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