demeterís road
reaching down for me
released from the field hands of Hades
his calluses gentle enough
to meet again
pull me back under myself
embrace everything in this nothing
the loneliness and joy of my tears
opening my lips
bathing my return
reminding me that gone
is no different than here.



Anticipating Stillness Via an Art Flick

I am the empty chair in Vincent's bedroom
I am the blue walls, the lantern on the table
the air trapped on the other side of the window
forget waiting for Gauguin
I sit for Jung
the soil people of light
for the inviolability of dreams
male and female
a garden stone to carve
mark my trespasses
against Freud
record what's right and rotten about today
liberate everything but freedom
find somebody as smart and stupid
as myself to unravel

Seven times around the sun
and millions of breaths later
I still see Jung on that Art House marquee
relaxed, engaged, human and small on screen
smaller than his books
feel myself sitting on velvet
the color of old blood
my young blood crusted on my finger tips
as I watch, yearning to break free
to make art out of each moment
craft every pain into pleasure

seven times around and I am closer
I have become that jerky film
black and white dotted with a color
other than blood to tell me I'm here
But I haven't stopped yearning
learning for stillness of clouds
the true silence of touch
for the chasm inside to open
gild my bones with atmosphere
release me into the circle of sky
my flesh dancing the tightrope between dawn and dusk
safety net spread
in every handstand, poem, impatient honk
in hothouse plants and roadside rhododendrons
in trees and their wars
smiles waged between strangers

I feel something closing in
a quiet emptiness
constellations orbiting the crib of my body
it is almost my room now
the walls are pink with muscles and capilaries
the vase is overflowing with irises and sunflowers
the painter hears with two ears, bowel intact
Vincent is there, Jung too

I feel someone else
in my stillness
I wonder if it's me


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