EXHALING SUN AND RAIN
Watching the boys shoot
under a blood red sky
the ending moment etched in DNA,
something like sadness
drops down over me
and muffles the shouts.
I walk away not saying a
thing. Suddenly I want to buy
bright bananas, tropical objects
of profuse fertility, red
papayas and strong lemons.
I want to carry them,
bags of them, one in each arm, up
the wooden stairs to my lonely
apartment, sit at the window,
smell the sun and rain
outbreathing from the soft skins
slowly peel and eat
while the stars attempt
to outshine the reflected sun.
AN ALTERNATE PERFECT LIFE
I will be sad to leave the dreams,
the leafy neighborhoods I’ve never
seen but live in after dark,
the great floods that seem to gush
from the ground. I will miss
the flying floating demons I call up,
small demons to send on their way, even
the scary ones who’ve gone
soft like me over time. I will miss the dream
of my daughter running
upstairs with her little
friends bending the basement
ceiling where I live, the great
adventure of following the wires
to see where they all end and what
switch enables what light, the ornate
of old sheet music and wind, the quest
for strange objects that melt
when you close in on them. Where
do these collect, as real
as the waking dream? Do angels
now and again take us
down to let us visit these
beloveds during the darkness
that follows the dark?
A SUNNY DAY FOR TRULKOR
A few leaves still on the tree
clicking when the breeze comes.
The heart is green
like the withered field
after a week’s rain.
You came a far distance
to see me.
The rain has greened your legs.
We are here such a short time
yet we seek immortality.
fast flyer catches insects.
SOFT ARC INTO SPIRIT
What happens to the singer who
won’t sing, the dancer
who won’t dance,
the diver who won’t dive? The song
gets stuck in the throat,
the dance is frozen in sap,
the diver turns to stone. If he plummets
it is not the pouring of nectar,
or the outpouring from spirit
birdsong-like or bee dance-like
but the grinding of rock on ice. Granted
the spires of polished rock
the grains of sand blown across the plain
the canyon-sided river are beautiful but we
are only creatures of light
and cannot see such slow carvings.
For us the stars blaze out stories,
like dust fallen on groaning plates.
Our stories, our conquests, our suffering,
our being, they create our mass, our matter.
When we disappear
our monuments of iron and concrete
will outlast us by a century or two in the hard-
plated universe but if we sing, if we
dance, if we dive
our soft arcs
It is humbling to know
for all your skill
you are riding a wave
of emergence and escape
till you fall
You slipped only
that one time
and that was enough
to live your hour.
RAINFISH LEAPING CLEAR
Fresh winter blows you out,
and you are forced to emerge to the world.
We say come, kiss our bellies,
we are the warm-hearted rainfish,
slick as butter and drifting your way.
The sunrise lays gold on cloud water,
not flashing through but still we are swirling,
above you, below you, we are the dark-backed,
we come to boil still drunk
from the night’s frenzied chase
of fuzzy lightning bugs with red
We are the rainfish finally reaching
earth. We see in our fisheyes
your longing to leap clear
of the hard surface.
Your inner rhythm runs wild,
your threads unraveling
from the careful weave,
a line of sand blown away
like a mandala.
You’ve slipped again.
You tried to live your life
as a hero.
The strong current running under yards of sand,
comes to surface at your shiny place, trips you,
swallows your ankles knees stomach hands,
enters your mouth till suddenly all you have
is yourself as you really are.
The radio while driving through dusk,
the milky purple lightning
been triggered like floss
in the faraway
yea so one day wake up if
you do. Look, ask yourself:
What am I supposed
to do about this wild light,
ride it heal it conquer it clean it
eat it or will I
and let it live?
CATCHING THE WINDHORSE
The sound of steel strings enters the ear
blows through the soul
of backdoor bluesman.
That sound, the torn edge
says your suffering is not
As much as the words
as much as a poem
as much as your feeling sitting
versus your feeling running
enters the ear and blows through the soul
as much as the zenman’s zen, all his
suffering not in vain, all your
suffering not in vain
till you fidget and run back
till you tire or grow old
till you have no one left to circle about
or to wrap you up in silk
at the moment of death
come rushing back, out of breath,
out of space, out
of personality, just you, who you
used to be
before you feared,
your suffering not in vain.
I am not saying it’s OK to watch
the horses run over the little children
and not protest, not try
to rein them in, not shout
The skin of my belly has blossomed
red across the mound like a cesarian
or disembowelment scar. Birth, death –
something is agonizing in there.
I welcome the new being,
alien of 60 year gestation.
He will crawl up my gut, he will
enter my lungs,
he will shoot straight up out the top
of my skull
leaving plenty of blood and bone
which I will scrape up and bag.
Some will be eaten now.
Some will be frozen for later study.
Some will be fathered like a newborn.
In this way is created the necessary wound
that frees the alien
to his ancient star.