Dedication
He
followed her
into the garden
so secretly
that he kept it from himself
until she found out
and touched him
on his soul
saying,
"Would you mind
if I talked with you?"
index
Introduction
Black ribbon of ink
between
paper
and sculptured letters.
Mind
to fingers
pushing
down
on the levered keys
of this writing machine
to leave
just this trail
of me
for you to pick up
and follow
where I lead.
index
be very care full
that you don't become
what you eat
unless
what you eat
becomes you.
index
The first chills of winter
blew down the valley
from far to the west
and north.
index
Star sailor
on Alpha/omegA
... damage report ...
... damage report ...
every pile
of radioactive waste
is terminal.
The acorns fall,
few grow to oak,
out of it
into it
around it.
The moon travels with us,
we cling desperately
to the sun,
earthship shudders
ten thousand people die
and a million homes are destroyed.
index
Do you think it true
that this typewriter
is mightier than the neutron bomb?
Do you think that this
ancient word processor
could cut a gentle hole
through the nuclear wall
that surrounds our imagination?
Could it do that, do you think?
index
later
starting into
winter's first moon
drawing in
as the cold deepens
begins to touch your bones
the frigid danger
of mother nature's
indifference ...
The first snows
of winter have fallen
the day is gray
but the kitchen is snow bright
and the oven warms me.
I wonder
what tides
the moon raises
in our sleeping imagination.
index
The grenade falls
in front of me
in my dream of war.
I cover my face
with my hands
and still
death appears.
What the hell ...
I reach for it,
toss it away
and survive.
Faith appears
when you have
no choice
but despair
and risk death
reaching .....
index
When the time comes
it will be much like now
only different,
If that makes any sense to you.
Maybe now is the time
but I thought
it would be different.
I guess I can't much tell,
I mean I can't see anything
very clearly from here.
Especially when the candle
is flickering.
index
Yesterday the moon was full,
the first moon of winter.
And today the wind rose up
and blew cold and hard from the north.
The angel at the gate of Eden
swings his icy sword,
we bit the apple,
our fate was sealed,
it is written .....
This is what we understand
with our knowledge of good and evil.
Now we know. Now we know.
And why this terrible winter,
why this cold of nature's indifference?
"And now perhaps,"
God mumbled to himself,
"he will put forth his hand
and take also from the tree of life
and eat, and live forever!"
So it is explained in that ancient book
of our beginnings.
index
Having learned by deception
of good and evil
we are now to be prevented
from eating of the tree of life
and living forever.
Thousands of years later
a young Jewish prophet
picks up the same image
and tells us (they tell us)
that he is this same tree of life,
and that if we eat him
we will live forever.
Can anyone puzzle this out?
Is there anyone
who can make sense of it?
What a strange equation
of morality and immortality,
of immorality and mortality.
All these centuries of good and bad
of suffering and death
and what a curious explanation
of it all.
index
and
the sound
of falling snow
as the silence
settles in .....
index
with the slip of snow
the flash of ice
and onto our backs
just so hard
that we see
our private flash of stars
and laugh through the pain
lying back awhile
before
it makes any sense
to try again
sneaking over the snow
that hides the ice.
index
Can
anyone hear
the sound
of falling snow,
or feel
the warmth
of icicles
hanging in the sun?
index
You may not.
Then again you may.
Who is to say
how you will play?
Be sure of this
you shall be caught
ready or not
when death has its way with you.
So smile,
you can't do bloody thing about it.
index
Ash Wednesday
There is
no beauty
and no truth
except earth
then flesh
then earth again.
index
It was given to me
as both moral
and factual
that the pen
is mightier than the sword
but
it would appear
that if a man knows
neither reading
nor writing
he may
take up the sword
to insure
that his children
are taught
penmanship.
index
i was born
and i asked my father
if i was a freeman
and he answered
that there was no such thing
as a good landlord
index
I sit
by the dying fire
under a rising moon
and wonder
if I should
pay off my mortgage
with bullets.
index
No bullets,
Not even rifles, yet,
Only twenty-six letters.
index
Ambition?
None beyond
house and home.
There are of course
eight by ten glossy dreams,
those pieces of maya,
those bunches of sour grapes,
that fill our magazines
of consumptive affluence
with bullets
that we use
to shape our ease
out of the blood and bones
of the slaves
of our multinational
imperial corporate racism.
Got any solid gold?
index
trilateral canada corp.
a wholly owned american subsidiary,
a division of free world enterprises.
full moon tonight
some clouds
backlit by the moon
moving fast.
now and then
the moon shows itself.
easter sunday traffic
moving three lanes fast
back into the city.
sunday night
resurrection
last seder of passover
out of egypt
no more slavery
no more free enterprise world.
index
The techno-scientific
reduction
of me
to a material
of no matter
how fine a stuff
to be engineered
by genetic
and behavioral
engineers
waiting
for the electroencephaligraphic
readout
that will signal
time for the cannibals
to move in
and devour me.
High quality protein.
index
Every face
becomes a mirror
to check
my clothes and hair.
But each face reflects me differently
until
I no longer know
on what side
to comb
my mind.
Trying to check
the level
of a ship
rolling
on a troubled sea.
To be my own level,
to dive
my own depth.
index
We know who THEY is.
They know we know
who they are.
That is why
THEY is so afraid
of US
index
We would like to change
this changing world
which is to say
we want power
to become
as gods
but
..
.
..
...
.....
......
.......
........
.........
..........
...........
............
index
Flowers grow wild
in the fields,
it is the bees
that are tame.
index
More words
rush thru my head
wondering ....
"When did we become
so taken with words?
So many religions,
so many governments,
so many taxes,
so many laws,
so many dates, names,and definitions,
the times tables,
six times nine,
eight times seven,
nine times seven,
in and out of control
with formulas and equations,
names, dates, titles, first lines,
conjugations, declensions,
and of course
the correct spelling."
index
Let the people
who burned
these boundary lines
into the flesh
of my native land
defend them.
index
My job is my land,
it is my fire,
it is my corn.
Take it away from me
and I'll want to kill you.
Do you understand that?
Can you feel that?
index
Put down
your sword
George,
and slay the dragon
with
your type writer.
index
Sunny morning
in the solitude
of my sleeping wife and child
music on the radio
sweet warm tea
and cigarettes,
I keep company
with myself
a northlander.
I know the stinging
cold love of winter winds
and the green warm rains of spring
in a land taken
with fire and sword
and no gift of god or his queen.
These last
are simply
two more naked emperors.
index
Then he turned the corner
and started down the street
past the drunk
collapsed in the doorway,
be it ever so humble
there is no place like home;
past the line of hookers,
too many in one line
to look like working girls,
past the wives and mothers
waiting in the rain
outside the city jail.
Another corner,
another street,
more of the same
urban degeneration
and decadence
index
Progress
The park
I used to play in
as a kid,
is gone.
They dug it up
and dumped it
into the river
to make a park.
index
ghetto
pain
ghetto
anger
ghetto
violence
the lights go out
and we see
just how wrong we are.
index
evening comes,
the air begins to clear,
traffic thins ....
The neon signs
reflected in the rain
and off the streets
create a fantasy land
of mirrored light
and colored space.
The empty
sleeping streets ....
but all the dreams
are nightmares
and their spirits
haunt the night.
Morning returns
tea is made
and some were born last night.
index
later ...
the candle is lower,
the night deeper
the emptiness
responds
to the prayer
of loneliness ....
the silence of starving children
speaks to me
what i don't yet understand ....
many children
of the great oak
starve.
index
Can a landless peasant
do any real damage
with twenty-six letters?
Then why do they smash our fingers?
index
It has finally
been established
that the footprints
on the silent faces
of our starving children
are identical
to those
recently
stomped into the face
of our moon.
index
Winter
springing
trees
into
budding
leaves
of
summer
sunshining
hope.
index
Grandma
The butterfly flew freely
through the rain soaked air.
The sun broke through
for a moment.
They left her there
on the rack
above the hole
filling with water.
I took a handful of dirt
and put it on top
of her coffin.
I felt it would help to cover
the nakedness of her death.
The last of her generation.
May she rest in peace.
index
April snowfall.
The last breath
of Winter's
indifference.
index
The moon rose late.
It is still hanging
bright in the western sky
with the sun full,
burning in the east.
The back of winter broken,
clear sunny days
hint now and then of spring.
I may speak too soon
but I think we made it
through another winter.
The wood and corn?
Both holding out.
index
mother's day
clouding
spring
sunday
of
lazing
yellow
dandelions
on
fresh
moist
grass
out
of
warming
earth,
time to plant
index
If
only
one
of
our
children
starves
to
death,
there
is
a
war
on.
index
"Doesn't anyone care?"
"Who gives a shit?"
index
Yesterday
I dreamed a dream of me
floating
on an empty sea.
index
it struck
like a bullet
into his head
and brains
and sent him
crashing to the ground,
a crumpled pile
of feathers and blood ....
no hint
of that flying
symmetrical
freedom.
index
crawling out
from underground
as the rain fell
the worm moved
across the walk ...
the sky cleared,
the sun came out
high and hot ....
in no time at all
the worm was dry and flat.
index
The moon
cupped
a morning star
as the sun glowed
the sky into day.
Then it passes
unseen,
hidden in the shadow
of the sun's brilliance.
The memory
of a friend's pain
disturbs the surface
of my center.
index
down lower
and deeper
closer to the center
the child lies
in a stupor
and a man's
and a woman' hearts
ache in fear
and worried sorrow ....
it is unfolding
opening
becoming as solid
as butterfly wings
of hope ...
yes, love is that delicate
I stand by their dying son
and challenge god
the right to life.
index
The man
who makes a deal
with the devil
has only himself
to blame ...
The acorns
collapse
under my feet.
index
Lower still,
returning to the center,
never leaving
but returning,
faster than the speed of sound,
never hearing
your own
screams of pain.
index
Once in a while
the tears he hides
leak out
and down his cheeks
salty
like the sea on our lips,
but they melt the ice
lest we break our backs
loaded with one last straw
and we learn
how it is that camels feel
broken in the sandy snow
on the frozen sea of rocky ice
under crushing sun
sometimes too cold
other times too hot.
index
Another cycle of the moon
and the last slice
appears late and low
cradling a distant star.
I believe and I don't believe
seeing faith and hope
in simply living.
Sometimes feeling,
sometimes feeling nothing.
Knowing and knowing nothing.
Risking everything
with nothing special to risk.
Death is a fact
no matter what
security system
we install
in the windows and doors
of our minds.
index
slowly
the
heavy
heart
empties
in
sadness
longing
for
joy.
index
Can it be
that at the center
there is nothing
not even center?
index
Beside the stream
in the shadows
of the ancient trees
he stood naked
his clenched fists
raised in defiance
to the skies
and began to chant
slowly
mournfully
to the absence
of god ...............
index
I hear a ship
calling out
in long low moans
as it moves
quietly
through the fog,
but I know
that it hopes
no one
is there.
index
“What could be the heart
of this heartless world?”
“Isn't it me ’n you?”
index
Later
over in the corner
by the stove
words are many
heart is one
he listened to the fire
that warmed him
as he watched his dog
dream his dreams
smelling
exactly like a dog,
a smell that was as warm as the fire
that made the spider very nervous
building his traps
in the sacrificial wood.
index
Words
distilled
from the dark fluid
of my boiling brains.
Circling round moon
chasing winter fears
of too much delight.
Being so sure
that I have
missed the fly
I open
my empty hand
and let him go.
index
Moon.
You have seen it too
when it is of life
and speaks in silence
just the other side of voice
and if you ask the question,
the answer is yes.
index
words
like pointing fingers
show you this moon
on a clear night
now and then
a ghostly blue cloud
passing slowly
close in front ...
and stars
that group there
the big dipper
seem to have faded
over the years.
index
g-d
is a word,
is a net of letters,
is an idea trap.
Once you trap the idea
you let the word go.
and once you encounter reality
you let the idea go.
(after Chuang Tzu)
index
“finally absorbed
we fly
to the warmth
of our imagination
where our dreams of freedom
grow”
index
Postscript:
a lone
ant
hauling
a
grasshopper's
drumstick.
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