Meditation During the Evacuation During the Complex Forest Fire in the Santa Cruz Mountains During the Pandemic


Self-distance other-distance
shelter in place evacuate the shelter
relocate unreal-estate
allow-location-access denied
displace re-place no space
somebody else’s space
everywhere is anywhere is nowhere
for forty years wandering
then a home for forty years
home is now wandering
and the weariness of searching
the searching worn
and wildflowers wildfires
fire-flowers blossoms
of lightning on earth
we not looking upward
afraid to look inward
not seeing forward
past the past
not burying embers of fear
but exposing embers of sorrow
turning embers of lament
tamping the embers of uncertainty
under borrowed boots
from under masks
in the cool air we will breathe

How To Burn Memories Using A Pocket Torch 


You leave. A numb tingling
transforms its throbbing
into a headache. The pain 
crawls across my skull.

It freezes for a while, forms
a chrysalis and during
the after hours it flies out -
a noir butterfly, death-wish. 

I am outside a tent, camping again,
my father somewhere 
present and absent, the stretch of land
quiet and deserted, wondering
why meteor shower happens
next to never where I live.
You leave. I light up a pocket torch
and turn every memory to charcoal.

Photos on the Phone

He wakes up
And notices 
That he has
A message
From Google,
Google is
Asking him
If he wants to
Turn back to
A moment
Five years ago,
He says yes
And then a photo
Of the house he
Used to live in
With her
Pops up,
This isn’t the first
Low blow
From Google.

The Past

The past can be a problem
you think you've made your
peace with it.

Then it sneaks up behind
you, and beats your brain.

Taking you back twenty, or
thirty years, and it hurts
just as much now as it
did then.

On the other hand, the good
times can seem close enough
to reach out, and touch.

I suppose I'm just getting
old.
But the past made me the
person I am now.

For better or worse

Mustache

There are certain things a cowboy has that he cherishes very much.
His saddle chaps, maybe a pair of homemade spurs,
Or a nice set or romal reigns and such.
No doubt he cherishes his horse.
And don’t forget his mustache, of course!
It’s big and bold.
He started growing it when he was about 13 years old.
He only cut off once, when he accidentally caught it on fire.
He grew it back, as fast as he could,
Cause his upper lip looked like a fence with no wire.
It started out pretty thin,
As the years past, it darkened up and filled in.
He loved his mustache a lot, it’s a part of him.
If he ever lost it, his days would be pretty grim.
He’s getting older now, and it’s even bigger, and mostly grey.
It’s one of the best ones around, most people would say.
It’s no doubt how he landed his pretty wife.
Boy, if I had a mustache like that,
It sure would improve my quality of life.
Any cowboy worth his salt knows,
If you want to live the high life,
And get the chicks,
You gotta have a mustache below your nose!

The Note

Please
Forgive me
For saying
You were
Acting
Like a bitch
Last night.
Since then,
I have come
To realize
That you
Weren’t
Acting.

 

 
The Crab Shack

The Crab Shack
Didn’t sell seafood,
But
It was run by
An ornery old woman
That all she did
Was bitch.

8/10/07


Upon first glimpse of
what we thought was Eden,
we raced down to the sea.
The sand meshing under
our feet like our will
under our many youthful
impulses. We ran until
we were there; stranded,
alone, naked and full of
a wonder that only
partially consisted of
our bodies.The crashing
of the waves between
our legs fill us with
unadulterated joy.
That spring manic
spasms of laughter,
from our lips to the
evening sky.

An Entire World of Suffering


I eat the fruit of delicious people
I am not amiable nor picayune
yes, I am a coterie of obscenities

what else is there inside me?
there exist hateful emotions
a stirring an energy a fierce desire

one aimless vector
you are raw you are profane
I scare you

I climb on top of cars
I scare you
you are the holiness underground

I aim to be forgotten
I am the emptiness inside you
I need to be propulsive… I plod

blood of the messiah
I am not the one
who hurt you?

crimson lines speckle these eyes
I am not the one
who cares?

The music in your head


Hear that melody in your head
Let it sing reprieves 
against the lengthening of the day
& let it sigh relief. 

Then with your chest
Cry out
That the music in your head
Is real
& alive inside you.

Feel the pressure beating
Waiting to release 
from the tips of your fingers 
From the drumming
In your ears.

Now close your eyes 
Take a listen 
that small theater above your shoulders
Has a concert
So take a listen 
& see the music, play away.

A TEMPLE

 

                                    This god is an empty room

                                    with no house around it.

 

                                    Only silent prayers echo

                                    in the open space it encloses.

 

                                    You may try with all you are

                                    to please this quiet god. You can’t.

 

                                    This room is empty as god

                                    and always was.