17 Feb

What you seek is seeking you.        --Rumi  

chrome sea prelude to a prelude 

The moon gets smaller as the night comes on.

Rises over bay and constructs. 

Time pink  

green, brief  

as affection. 

The city has lifted its flamingo wing 

like a great pink iridescent star 

shaking algae and elements 

over these semimodern buildings.  

The sun forces gold from shadows and windows.  

So by a traffic minute 

static speaks of rain, machines 

cancer and harp seals 

trucks guns and holy words 

slipping into darkness 

leaching all the beauty 

from a slowing day. 

The moment given is nothing new 

but novelty. I had my way. 

Discovered roads, went wild. 

I remember everything. 

I immediately forget. 

Because I am a child.  

gross beach and the prelude 

If you're seeking enlightenment 

this journey ends in the middle. 

As in every human action 

Desire’s set its talons deep: 

I constantly create-more-creations. 

See more than necessary! 

Feel more than prescribed! 

Broken laptop with lucite earrings and eucalyptus leaves.

Pineapple and lemon  

in the velvet shade. 

Untitled shipwreck. 

Silk patterns, bright colors. 

Who's loving my baby now?  

How am I not  

more lost than before? 

A yellow light advising caution 

gleams against the last lavender. 

The heart beats like a million trains 

and darkness comes down 

in a dagger too eager

to rain and thrill me.  

My mind is over 

in the sense of seeking.  

life cycles of the terrarium

O to live in a diva's day. 

To have one's stimulants used against thee. 

It is difficult to find a conversation 

that does not lead to love-poisoning-love. 

Difficult to find something 

that isn't boring  

or disgusting. 

Everything we-don't-know-why 

brings night on its back 

and on the carcass of the moment past 

new thoughts form 

like fungi dividing the living and dead. 

These are not the sexy epiphanies of brilliant youth 

but steady streams of task and stat 

face and judgment 

date and time. Metaphysical dust. 

The stuff that poets keep clean. 

Everything has failed to solve thee 

yet hope remains, in leaves of weeds.  

The night is lighter later 

by a moment 

by the solstice.  

O limited men in limitless oblivion. 

The closest we get to understanding 

can only be confusion. 


There are insects that live just 24 hours 

more, probably, that live for less. 

In this we see ourselves as grains of time— 

a second-by-second guess. 

It is impossible to do anything but stare.

To move on automatic 

with some vague notion 

of what to seek and where. 

Food. Affection. Money. Prestige. Check. 

Eternity is eternity 

to perfect deformity 

and curl in places 

the soft parts stick. Sixteen. 


Thirty-three and thirty-four. 

Sad at looking back 

at being a starving carnivore 

beyond solution, deep in self-pity. 

The earth around appeared to crack. 

If you pieced the puzzle 

you'd find a war crime  

ripped from the headlines 

bleeding onto the icecaps 

while someone gave an explanation why. 

Desperate for shelter 

seeking connections, saying 

even the homeless find them 

one warm night 

under the punishing stars 

we unlock a moment to wonder 

Am I the only one? 

And Love, it says 

Yes, Love, or 

I like the way things are.  

condor and snake 

X is subject to rapid total change. 

Moods will vary. 

Events will alter. 

Beauty calcifies. 

It seems impossible  

with these gadgets anthems and pills. 

Keeping us moving 

through mayhem response and the critics 

on the most pristine oil spills. 

Surrounded by needles and cameras 

injustice frustration and death 

everything’s more evil 

and the greater the evil 

the more it speaks  

of harmony and love. 

Whoever spoke I trusted less. 

Whoever was silent 

wasn't far behind the farce. 

At night I stared at couples  

kissing in the bars 

and wondered about my future food source.  

the coming wars 

Strip-searched to the skeleton 

there were gunshots in the blue.  

The things we hear, the things we say 

mean little on the day-to-day.  

Talking freedom like a neocon 

just dusts value on broken bridges, systems, 

icons courts and cities. 

The list is endless really. 

Today a woman was shot for no reason 

by a kid with no name. 

It’s like we've been created  

by a secret committee 

inbred as a pharaoh's afterlife 

and any passing luxury sedan 

may determine how tomorrow ends. 

May understand the tropes repeated 

knowing why the bombs drop for real--- h

ow to dissemble the asylum. 


I adapted to a challenging environment. 

Survived and hated it. 

Stopped believing newspapers talk-show hosts antiheroes 

the all-powerful dollar 

villains supervisors 

the script of heaven above 

got so high I spit on stars 

then felt bad because I knew 

they were set like me. 

To die. Avoiding death. 

Saying Eternal life is awful 

and waiting to believe it. 

To believe in nothing, even disbelief. 

Drifting here and there 

repeating words I'd overheard 

a puppet of prophets or their silent unmoored companion. 

What are we floating for really? 

To doubt the lessons of poets we admire? 

And the music that we hear.  

Is it really genius? Or a crude commercial  

for an ancient king?  


Metaphor clarification innuendo and slur. 

Days move in harmony 

with radio stations broadcasting bland hits 

and arctic prophets coming true. 

The logic denied  

preserves its loveliness.  

Rain oils on the city. 

Rocks me to sleep like lava tides 

under the red-lightning sky. 

Wake up to the sound of rain on tin 

stained glass early shadows 

velvet thumping gentle cars 

birdsong in a forest of malachite. 

A mudslide and questions for California 

hushed upon the distance. 

X is subject to rapid total change 

in time without effort. 

I saw shit everywhere.  

Bad burgers sat in my stomach like poverty. 

Fat clouds of silence my art 

my words now brilliant for fools 

hemorrhaging money 

a golden liver begging more. 

The get-yourself-together-and-forget-it-man 

well-wishing friends prescribed 

wore thin as I found memories in song. 

She's there again in the bedroom. Not naked but not clothed. The bluebirds listen deeply. Silent summer air. Our bodies mortared with sweat in the attic. It is late afternoon, and lace on the sun.  

We Have Been Thinking 

I sleep. I wake. I go. 

And the dream ends with its understanding. 

In a pile of cloud that never was 

the breath of myth balanced on air. 

What happens when the light of god 

has no effect upon the flowers in you? 

Do you not ascribe your flowers 

to a different source when they arise?  

The Rain Puzzle 

If this is what awaits us  

is it not a miracle? 

Yes or no is either  

side of the wrong answer. 

And maybe some heartbroken heart 

finds comfort in this sympathetic hurricane 

moving together toward the end 

forgetting the punishing stars. 

Maybe not and I’ve misplaced 

all that's real of human value. 

Maybe we go round like crazy beasts 

with evanescence hampered 

by temptation-to-endure. 

Maybe X is A and B is % and sad 

to emerge, gladiator  

in a stadium of infinite blood 

given no option but to wrestle with monsters 

living like the spasms of a severed limb 

acting out of habit 

like everything is there 

Death dies beside us. 

Blood light kiss.  

Form breath rain.   

The senses we know are an industry 

burning up stimuli 

and we’re just jaded ogres 

complaining the sun today was too golden.  

And in the End, Another 

The Earth has no regard 

for its sometime ability 

to take its latest wild components 

and twirl our tissues in a soul 

that feels, chewing dip in twilight angles 

the pain of men howling in the street 

giving up a broken Gloria 

under blue sonnet skies 

rainclouds like aircraft carriers 

sweeping the west. 

Taxonomy’s impossible 

and the mood is uncharted 

and moments explode  

into light 




as love. 

Like a demon to damnation 

everything must go— 

misdeeds and planets miracles crowns 

the juiciest tears 

ready to flow 

from drug-company actor on cue. 

Diversions kissed-together 

are now clouds, roll away. 

Words that once ignited me. 

Promises seemed-real. 


Starlings and seagulls 

on the cables of big ships 

shake their heads  

like thoughts are stuck 

and the sky turns  

other shades  

of pink and gold 

and bigger blue 

that bring the rain. 

Other shades, as if to say 

these are not the only options.  

Alternatives await 

if you let time and space  

catch up to you 

But accept without choosing 

the rainbow left behind. 

Fog may drift upon the hippocampus 

and cloud the severity of things seen so clearly 

you may know more 

than in a lifetime as a little god 

or a veteran pawn. 

If you need to know more 

your journey ends here.  

These words you may remember. 

You may immediately forget. 

Such is the memory of a child. 

Remember when the night turns wild

when you find yourself in fear 

you can take these words 

and blow them to the sky.  


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