I want to slide with you

like two salamanders

slipping in a muddy pool

to feel cool water

on your warm skin

to dive in

and discover the primal pulse

within the heart

of nowhere

I want to ride

the rhythm of our ways

together through our dawning days

wide-eyed

in constant surprise

to meet in full flame of the sun

to run

to the horizon

to welcome with you the mysterious moon

rising to meet us

none too soon

when the light falls short

and the night brings a time for longing

when my song calls out to the dark

and your voice sings

back to me

and our words on wings

like solitary birds in flight

meet and unite

under the sacred spell of silence

and a canopy of stars

over nowhere

with you

I want to fall

into the dark unknown

to spark and ignite

like twin meteorites

spinning deep into the embrace

of unearthly atmospheres

dizzy and breathless

on the edge of fear

open-armed and poised

to penetrate the sea

and greet our destiny

with noiseless entry

into nowhere

in the face of you

I no longer choose

I lose commandment of my will

and feel the force of grace

gently overtake me

and so absolved of my volition

saturated in a new-found faith

like an angel

I assume forever

the position of prayer

and kneel with you

at the gates of nowhere

and so my life becomes a prayer

and so my prayer becomes a life

a living prayer

and a life emerging

in every moment

out of nowhere

on any given day

I am all too seen

in the play

of my familiar world

walking

up against the wind

singing

over sacred silence

and standing

heavy on my shadow

looking

for my place

I watch myself

wandering

through the labyrinth of the great human riddle

wondering

about the infinite and eternal mystery

sensing myself

small like sand

diaphanous like sea

and when I find that

I no longer can see myself

and when I simply see

I forget

that I was looking

and know

that I am

finding

my place to be

whatever protects me from being seen protects me from seeing
so there is no protection at all in this place of hiding
I grope, half blind, through the world of the wounded
I fear my woundedness
but even more, I fear my blindness

once I walked too close to fire
and I was burned and scarred
and my skin became hard
and I refused to let the fire touch me again in the same way
little did I know that I had been ignited
and in time my fire from within
spread and grew to meet my hardened skin
heat and light, the essence of my essence
can only be contained for so long
so now, with every breath, I fan the fire
and every glance emits more light
and slowly scars melt down from the inside out

at one time my innocence was met with resistance
and I found the resistance to be my foe
and so I ran and ran but never got away
and as swift as I could run
my resistance met me like a wind in my face
growing ever stronger
and so I became a better runner
and the wind fanned my fire
and so my heat and fire grew
and my resistance became my strength

one day, quite innocently, I turned to run in the direction of the wind
to find my self almost weightless, stepping lightly

pure innocence can be blind and tender
‘till tempered with resistance
‘till resistance brings wisdom
and wisdom draws angels to the earth
and feet,
uncalloused,
to the ground

I don’t TRY anymore
I just kind of HAPPEN
and I don’t WRITE this
it just happens THROUGH me
and I’M not the one who LOVES you
“I” am WAY too small for that
love just HAPPENS in YOUR presence through ME

I’m not even the one who THINKS
I have NO CONTROL over my thoughts
thinking streams THROUGH me
and just happens

I can step back
from some IMAGINARY space
in my IMAGINED SELF
and I can watch ME happen
and I can WATCH me WATCH
but THAT just kind of HAPPENS too

so what of MY WILL and the choices I make?

I can watch myself CHOOSE
and I can think I’m responsible for my choices
but I have to I laugh
because MY CHOICES are made
IN RESPONSE to all the things I had NO CONTROL OVER
in the first place
they just HAPPENED

then what’s the use of BEING HERE if I am just HAPPENING?
I don’t know?
maybe I need to pose the question to ALL OF EXISTENCE

and SEE what happens

through the gift of loneliness, you lead me to love
through the gift of suffering, you teach me compassion
through the gift of my anger, you bring me peace
through the gift of judgment, you show me equanimity
through the gift of selfishness, my generosity is born
through the gift of sacrifice, I am taught to receive
through the gift of ignorance, your wisdom comes to me
through the gift of limitation, I embrace the infinite
through the gift of unworthiness, I am shown my value
through the gift of conflict, I am given peace
through the gift of sadness, I discover joy
through the gift of mortality, my life is filled with meaning
through the gift of confusion, I am brought to clarity
through the gift of arrogance, humility finds its way to me
through the gift of brutality, tenderness prevails
in the wake of your infinite mystery, my sense of wonder is born
in the face of your magnificence, I am filled with awe
holding my hands out to your infinite generosity,
I am infinitely abundant
these are the gifts you bestow upon me
these are the gifts I receive so graciously
and in gratitude, I transmute your gifts
and in gratitude, I return them, transmuted, back to you

the rush of cars, images of mars

pale face on a subway train,

hushed in a no-smoking lane

clinging…to this mortal coil,

as fires churn the plumes of oil

rising…to the brittle sky,

a bloodshot eye,

a vision of salvation dries a melancholy tear

there’s a sense of silence here…

cancer wards,

a spinning towards,

apocalypse

a whisper on our last-word lips

the red sun cuts

the flaming sea

an acid river spits and licks

the filigree

of sprouting green

as signs of life appear

there’s a sense of silence here…

the violence of judgment

the torment of thinking

a look in the eye of a god that is blinking

the weight of the sky on a world that is sinking

down, down, down

beneath it’s own shadow

behind the mask… of every day

beneath the veil… of every night

through the shroud i hear you say

every thing’s ok

every thing’s alright

the flooded streets, salvation meets

a stranger with12 broken dreams

an open hand that gathers dust

sand, rust, lifelines

on ancient, folded metal seams

lifetimes, the space between

then screams of glee when children’s christmas dreams appear

there’s a sense of silence here…

your voice on the phone, a time alone

connecting to, affecting touch

to feel so much,

your face in sleep,

a time to keep

never, ever to repeat

the holding…of a moment

the knowing…of something sacred

naked

in the face of grace

when angels seem so near

there’s a sense of silence here…

the violence of judgment

the torment of thinking

a look in the eye of a god that is blinking

the weight of the sky on a world that is sinking

down, down, down

beneath it’s own shadow

behind the mask… of every day

beneath the veil… of every night

through the shroud i hear you say

every thing’s ok

every thing’s alright

health food is supposed to be good for me
like regular exercise
regular sleep
and regular bowels

like a committed relationship
a steady job
and a 401k

good for me…

like taking vitamins
drinking plenty of water
and practicing yoga

like driving a hybrid
avoiding second-hand smoke
and always practicing safe sex

me?
i’ve been developing the art of alchemy
transforming a cigarette
into a bonding agent between friends
transforming a glass of wine
into a moment of heart-opening ecstasy
and transforming a hit of pot
into a year of therapy

i can turn the giddy sugar-rush of a banana split
into precious mindless innocence
i can time travel on good whiff of gas
to the back seat of my dad’s ’59 impala wagon
and i can be instantly teleported to the streets of athens
by the smell of diesel exhaust

i have had one-night stands
that opened my heart forever
and the self-satisfied lethargy of a 3/4 pound filet?
well, that just feels good

i don’t use sunblock
‘cuz i like occasionally peeling skin off my shoulders
and i have to mention that i met a 106 year-old man
who chained smoked with tobacco-stained fingers
and who’s children had all died of old age

so, is it really size that matters?
is the value of a life measured by its length?
or its girth?

and what are the implications of this occasional recklessness?
well, perhaps it’s an affirmation
that non-guilty pleasure is not a crime punishable by death
that options exist in life to be enjoyed and appreciated
that joy and gratitude are pre-existing conditions for miracles to occur
that a magician can turn poison into medicine
sickness into vitality, and authenticity into divinity.

and that a punishing belief system will kill you much faster than a cigarette.

Im not a poet

I’m just reading something the poet in me wrote
I’m just repeating what I was told to say in a moment of inspiration

I’m not a poet
That’s too much responsibility
It’s a badge. It’s a flag. It’s a t-shirt.
A label, a moniker,
an excuse to avoid the void
to avoid the free-fall backwards trusting someone will catch me

I am not a poet
poets are what people call people
who give birth to surprise
something they couldn’t even control
like vomit, or sneezing, or giving birth

no, I’m not a poet
I don’t even know what that means
Sure, I can I define it
But that’s not what it is
It’s only something i point to
Like an isolated object in a photograph
Or a move i just saw in a dance that will never repeat

No, poetry is the sacred, mysterious, uncontrollable flow
That happens in spite of any and all of us

If I were to recite a poem,
and there was no one there to hear it,
or to call it a poem
or to call me a poet
what would I be then?

So here’s the paradox:
But as soon as you point to a river,
What you just pointed to is no longer there
So maybe a river is not the water at all
Maybe it’s just the groove that holds the current that never stops moving

And maybe a poem is a current
A poet, a river
And maybe I’m just a groove
A constantly eroding container

So all this leads me to believe that I am not a poet!

I’m like the water you can’t point to,
Because I no longer exist where you just pointed
And maybe the poem is not what I’m reading
Maybe the poem…is what I am
All that I am, all that you are

And if I can speak through a groove,
A container that is mute
and as dumb as a rock
then maybe… just maybe,
I am the poem
You are the poem
We are the letters and words
in an uncontrollable monologue, poly-log, multi-log, omni-log
just…meaningless…letters…and words…
that only find meaning
in relation to one another
and in order for a poem to be a poem
we have to be aware,
we have to listen,
we have to notice
image, texture, metaphor, re-la-tion
and that mysterious quality that makes a poem a poem

I, you, us, we, them, it, this, that, all, nothing
It’s all the poem

And as to the poet?

I have no idea.