April & Poetry 18

I (dot) com

I, eyes.  I, mouth.  I, crisis.  I, aching.  I, startled.  I, desired.  I, awake.  I, humanity.  I, ecstatic.  I, she.  She, leaping.  She, composing.  She, ruling.  She, mothering.  She, divinity.  She, exploring.  She, he.  He still hangs.  He climbs mountains.  He proves.  He can smolder.  He rises.  He denies his womanhood.  He, I.  Ex-I, re-I, un-I, ir-I, in-I.

I, first.  I, person.  I, narrative.  I, is.  I, overrated.  I, and.  I, like.  I, so.  I, passé.  I, rejoice!  I, re-juice!  I, juice!  She, juice!  He, juice!  We, juice!   

April & Poetry 17

Desert Grammara

Listen to Les chant about Chance’s choice.  North.  South.  East.  West.  Send.  Press send end call press pressure gong sound send sand through throat.  Her Ex- exposed her extra explosive excitement.  Now she’s here, shoving me into this desert, which is really nothing more than an Ex-plain.  Why does she shove?  She used to press, but now she wants to hush love.  Shhhh.  Love.  Shlove.  She tries to ex-press love.  Shove and shout to get the shhhh out.  She’s as impulsive as she is pulsive, as impossible as she is possible, as irritable as she is ritable.  She’s excessive and cessive, exciting and citing, excruciating and cruciating.   

She is static. 

She is ecstatic.  

April & Poetry 16

Vacationing at the Post Coast

Postman boyfriends me.

Postmodern dating site described him as into lip service.

Postcard image promises

Post-apocalyptic panties.

Says he’s completing a post-doc fellowship as the

Selenoplexia poster child.

We go to that trendy, post-war place.

Later, post-kiss, we

post an ad on craigslist.

He asks me my plans

post-life.

I shrug, and say maybe

I’ll blog.

He shares a secret,

wishes he could

hold

postage hostage.

April & Poetry 15

Egoista

Whip Cream tells me her ego is made from milk.  Contrary to popular suspicion, Ego does not affiliate with Igor.  In fact, polls support Ego’s lead in Ohio.  While U.N. speeches lack ego of years back, Greeks protest ego measures.  Ego hits Syrian military headquarters.  Wall Street turns egomaniacal.  Ego deaths rise in New York City.  Investors high-speed trade their egos for data-enhanced servers.  Egos dissolve off the shoulders of drug-enhanced egomedia moguls.  On Friday, we met to ego all night long at the egothèque.  After the morning yoga class, we tossed our egos into the Chalice Pond.  When they broke through the water’s surface, they made ripples that sounded like this:  long, long ego an echo of ache glow inflated and let go.  California allows ego-less drivers.  Radio waves send these words: Have you seen the new spy thriller Egoland?  Download a new ap for your ego.  Enter the freeway and drive West at light speed.  When the sun strokes your ego, ah!  Be burning delight!  Be naked wonder!

April & Poetry 14

Read this post after reading Charles Simic's "Club Midnight"

So, you’ve sold your seedy nightclub.

Are you now the sole owner of an organic farm?

Are you its sole forest gardener, its do-nothing farmer?

Are you its sole crop rotator loosening its green manure?

Do you spend the wee hours summoning insects

To gorge on weird germs and improve crop fertility?

Is your plough flying through Compost Valley

Or sinking in the glistening greensand?

Are bearded Punjabi yogis your silent partners?

Do you have a ploughman by the name of Wendell Berry?

Is Grendel’s Mother coming to the harvest?

Is Mirabai?

Do you happen to have as much forced bliss-energy as you have biodiversity?

Do you have a hunch you’re a cosmic being playing being human?

Is that why you wear Bhakti boots

And kick the eroding Earth sky high?

April & Poetry 13

Take me to the Graces!

After you soap my back, of course.

Take me to the ends of the World,

Or the ends of the whirl.

Let marble walls surround and around.

Though blood or wine may be spilling hot here & there,

Let where be light, light, light

Up our noses and between our toes!

I love forever and you

Besides and backsides and B sides!

Make me come to my knees

And beg Divine Power

In every breath of Every One!

April & Poetry 12

(Read this post after reading CJ Evans' poem entitled "Elegy in Limestone")

If he, stone, and if he

does.  If gods, like light, like if people

towns and cities and nations, like a stone’s throw,

like gods, sound mind and ancient body.

If he does, like if the days and nights

of Earth think Earth, if the spinning

of the Sun and Saturn burn in their Thought, cry

Sun and Saturn; if he does.

Map the subconscious, herkimer and quartz,

the stones not appearing on any map,

if the map wants inward guidance.

If he does.  Word, if it is in

and in mind.  If visible until

Deed.  If mystics lie and light

moves the spine’s hot

Serpent.  If he is light, if it is

okay to dark with.  Stones.  In the

crystal bowl sounds Mount Shasta, and The Word.

If he is the sound of Mount Shasta under Raven’s wings.

If hiding, if hard, if height, if heat, if healing. 

April & Poetry 11

Mojave Majesty

Mother warned me not to tame the wild lilac.  But why should I mind a woman who drinks the nectar of the Sacred Datura?  We’re engaged in a typical mother-daughter wildflower. She shoots petals of blazing stars at me while I try to drown her in meadow foam.  We’ve only recently discovered the resins of the knobcone, the needles of the Ponderosa, the phallic cones of the Sugar, and the Shakti of the Torrey pines.  She prefers mountain hemlock, I, urban gridlock.  We ghost, thrive, and choke on our hike through a grove of Coast Live Oak.  Mother throws herself on a bed of bay laurel mistaking it for Coyote Brush.   She shouts, Divine Lover, if you do not reveal to me your true essence, I choose death!  Mother often threatens the cosmos in this way.  I sit back and cross my arms over my chest to observe her display of spiritual anguish from a critical distance.  Nearby, I find some coffeeberries to smash.  I paint my lips green then red then black.  I tie on my hip scarf.  I sugarbush. I sage.  I choose dance over waiting for Mother.  Later, I run off to meet my idol at a desert campsite.  Her name is Lyrica.  I find her contemplating compost as it swelters beneath a lone Joshua Tree.  Shamans say this land is a healing energy vortex.  Some local people still practice ancient drum sex.  Natives once worshipped rhythm here.  People come here to learn how to kiss rhythm.  Here, we practice dropping the Self between the beats.  A local master instructs me to remove my city and step into the hot Gong bath.  The copper pressure waves lift consciousness; the tin pressure waves shift awareness; and the nickel pressure waves wave waves way away the way waves wave away.  Sound waves wave away brain waves wave away light waves wave away magnetic waves wave away waves away waves away away away way way way way way away.  

April & Poetry 10

Rhythmia

Ventriloquists live in lighthouses, gargle and joke.  Voices surf, redden and haberdash.  Novelists ride shadow boats, cave and inkswell.  Tongues pull deeper into craters, tumble and muscle.  Subconscious lotus blossoms hafla to live music, hoop and ignite.  Cries catch in the throats of deepsea beasts, cradle and fall.  Coupons doze in mailboxes, sliver and waste.  Appliances suffer traumatic stress, polish and hum.  Books shiver in their spines, tale and morph.  Surfers hump rip curl, sexwax and comb.  Glass rims touch lips, un-sober and versify.  Throats unify outcry, swallow and democratize.  Guts wretch martyrs, bribe and pray.  Soldiers suckle kava root, dictate and undress.  The wine-men promise wireless grapes, toast and embalm.  Barmaids pour lips into skinny jeans, publish and snuggle.  The Regime orders all voices imprisoned, writhe and rhyme.  Neighbors throw digital block parties, sigh and seek.  Pronouns become verbs, she mes him.  Sages play Mahjong in palm groves, shuffle and tile.  Teachers promise rose gardens, who versus whom.  World leaders guard fish tanks, confer and becalm.  Bankers wear spacesuits, cheap thrills and escape.  Attorneys make beds, bottles and ankle bells.  Babies have second thoughts, neverdust and waterbirth.  Cows get mastitis, Rose of Sharon and Janet Jackson.  The banyan tree laughs, earthen and worship.  Gasoline excites us, chant and gauge.  Poems make sense, please and desist.           

(After Sina Queyras)

April & Poetry 9

I read poetry aloud to Czarina while the tattoo artist carves an image of The Raven on her back.  Now I am reading Forrest Gander’s English translation of the Spanish poem Firefly Under the Tongue.  She listens to me tang fissure pleasure the pulse.  My voice keeps her from mossing ancient with mystic ardor.  When the artist warns us that bruising may occur, we both become paralyzed from the soul down.  Hours later, a lone Chinese grammarian swags in wearing her ecstatic make-up.  A dark hiss shifts the lily breaks the rock.  Cloak courtesans claw Kabbalah cupcakes.  Czarina’s inked so indelibly deep into the dermis that the wings transform into real Raven’s wings.  She off and flights skywise.  What’s left for me to do but press and twist my foot on the book, as if I am smothering a cigarette? 

April & Poetry 7

toomanyLegotoys

            too many

to play with fire with fire

more plastic            wonders and Structure

            (do count your plans before they hatch)

let Soaring Crow Spirit speak

let Financiers wander lonely as a

cloud that floats on high o’er till and sale

we have some things to work on spiritually

surely Language should go on a gluten-free diet

            perhaps yogi tea makes you

sexual                        meet me at Amusement

Land

                        corner of Do and Think

            toomanyLegotoys!

all’s well that endears

(This post written after memorizing Kathleen Winter’s “Glamour.”)    

April & Poetry 6

In a different city,

all fees are waived.

The Boss has fresh breath,

and weekly meetings move you.

Guys and dolls gaze out windows with

their angel phantom eyes.

Women receive long letters

written from the Pen Man’s Ship.

And letters from the DMV—

Divine Motive Vibrations—

assure all employees

The Boss expects

rain tomorrow.

(This post written after memorizing Victoria Chang’s “Edward Hopper’s ‘New York Office.’”)

April & Poetry 5

Dear Mother

            Mercy stays out late playing Texas Hold ‘em.

Dear Cynic

Dear Psychic

Dear Psychotic

            We’ve received your application.

Dear Beloved

Dear, dear Astrotourist

            You’ve earned your stars.

Dear Herb Ladies & Gemstone Gentlemen

Dear Candlestick Maker

            The night promises to leak your dreams.

Dear good scout

Dear aged sage

           

            You’re on my wit list.

(This post written after memorizing Camille Rankine’s “Tender.”)

April & Poetry 4

Time      when   you

are standing on your

head.  Time as the sky

feeling the beating raven’s

wings.  Time if you’re a

breakfast bowl.  Time if

you’re    my      pillow

when my head is upon you. 

Time if you’re my pillow

when      my         head

is on the block.  Time if you

are my dream.  Time if you

are The Teacher in my dream

who      was            reading

the  Tarot  and  drew  the

Father        of         Wands. 

Time if you are the live cobra

that rose up out of the card. 

Time if you are The Teacher

swallowing   The     Cobra.

Time   as      shockwaves. 

Time      in      dream.  Dream

time.  Dream standing on its head. 

The         raven’s           dream. 

Dream Chief Dancing Raven watching

Wind make love to White Buffalo. 

Dream sweet grass grows

upon your head.  Dream takes Night by

the other hand.  The three go leaping

over       The Chasm.         Time passes.

Dream distorts.  Time may get the jump

on you.  Dream guides the jolt in you.

(This post written after memorizing some lines from Anne Carson’s Red Doc>)    

April & Poetry 3

Paolo and I never agree.  He insistin’ Nina Simone’s cover of “See-line Woman” tops my wail and moan.  I differ; hey, the way Feist do it measures up some.  Paolo gets to turning red, black, and green.  Gets to so he ready to throw his bile in a pile.  Paolo gets me up to confess his hump number ain’t much noise, not like music that hurts.  My woman walk in like piano solo stuck in her hips.  Good reason her name Inspiration.  Whew!  She wreck my days!  Then his lady walk up; she called Silence.  So of curse we gotta get up to assessing the She-ass.  Ugly start when Paolo kicks the trap drum down the fire escape.

(This post written after memorizing Yusef Komunyakaa’s “The Music That Hurts.") 

April & Poetry 2

With solo moon in my pocket, I proceed to clean out the closet.  Fickle dresses twist around the shoe rack, and her gypsy gown burrows in his arrow tube.  There’s not much sorrow or longing here, just outgrown shadows, his old yes jeans, and a pair of shoes that once belonged to the Creator.  Entering this closet means entering the zilch dimension.  In this storied space, the first things one might notice are not the empty cabinets, the rising orbs, or all the world's scattered vanitas.   One might notice the holes in those old shoes, holes left by the taking on of burdens and the receiving of gratitude.

(This post written after committing to memory Lisa Russ Spaar's "Solo Moon.")

April & Poetry

January is National Blood Donor Month.  February is Black History Month.  March is Sing With Your Child Month.  

I donated blood in January.  I read Toni Morrison’s Beloved in February.  I sang with my children throughout March.  Did all these things as a person who considers himself a citizen of strong national identity ought to do.  Hey, I’m as dedicated as the next guy in my desires to express national pride. 

April is National Poetry Month.     

Trumpet interlude blasts through here.

This month, I promise to live and breathe poetry in a way that no man has before this April.

Every day, I will commit one poem to memory and recite that poem in my head or aloud throughout the day.  At night, I will sleep with that poem under my pillow.  In this way, I will live and breathe poetry.  I will allow the poem to live life through me.  For this month, I plan to make my mind a poetry churn.  Just as yogis practice to repeat Gurmukhi or Sanskrit mantras, I will commit my thoughts to poetry written by contemporary, living poets. 

I am excited about this undertaking.  The guys at The Base will envy me.

For one month if the whole nation will be celebrating verse,

to not engage in poetic activity every day of the month would be perverse.

May, June, and July all have their particular commemorative designations.  For instance, July is National Hotdog Month.  National Hotdog Month?  Well, I’ll have to sit that one out, unless the hot dogs can be the herbivore variety.

I’m falling asleep tonight with a variation on a Rumi line dancing through my head.

“Inside you there’s a poet you don’t know about.”

The Heliophysicist's Wife

Garth Blake forecasts sun storms.  He wears a protective space suit and floats around within the Earth's magnetosphere waving expensive NASA instruments with his strong arms.  The instruments he uses measure the flow of energy and matter from Sun to Earth.  While many may take for granted the 5 billion year old star that is 93 million miles away from the Earth, Garth Blake is certain that the symbiosis of Sun and Earth can shed light on contemporary human behavior.  Pun very much intended.

A coronal mass ejection, or CME, is the most violent explosion in our solar system.  Sun storms have been known to thrust 10 million tons of mass into space.  Sun storms have been responsible for city wide blackouts and for scrambling communication and GPS systems.  Garth often wonders -- if the Earth and Sun are inextricably linked energy systems, what do the frequency of solar storms tell us about collective human consciousness?  You don't suppose the Commander in Chief of United States of America is going to deploy its military to the sun to take care of those CMEs the way it did WMDs in Iraq back in '02?  You don't suppose suicide bombers are going to feel the slightest bit miffed about the Sun's oneupmanship?  Or perhaps those nations who harbor uranium enrichment enthusiasts will feel a threat to World Militarulinity.  Not to mention how CMEs can put the NRA and America's precious gun laws to shame.

Scientists have proven that when a group of monks meditate together, they influence the Earth weather storm systems in that region.  So, what would it take for the Earth to influence a sun storm system?

Between sun storms, Garth Blake hasn't much to do but figure out how to reach an itch he can't scratch.  Damned anusitis!  He uses the down time to come up with a plan to realize human potential and harness human energy to take on the cosmos.  He thinks up choreography for a collective Human Helix Dance.  Or he thinks up cosmic sounding chants for humans and animals to sing in loops so as to raise the frequency of their own personal magnetic fields.  Garth supposes that if humans become more aware of their personal geomagnetic influence on the universe, they could learn to make choices that are more harmonious with the sun's magnetic fields.  Solar storms are caused by magnetic fields opposing one another.  Humans often oppose one another.  Garth wonders if we may be better off putting on white shiny shoes and try to out-helix dance one another.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, Garth's wife Elsie -- who is a mystic and a 3QO certified Gong Master -- plays her sun gong in the middle of White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico in order to "raise the frequency of that part of the Earth."  Who says gongs are best played on sacred ground?  The only reason the U.S. military allowed Elsie Blake to play her gong there while they hold off on target practice is because Garth's brother runs the Missile Range.  And when Garth's away on a space mission, Bruce knows the policy.  Whatever Elsie wants, Elsie gets.

Elsie plays her sun gong in hopes that Garth will have plenty of down time, perhaps figure out some way to relieve his itch and scratch himself in that place where the sun don't shine.      
 

One

Awakened beings seem to like this theme:  all One.

Someone might ask, that sounds nice, but how does it work?

Well, maybe like this:  those dishes you're scrubbing in the sink, those dishes are your lover giving you a soapy rub down.  That boy's hand you are holding, that is your grandmother's hand.  The clouds you are staring at in the sky, those clouds are the latest political scandal you've read about in the paper today.  That traffic light changing, that is your mother's smile when she first laid eyes on you after your birth into this world.  That step you are taking, that is your next big success. That breath your are exhaling, that is your next big setback.

Mothers, who may or may not be awakened beings, have told us repeatedly that we should do unto others as we would have done to ourselves.  Mother once told me "Be with others as you would be with yourself.  After all, you are others."

Sure.  I'll believe that when I see it.  You might say.  How does that work?

Like this.

That person you flipped off on the freeway is the pain in your neck.  Those people you are bombing are your kidneys.  Those people you are cheating are your heart.  Those things you are throwing away are your spine.  Those words your are speaking are your lungs.  That dog you are petting is your hand.  That car you are driving is your legs.  That television you are watching is your eyes.  That universe you have yet to explore is your mind.  That Beloved you have yet to embrace is your Self.        

Seed of Sound

You.  Yes, you.  Rise.  Be light now.  Embrace homo luminous, the next phase of human evolution.  You needn't think about it.  You needn't resist.  Whisper to your left brain.  Now rest.  Shout out to your right brain.  Ignite!  Enflame!  The drummers, together, slam down their entire beings to the pavement.  Earth trembles.  Nothing doing, but Love, Love Love!  Wake at night and get yourself a glass of water.  You deserve it.  Water!  Miracle!  You!  All!  It!

Mrs. Halloway rises from bed.  The only other thing in the cell is her harp.  It glows.  She rubs the sleep from her eyes, sits down, snuggles up to the harp and fondles its strings.  The harp’s sound vibrates with the desire to be destroyed.  Destroy me, the harp begs.  Mrs. Halloway stands and says, I will destroy you myself.  She uses all her might to kick the harp to the ground.  She proceeds to give the harp a thorough beating.  When there is nothing left but a pile of dust and a few loose strings, Mrs. Halloway raises her arms up and roars.  Om!  The inmates in the next cell wake, open their eyes.  Purple beams of light shine from the sockets where human eyes should have been.  The prisoners try and fail to move; the shackles hold them firmly against the wall.  Is the wall breathing?  Has the floor dropped?  Does the universe punish light?  The entire prison starts to rattle and moan.  A bloodthristy insect creeps in through a crack.  After an eternity, the shackles dissolve; the prisoners bow down to kiss that crack.  By now, Mrs. Halloway has finished reassembling the harp again.  She strikes a chord that becomes the seed of sound for creating a new world.