"They are a very strange people, the Hainish; older than any of us; infinitely generous. They are altruists. They are moved by a guilt we don't even understand, despite all our crimes. They are moved in all they do, I think, by the past, their endless past."

Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed (Perennial Classics, 2003), pp. 348. 

"I remember thinking, Oh great, it's four in the morning and I'm having some sort of weird mystical experience right in the kitchen of one of my best friends, merely by touching a woman I've never met before. This is not going to be easy to explain..."

Ken Wilbur, Grace and Grit (Shambhala, 2000), pp. 9.

"The private world of instinctive interests is a small one, set in the midst of a great and powerful world which must, sooner or later, lay our private world in ruins. Unless we can so enlarge our interests as to include the whole outer world, we remain like a garrison in a beleaguered fortress, knowing that the enemy prevents escape and that ultimate surrender is inevitable. In such a life there is no peace, but a constant strife between the insistence of desire and the powerlessness of the will. In one way or another, if our life is to be great and free, we must escape this prison and this strife."

Bertrand Russell, "The Value Of Philosophy", The Problems Of Philosophy (Oxford, 1997), pp. 158.

There Are No Angels (Dance In The Cracks - Part 2 of 3)

There's been this thought

tumbling around my head for a while

Perhaps a truism

It's that all good things

are the result of patience and care

That relationships

if they're to be worth a damn

ought to be no different

With this in mind

A worry entered

months ago

as I drove home

for the first time

from Cotati

I worried that the stages of infatuation
of surface

had not run their cycle

that patience and care

the bloom of sharing

and nearness

would not take

in this sand of long distance

so soon

this thing

so young

It was a worry tied to others

perhaps inevitable

perhaps circumstantial

The fact is that each of us hid ourselves

our motives

our hurts

I fragmented my anxieties

and loneliness

made them look mature

balanced

more then they really are

You suspended the rawness

of your past

and both of us

shaking

felt for the other

for warmth

for release

It happens that

We get what we sow

Yet even though I've never known

the raw de-centering

of heartache

until now

I'm still glad that things were put on pause

that it was felt necessary

to step back

halt the momentum

I'm glad because I was thinking similarly:

a step back was necessary

if our gentle thing

was to be worth a damn

if it was to get past the stages of infatuation

and enter into the depths of patience and care

if we were to even seriously talk

about what we wanted
if we were to look each other in the eye

To do this requires that we reveal those cracks

in the street

which we have fallen

to see the deep darks

It requires that we see one another

and ourselves

no longer as drugs

taken to forget our bodies

but as dying pining creatures

trying to create and maneuver

trying to face up

and sometimes flee

those hurts

that have crystallized into scar

that back us into corners

cut off the oxygen

prevent deep breaths

deep movement

that strand us in space

When we paused

and then when you stepped back

in your small orange notebook

allowing me to see you

from where you came

to what path you now peruse -

and how far I had gotten attached -

I was forced to sit with both revelations

and suspicions

things I saw off in the periphery

One suspicion:

I tended to use you

in a hazy way

as a distraction

yet deny

was a distraction

Often I saw you as sexual attraction

as playful spontaneity

I saw you as a respite for loneliness

a loneliness I've carried around

for years

I saw you as easing my anxiety

lack of confidence

philosophic crisis

post-college malaise

I saw you through the longing and hope for communion

Yet here you were

standing in front of me

naked

cold to numb

using me

for warmth

like I was using you

Oh, the distractions we'll sow

Yes

I know you are not without blind spots

and hang-ups and faults

There are no angels

in this world

Only longing

and trial and error

But I want you

I want you even though

the will to love

precedes the appearance

on the scene

of the beloved

I want you even though

the world gives no clues

as to what we should be up to

and we stand alone with what we take seriously

I want patience and care

to enter this picture

this story

I want to look directly into your eyes

for a couple sacred minutes

and longer

to not have you turn away

I want to be sacred with you

Did you know that? 

"While reading books I write notes in the page margins and I circle and memorize certain lines and passages. The people in each book might be different, but the plotline is basically the same: Somebody is unhappy and they do dangerous and foolish things trying to become happy."

Sherman Alexie, "Scenes From A Life". Blasphemy (Grove Press, 2012), pp. 233.

Letting In (Dance In The Cracks - Part 1 of 3)

Yesterday after work

I found a small orange notebook in the mail

Feel shaky as I read

and after

as the sun's setting

I take a walk

to feel my way

to think about you

It happens to be Halloween

and the sky is getting darker

more meaningful

and the kids in costume

fashioned or bought

are all about

Have you ever noticed

how our culture never seems so healthy

red cheeked

life affirming

as on Halloween?

With everyone in on the exciting ritual

with the homes of the streets open

When I long for a utopia

or some ideal at least

perhaps I ought to console myself

with the fact of suburban Halloween

Is this not a good sign?

A fine ideal?

My thoughts and feels as I walk

are much the same as they have been

a month

two months

more

But they're taut

teething

And so I attend to them

over and over

as they come upon me

It's like this:

I feel so much tenderness for you

don't want to see you go

Parts of me pitch fits

clench up

with all their force

turn into desperate White Dwarves

But I still have some energy

some light

And I want to make a play

to pursue you

Exhaust it, as a possibility

because I will always wonder

because I never fully have

Like a psychology student

or a mountain top fire spotter

I wish to sell myself some silence

Sell some to you too

If I can manage

I've said that I didn't have any regrets

out on the beach

some warm bellied resilience

but I'm thinking now that that conclusion was premature

Truth be told I wish I would have born my neck to you

more than I did at least

Let you in

Stopped showing off

And above all

Indicated where the gravity pulled

choked

Pointed out where the cracks lay

In your small orange notebook

you showed the gravity

spoke in your own voice

through the cracks

and I hear it

And even though

it was likely not intended

I listen like I'm sitting beside you

like you're Wittgenstein

holding my hand

letting me in

to your newest, vital meditations

to the R behind playful coolness

cultivating freedom

independence

solitude

searching for a way out

through

And I want to speak too

directly

More in my own voice

the warmth rushing out

something I rarely did

wished I did more of

and I want to say why

why I rarely did

wish I did more of

Maybe this takes time, care

Will you follow me

follow me just a bit?

Will you sit beside me here

take my hand?

mindfulness

all the run on sentences in my head

inevitably turn back to you

and those simple sacred insights

which i've labored so hard to steal

will not hold

taking care of the self

seems the most unambitious task

from a certain standpoint

we should rather be getting on

with colossal social tasks

orgiastic pleasures

but taking care?

that seems some trifling exercise

to be fit in

between a brisk jog

and piano scales
if the time is free

yet, the effort will be made

it will happen at sunrise

it will happen throughout the day 

and it will happen on into the night

it will happen

this is what i say

to the delicate eyes

of the bathroom mirror

at lunch break

for if i'm going to be of use

i need some clues

hints

more than what I've got at least

more than silence

and crippling

This Head That Droops

These gusts and swift shifts

when we are away

and this thing so young

makes me weary of every next move

Yet some sage whispers

'You can be lonely, very lonely,

and not swept away.'

And I nod

feel nostrils

and breath and body

Remembering practices and words

and those things beyond words

things I suspect all warm bellies affirm

things I'm trying with all my energy

to take in

just a little more

just a little more

each previous take

the soil

for more mature and more present breaths

Yes,

this head that droops

that sometimes droops

is not quite me

Head Cold

Here's George

in the lumpy bed

with sick man

day dream haze

Wildly sentimental

with heroic visions

and apocalyptic regret

Now he's hopeful

now he's doubtful

but with the fruits of

the scientific generations

at least he can sleep

at least he can breath

He showers four or five times a day

stretches and reads

eats bowls and bowls of greens

But what of those whirling trajectories

of thought stew

of raw longing pangs

What have the quantifiers

to say about them?

George has this caffeine idea

he says to himself

"Okay okay, the weak

long for strength and courage

and the poor for wealth and stability

So do those who long to have no longings

- to be content with whatever -

do they escape the game?"

In the morning

afternoon and evening

rising wills of utopian overcoming

with warm sepia lover caress

as he walks away from hectic collapse

Gentle wind touching long field grass

George watches himself take a path to the sea

Magnifying Glass

In my pocket is a magnifying glass

A clear thing wrapped in plastic

I don't know where I got it from

but I carry it around wherever I go

Sometimes I put it up against walls

Trying to spy on others hearts

Sometimes upon passing specimens

of all varieties

When I look out at molecules and planets

I can suffer the weight

this information spreads

But when I turn the thing about

turn it upon this here breathing presence

the weight buckles

eclipses any forward resolve

Am I a bullet in the wind

A bullet with collapsing weight

Did no one ever tell me

The Selfhood of a Soft World

Two boy's come through the lobby

I'm not good with ages -

those sight reading skills

which parents espouse 

at company picnics

at grocery store checkout lines,

have never been my forte -

Anyway,

the eldest

who's maybe ten or twelve

the one with a gray shirt,

with light purple jean shorts

has on this big knee brace

and it ruffles up one side of his jeans

making him waddle

Beside him must be his younger brother

one to two years younger -

spotting family resemblance

has become a recent enthusiasm of mine

replacing mere people watching

as I sip the crappy black tea

you can buy in Styrofoam cups

from the middle aged Chinese couple

who own the little cafe

in the lobby of the Santa Maria library

Other than the resemblance

what I observe is the care taken

in their upbringing:

they're disciplined kids

you can tell,

they have some unimposing way

I've been sitting here long enough to know:

What racket kids can make in a Library Lobby!

So, the younger is in front

with a pile of checked out books

cradled between his arms

palms up

with energy

with play

He heads for the closed door:

There's two of them, you see

And it's expected that you use the opened one

But there's no pressure

And the older steers the younger

with a knowing smile

Waddling quicker to point the way

His presence a recommendation

Soft and Warm

you can see it on his face

Acceptance and trust

Not corrupt

Or some sickly threat power,

like those purely on the nurture side

of the debate

are bound to read in

And I sip my tea

and feel a glow

it radiates like a ripple

I think:

In ten thousand years

we will be Gods

Hainish emissaries

If we, with deep breathes,

with stolid dignity,

Will

The

Highest

Path

we have access to,

Not minding what happens

but not dulling our sensitivities.

Consequences can make us such scaredy cats:

that raw self-worry

so prominent late at night,

curtails the most beautiful leaps

And you would find yourself

in a soft world

if only you would slow down

to a waddle

if only you would turn away
from Omelas
from sugary safety hording

as independent dying creatures

With Risk

With unswayed forgiveness

Because really,
the full weight of the world

sits atop our soft shoulders

of water and carbon
not unlike a brisk dew

You would know
Pilgrim
If you would slow down

Lyceum Blues

You, caffeinated sophisticate

who sit at firesides

pondering wax

allegedly warmed by syntax

full to the brim

with universal affairs

You, fallacy slayer

master of anecdote

practiced at mediation

articulation

charity

who swears fealty

to nothing

but truth

Tell me

alone

in your study

how do you look?

In bed at night

peaking out at wall shadows

how do you fair?

Have footnote efforts stabilized

that panic in the veins?

Have scholastic rituals

diminished haunting states? 

In the early days

in love
with Spinoza
and Rome

did you really -

did you?

really?-

worry like mad

questioning allegiance

in every direction?

Did you synthesize your madman thirsts

and raw-hurts?

Did you take those deep-darks

those devils thoughts

biting out the insides

clamoring for a conscientious purity,

did you learn to breath steady and full?

Pierce through the world of red-dust,

of popcorn advice?

Does my sourness turn your taste buds?

Yes,

This is what we say

when we are not nourishing the higher parts

when our poor bodies cannot affirm

the dust

which makes its way

around where we play

forgiveness lessons

I know we are alike

you and I         

we and they

I spot a shared longing:

we both wish we grew up

with a family down the street

yes, yes

ours is nice too

but over there,

the grass is always greener

and there,

we didn't have to slave over lessons

lessons of forgiveness

oh, don't play dumb

you know which house!

the one with no fence

whose yard differs

from all in town

with big shadow trees

with worn elegance

it's the one with thin hippy parents

smart and warm

who dress in clothes

you can't seem to find

in any shop

it's that family

who sent their eldest daughter

to a Christian university

to study science

the one whose "No on Prop-8" sign

sits atop flattened meadowgrass

                    

you may sniffle at me

but look here

we are preparing for the delivery of spirit

that's the whole thing

why we pine

and stumble

repress and persevere

it would be good for you

hungry eyes

to get up

come dawn

to walk barren shores

or along taboo rooftops

become some spirit burglar

siphoning resilience

from grandfather sea

from sacred morning pulse

for, all of this

this whole clenched effort

is but preparation

for spirit

preparation

to take in but present winds

and colds and grays

and do with it

what Buddha eyes

and ironist mercy

loves

Ten Things

i know that it is late
but i am going to make a play

if you ask me why
i can gibber
say things about that subtle hesitancy
in your voice

and your smell as i sit next to you
at the end of the day

i could sketch your chapped hands
if you pressed me

relay how gullible i am at your misleading quips

how our eyes seem to open
when they first meet

or, if you are patient with me
i could stumble my way
through more muddy matters:
the way your breathy whispers
do something to my veins
how we can use
our more personal vocabularies
with little preamble

and no posturing

how i know you will challenge me
if we get anywhere

how i know that it will be worth it

Odran and Evelyn

Odran is wilting

Evelyn is blue

Maybe they’re ill

Maybe just on the lip of evolution

Worn thin from impatience

I wonder if even they know

Perhaps it’s the time

That there 7 billion plus

Pulled this way and that

Filled with inorganic weight

Like spinning plates

With precipice suspicions

Of unaccountable gridlocked sour trick

In chemical dreams

Teeth fall from mouths

And when they wake

Stuffy 4am

They cannot remember where they are

Where their tracks began

What brought them here

Oh, I see their baggy eyes

Sometimes they asks themselves things

The product of liberal room and board

The entrapped enlightenment of the well-adjusted

Clutching for straws

Trying to dig out of that hue

They asks: What am I up to?

Why do I do what I do?

Maybe they can find some higher source

Some higher source to make things sing 

--Evelyn--

Today Evelyn rolls over

Playing some cosmic script

Squints at aqua mirror

Why am I wilting?

She asks her face

Why is it like this?

A sneeze escapes her body

She opens the curtains

Greets a foggy reflection

Looks longingly at warm sheets

Throws herself to the game

Like a ball

Such a put together lady

Eve stretches and showers

Places freshly washed clothes atop a freshly washed body

Makes oatmeal and coffee

Sits herself down at the kitchen table

A firm thing

Ordered, assembled smartly by her lonesome

With a pad of computer paper

Eve bullet points her blueness

Resolves to get underneath the thing

Five points about her childhood

Four about aimlessness

Three about unplumbed phobias

Maybe I need to risk my neck

Live rule-free in the city park

Get out of this suffocation, she thinks

When it is time to go to work,

Evelyn slips on new pair of socks

They feel luxurious on her feet

Makes things sing

At the corner 

She turns left instead of right

--Odran--

After Work

Odran roams the indigo department and drug stores

Stares at fancy packages

Walks down nicely polished floors

The hallmark of thousands of years of civilization

At Navy Drugs he checks the backs of vitamin containers

I’ll eat and dress better, he thinks

Take fish oil and garlic

Practice Zazen

Make goals everyday

A clerks walks by

Black vest over a blue sweatshirt

Does the gentleman need assistance?

How can you tell?

Teenage shrug

Teenage sad smile

Magnesium is two for one, Sir

It’s good for bones and things

Ah structure, says Odran

In his lumpy bed 

Odran thinks and squirms

Too cold

Too warm

Too tired

Too much shit to do

He gets up

Drinks a glass of water

On a pad of paper by the refrigerator

He writes down some things for tomorrow

Office things 

Good son, good brother things

Staring out the window at the street light

Odran tries to remember a saying

When he walks back to bed

A wonderful idea hits him
He smiles like a madman

With new socks on his feet
Odran buys chalk at the grocery store
When he get to the corner
He turns left in stead of right

Whimsy

We

bulky atoms and void

who pine

eternally

who take care

and stock

hungry to affirm

the whole

We

squishy water pockets

riders

at a million miles an hour

hanging out

vulnerable

with wild eyes

thrown into

spinning stories

stitched with bruise

and other lessons

I wouldn't change a thing