In The Shade

You come out here on some old hunt

limping

from formative wounds

dents to the fender

Friendless, new, shy

your eyes spin and squint

from culture shock and sun

Everyone who passes by

you think-ask: 

Won't you come kiss me
hold me
share this warmth

by the air-conditioner?

Stare into my eyes

under the ceiling fan?

In the shade
with your daemon

squirt gun in hand

a pack of sandwiches
upon your lap
you'll wait
heavy

heavy with knots
not drawn here 
tired from the bad chemicals
that follow

Initiation Song from the Finder's Lodge

Please bring strange things.
Please come bringing new things.
Let very old things come into your hands.
Let what you do not know come into your eyes.
Let desert sand harden your feet.
Let the arch of your feet be the mountains.
Let the paths of your fingertips be your maps
and the ways you go be the lines on your palms.
Let there be deep snow in your inbreathing
and your outbreath be the shining of ice.
May your mouth contain the shapes of strange words.
May you smell food cooking you have not eaten.
May the spring of a foreign river be your navel.
May your soul be at home where there are no houses.
Walk carefully, well loved one,
walk mindfully, well loved one,
walk fearlessly, well loved one.
Return with us, return to us,
be always coming home.

- Ursula K. Le Guin

From Always Coming Home (Harper & Row, 1985)

What You Want For Yourself

Let's say you've packed up a vehicle

enough supplies, clothes

and the special personal things you need

and you're driving somewhere

Let's say you're driving and thinking

Where should I go?

Let's say you are driving

and that you resolve to get to the bottom of it

Finally

after all these years

the body like a wet towel twisted dry

your body

always digging yourself out

Let's say you pull over and pee and get some coffee

Then put on music you can think to

perhaps its Glass's 1000 Airplanes on the Roof
or Arvo Pärt's Fur Alina

Let's say you have found yourself into some money

It's origin is nothing extreme

not the lottery

not inheritance

not a sudden rise to success or fame

Let's say you are driving away

taking a break

if that's what you are doing

from the build up of the everyday

from whatever you need to take a break from

Let's say you're free

not the freedom of political theorists or metaphysicians

but the freedom of ease

a consciousness of no commitments

no identity

Let's say you pull off the road and park

That you jump the fence

the stringy low metal and wood kind

ubiquitous to country lanes

Let's say you walk

quiet roaming hillsides

you walk them until you can be with yourself

and then you sit Indian style

near the shade of a tree

a tree you couldn't name

Let's say you are no one anymore

you have no relationships

aside from the one's you will into effect

Let's say you needn't make any moves

you can sit here on this hillside

there are no rules

the world is an open game

the blank page of the painter

Let's say you ask

What do you want for yourself?

You Say:
What do I want for myself

on this quiet roaming hillside

the pleasure of having no one to please

having no one to be

like a ginger vitality

an inner beaming

at my back

The Metaphysics of Vanessa

You say to yourself

Walk her to the parking lot after class

Talk about the New-Agey teacher

What we thought about

When he turned the lights off

And played a guided mediation tape

All quick questions

Defense Mechanisms

The barely-there norm

She’s this short, petite Latino girl

The speaker of a cautious, endearing language

Not the language of innocence

But of reserve and cheerfulness

Some knowing aspect

The cause of heritage

Of someone who hasn’t really strayed from life

Who doesn’t suspect there is a sour trick at play

Yet aware of this idea

Having felt its weight

Having persevered

Who may have been around the shady types

But does not advance it

A strange fact

In this strange thing

You say more liberalism would help

And a healthier economy

And we’d do well to spend time with family

Read a book every now and then

Stay in on Saturday night

And stare at yourself in the mirror

‘I know you’re after intensity’

You’ll say to the mirror

‘Cause I chased it too’

She says, We do it for ourselves

And then for others

Don’t confuse the order

For perhaps there is no way

But we shall not know coiled up

Sucking upon the second hand of centuries

The buildup of the easy

You say to her wonderful black hair

Remember:

We came out of the world

Without initiation

And the world came out of the world

Without initiation

I tell you this

But the hearers didn’t choose to hear

And the deaf did not choose otherwise

And you may withdrawal

Say you owe nothing

Say that you are your own thing

With your own projects

Your own pleasure

That no one can take that away

By her clothes

By her shyness

An honest young woman

You dwell on that

You

You are a liar

A politician

A teenage smirk

Glazed debris

You’ve sat against yourself

In the screaming body of a victim

Your body

So many years

Always digging yourself out

The body like a wet towel twisted dry

You first notice her on the bus

The back of her head

Her hair pulled back:

Over her ear the slimmest of strands

Out of order

In the wonderful sunlight

Blessing her

And you sit there

And you want to be surefooted and articulate

When you come into her view

You’ll exit and smile slightly

And you want to be the highest self

The highest there is

Self Love, Sea Lust

Been walking for sometime

don't know why I'm here

I no longer remember

Longings and hunger and thirst

have made their way with me

entangled, overgrown

this is what I know

I browse old photos

recordings

stars of the lid

I look at her eyes

how she was touching me

I look for clues

Oh, I'm a cog

a billiard ball

foaming

over and over

ripping, pleading

Will the next person

who comes down the path

save me

steer me away from here?

But down this path

is vacancy

is sea lust

a container

for the craving

of oceanic solace

of destination

In the mirror of ponds

I see tired eyes

blued eyes

foreign

in the cold of night

I hear chattering of teeth

startlingly near

But no one

there is no one

If you wonder why I walk

it's because I've already sat

hung my head

And sitting is much worse

you lose more than you know

spin yourself knots

dirt in every crevice

At least with walk

you dull the nerves

distract the eye

keep status quo

Again, again

I find myself here

in this forest

like yesterday

like the day before that

And on these days

shivers and shakes move through

I hear them come out of me

feel them as if emanating

from some wound

and the day follows night

even if night doesn't end

in your head

Yes, there's the typical resistance

to spilling myself

but I'm alone

would like at least one friend

even it is has to be me

Perhaps I will draw a map

if I cannot get myself out

to the sea

I will at least work

care for this path

removing obstacles from it's flow

cleaning it

with salt love

that burns

Am I a phoenix

from these ashes?

How many ponds does it take

to clean a man?

Will you tell me

friend?

Won't you tell me

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? 

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?

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

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

Soap Box

Yesterday morning

I had a Thought

A damn good one

All warm and soft, vital and clear

The product of good sleep, perhaps

To the city I’d take it

To the wharf where the birds and the people feel grand

Where the sun peaks through the stomach

Where the nice parts of the self can breath

A place where we make our way

When we have nowhere to be, no one to please

Not compelled like the rats we often are

This, this is where I will share my Thought

Amongst the sounds and smells of peace

Of rebirth

I dress in my best

Feeling some extra sobriety

Secure composure                                

Evenness in balanced weight

Atop my body

Clothes I’m reluctant to abuse on the regular day

But this no regular day

With lunch tucked away

In the pack over my shoulder

I ride my old mountain bike through the suburb

And as I ride out through nosier streets

Passing endless shops and homes

Passing schools, warehouses, traffic

I carry myself with stolid dignity

Back straight, slow breathed politeness

As though taking center stage in some ritual

As though I am meeting old mentors

The wharf downtown arrives

As does the mighty noise of crowds and cars

I leave my bike unlocked in the rack

If someone needs it that badly

Then they can surely take it

What meets me shortens my stride

Soap boxes

Soap boxes to every person

Thousands and thousands of soap boxes

Of acidic thought sharers

Talking, screaming, humming into the void

Did I come too late?

I know you seek intensity because I seek it too: a poem

Remember always and everywhere

Why you do what you do

I want to tell myself this

I want to scream it

Like a car alarm at midnight

Keeping the pulse piqued and aware

The mind searching for it

All the being concentrated

Imaging what it is

And I want to be solemn

Like a boy on his bicycle

Having for the first time in his life

Felt threatened and lucky

Missing the car by inches

Flying down the slope

Hands glued before him

Sorry and guilty

In new territory

Not sure that he should tell his parents

Everything still moving slowly

Except that shaking of the torso

Like winter

Grow a mirror, Pilgrim, and remember what you look like: a poem

Always explode out like a light

And cut out the false

The gossip, the habits of centuries

Direct the ascent with word

But first with deed

Learn to be wholehearted

Johnny will sag and sag

For the weakness of the ages lies with the easy

The easy with second hand

The second hand with out-of-touchness:

The feet broken, casted, and shriveled

Carried around, limp, here to there

The eyes watery, bagged, and dull

Careless billiard balls, homogenized sicknesses

Johnny is a dead end

Perhaps there is no way

But you shall not know coiled up

Sucking upon the second hand of centuries

The buildup of the easy

Honesty is to be your highest value

The sword of wholeheartedness

All of your being at hand

Into the tip of its blade

You do not know this

But your nature flourishes at this blade

Attack toward the source of your most basicness

That central thing you daydream of doing

Encountered again when hand to hand

The artist draws you out’

That you there under the fog

Toward that thing you were supposed to do

When time permitted

That thing you forgot

Yet it rushes to the surface

Fully enunciated, immaculate, daring

As you blink away the weariness

As you let your feet feel the wind or the water

Expecting easy flourishing

Is low vitality’s rut

Within those hazy doldrums

What we’ve come to call normal

Reality too far away to understand

Burdened, no breathing room

When you look out and cannot see

Here, you long for this and this alone

And long you will unequipped with a good mirror