We’re living in a world of circles trying to make squares.
When everything is swirling in foaming acts of resistance
down the sinkhole of our humanity We the people rise
and give bow to a sham process everyday.
Bunkered in the basements of our glory holes
We trust in the image and give blank stares to its contents.
The imagists are tragic word pornographers
again and again the contents of the word.
Wake up! and look
with a much broader perspective
be captive no more
slap your fellow man on the back
and say brother, sister, look!
the sky is blue
as it always was
as it always
There are no ideas in things, you are the inventor!
Last week at
the used book store
I found myself in
a wealth of books
at the moment so I
drifted to the used cd’s
and records. There’s an
art to browsing the music
section. You don’t want to be
the guy that lingers
in one spot forever ’cause
someone might notice the
smell of three day old b.o.
and tzatziki on your breath.
But if you go too fast your
just pretending to browse.
As good faith would have it
I found the only copy of
Ziggy Stardust and knew I
was going to claim it.
I didn’t recognize any of
the titles on the back, but
knew that I’d heard just about
every song on the album.
It’s that kind of album.
My son has known Bowie through
his collaboration with Queen and
has shown some interest in the guy
so I passed it off as a kind of
a gift. I used to think
Bowie was some kind of dyke.
‘Cause that’s what I called lesbians
back then, dykes. Being old enough
to have heard the word and young enough
to throw it around. I regret that,
but also like that regret is
locked somewhere between the
conscious level of having dealt
with it and just having beat myself
up for it. There’s a difference.
I’ve known fifth graders who
wash their hands better than I do.
We listened. That was the gift;
we listened together. And I
realized that as much as I try
to teach the kid with words, with
diatribes, this kind of action—
was the real teacher, the real game changer.
It was a gift to both of us. What’s the word for
the moment between doing something
spontaneous and becoming self conscious?
I’m not exactly sure,
but for now I’ll call it Bliss.
Sea winds foam sea hymns
and we disappear like robins
in the fall; by diffusion
and through vapors
that stretch from coast to
coast. Across ceilings and walls
trying to cover it all—
or at least get a better
vantage point. My face geometry
is less than desirable, but
that’s OK because humans
agree sacrifices must be made.
We say we don’t have a god
complex because we don’t
have a god. Well, then,
what’s in the lens? Dad’s
hiding in the walls again,
my daughter says. (It’s true
and the ceilings too.) We’re
living in a zero-sum
universe. That is if you
were to add up all the mass
in the universe and subtract
it by all of the gravity
within the universe it would
come out to zero.
Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nothing.
Hiding behind vantage points
finding solace in people’s faces
*Humans agree… is a line from the song Soup is Good Food by the Dead Kennedy’s.
An article on spacetime foam
the Aspen is
in the breeze.
It’s very similar
to the nails of
on the branch,
I hear it
Orion’s Belt is robust
in the Northern sky.
Has the archer been
fattening up for the
in the moonlight—
like my mind
and the river of
words that flows
Orb weaver! Holding the world together every quiet evening morning I leave for work. Poplar leaves in the breeze and pasted to the ground
I sat there with her
sitting on my lap.
Much bigger than
she use to be —
held in my arms.
And I’m watching her
and I’m thinking.
And I’m thinking.
I’m thinking, will
I forget this too.
And now I’m trying to remember
all those moments I swore I’d never
forget. They’re lost in some kind of
silence that somehow knows
there’s something missing.
That’s some scary shit. Because
I can see a future where I don’t
even recognize the love
that got me to that point.
There is, however, a little pin-
prick of light, a bit of
hope in the mess
I’m sitting in; I can feel
the joy. I can feel the remnants
of the joy those memories
held, in my bones, those memories,
they’re in my heart, and now
I think if I were to continue
this contemplation the feeling
would grow and my rib cage would crack.
Now I’m snapping out of it.
Now it’s clear; it’s no wonder
I can’t remember.
I’m not even here.
Sometimes I wonder how this desolation in the gut, this tiredness in the heart, is the energy that keeps me going. How is this the energy that feeds the desire to keep trying?
Poetry informs our very nature
it is woven into our existence
the saguaros of my youth —
in every word. I know some
who have chosen to give their
life to a company. Company
men they used to call them—
now just men.
I once had a boss with a
generator in his back-
yard. Sun draped mountain
ranges in every breath.
And here I choose poetry
everyday. What a cruel joke
the gods have played. Who
could wake up and go to work
and profit from corporate
spoils when the cormorant
flies over a rush-hour freeway
in the autumn twilight. Flies
across the glinting lake, and yet
no one has written it!
Poetry is like breathing; when attention is given an understanding comes up, seemingly, from nowhere.
So I heard that we’re getting a little closer to flying cars.
Flying taxi cars actually.
I immediately thought of The Fifth Element
—of all the references that could’ve popped into my head.
Still it’s pretty far off, but
they’re actually in development and not only that,
they’re being test flown.
What’s amazing to me is to see the fantasy of
sci-fi comics and novels from the fifties/sixties and
eighties/nineties become the reality of today.
It’s like the lengths we’ll go to live our
childhood fantasies, at least, in one way or another.
Or like what narrow imaginations scientists really have.
But, so this got me thinking: if our technology
is driven by fantasies of the past
why don’t we start writing about a future that is driven by compassion, instead of business.
A future where the latest technology was no technology at all—
instead we realized the full capacity of our minds
with hard work, concentration, and self-control.
I know, I know crazy right.
Maybe the future is one where we figure out how to stop talking about the interconnectedness of all things
and we start living the interconnectedness of all things;
we could start by wiping out the disparity between rich and poor.
But maybe if this is the makeup of our stories
our ideals of the future,
then someday a scientist will wake up and realize he/she isn’t needed at all, because we’re all scientists making our own discoveries
every day, every moment. Now that would be something to see.