Wednesday, June 24, 2015


I was nurtured on the teat of sweet belief
creating what I call myself. Unique. Good grief!
My personality is like an onion made
from all these other second-hand beliefs conveyed
to memory and accepted as a god’s own truth.
And so I fade from infancy to bitter youth.

But ask myself this question most see most naive:
do I remember being born? I can’t conceive
a moment never being. That is what I am.
The rest is just some evolutionary scam
the absolute unknown intends so I may know
I am the absolute unknown. No pain, no rhyme.

Friday, June 19, 2015

The Last Thing

Alone again but more alone than ever I have been since ever I have been me.

Most would say I wasted all my talents on obsessions, circumventions, and preoccupations.

So I’ll repeat my psychological evaluation here: my father never introduced me to the world; my mother was completely fearful of it.

This left me with one simple task while in and of this world: to tread upon the tiger's tail without alerting it to my inquiring presence.

I could write this story now as if this character possessed a choice in plot, development, or setting. But I didn't.

So let me end this introduction with my lifelong findings: there’s no world to introduce except a false one. And fear is why the world itself is false.

The world will never tell you this because it doesn't know it. And the ones who really know it know there's nothing to be told. I’d listen to them.

Oh to be sure, there are religions that will sell the sea to every wave within this ocean but religions are the world’s own fears personified and organized to hide them in some other hell.

And please do not misunderstand me. I'm still going further. The only reason why I'm writing is this entropy of poetry. This form enjoys the rhyme of dancing with the beauty of the truth it knows to date.

First, there’s only love. And if we listened to the Beatles back in nineteen-sixty-seven, we'd already know this. Then again, if John and Paul were listening, they'd never write the song, or I, of course, this poem.

Love is what we are without the need for wanting love or making love or needing to be loved and once this faith in love is truly followed, there’s no ‘we’ or 'me' remaining. Jesus Christ, just listen to his message.

Last, the only thing you need to know is there is absolutely nothing to be known. In fact, the thinking that there's something to be known is why one never knows that great unknown. The Cloud Unknowing says: unknow and know your—no, that—yes, my—unknown.

I'll end with just this other way if love is not the hard direction wired within your brain. Deconstruct the world as now you see it: tread upon the tiger's tail without alerting it to your inquiring presence.

Sometimes I'll talk to me so I will listen to myself. Like a rolling stone.

The Ballad of Long Division

In the land of long division
our denominator is the king.
And in the world of yin and yang
she may be queen. Or anything.

In the land of long division
war is our default position setting.
War may be defined as worldwide
or a little bit upsetting.

In the land of long division
answers always end with more divisions.
Taking sides will always lead
to new improved sky-high collisions.

In the land of long division
genuine nonviolence is the hero.
Long division ends when one
denominator sets to zero.

Thursday, June 18, 2015

Memories in Triskaidecameter

They're cutting down the woods again to build another house upon the hill that overlooks the river valley.

They haven't reached the woods I see directly out my window but I know it's just a matter of the timing.

The world is always changing and we love it better in the memory than the one we see before us changing.

A memory is a work of art creating something out of nothing freezing form from endless transformation.

The past is always being lived again because the past that's in our memory always changes with our living.

Today the woods are lush and green and yesterday the woods were empty and tomorrow never really happens.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

mahatma summer king

in the territory of gray
squirrels, red ones
hightail branches
going sixties
steve mcqueen

dead vines
tumble down
a tamarack
like waterfalls
whipped with time

do not ask
the woods
for whom
the tree
is falling

for the benefit
of knowing
this unknown

a rose-breasted grosbeak
finally arrives
from somewhere
southern, innocent
and full of pure potentiality

every living form
appears to be obsessed
with summer’s near arrival
disregarding every clue
it comes and goes as never here

sleeping means
seeing something is happening
awakening means seeing
ever does

great ones only
go beyond
by dividing anything
by nothing

there’s nothing
to say
that needs to be heard
it’s nameless

the leaves are green
the space is green
and my interpretations of
my dream is green
that’s what i’m dreaming

the summer’s here
and time is ripe
to contemplate
the transformation’s later light
and sing what no one’s saying

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

following after poets

filling the birdfeeder 
with sunflower seed 
watching the splash 
little blackened shells 
big bang fireworks

a red-winged blackbird flies
across the empty road
a man is walking a dog
a dozen boats are floating
on the late sunday river

books of ryokan and saigyo
robert lax
on the coffee table
birdsong coming through
open windows

the light above
my shoulder lighting
purple ink on paper
reflecting in the picture

like a moon
in space between
the wall and green face
of an evening
summer wood

the translation
of revelation
into mind

the revelation
as felt
by body-mind

as evening deepens
reflection of the room
deepens in the window space
basho walking through
the woods

poetry is
the inspirational
reflection of the revelation
seen in words
and dancing

in the dark leaves
appear like clouds
shadowing deep images
although I know
they’re nothing

spoken silence
saying something

To the Purple Rose of Consciousness

It would appear, in evolution, this form of being which has called itself a human being, is the only form of being self-aware.

Instead of being, basking, in this self-awareness, the human being has discovered transformation, called it death, identifying with the form itself.

The world it builds is just the fear, forgetting self-awareness, disregarding being as its base, and practicing idolatry of form

in semi-permanent outstanding structures of its buildings, roads, and infrastructures, pyramids, cathedrals, banks of skyscrapers,

in other words, materialism, scientific and objective, praying at the feet of form to overcome the fact of form,

to fear of death and not a celebration of this awesome functioning of self-awareness, being, basking in and as this self-awareness,

being light and basking in the light, this being, basking, being, basking, crowning function of creation, crown of evolution,

noumenon of all phenomena, true revelation and apocalypse, the power and the glory, knowing all the universe is just reflection of oneself,

the mirror knowing it's the mirror, truth unborn, undying, I and nothing else.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

opening the field

it must be
summer solstice
i can smell the sweetness
of hay

the field is divided 
between tall grass 
and space 
in bales 
imagine this confluence of 
like a field of sea

(write with mind
as self
to nobody

using the mind
and not
mind using

between intuition
and inspiration
reflecting awareness
is the revelation

tree frogs must be
at their peak
i hear
a distant siren
in their harmony

further is our intent
the open road
is consciousness
dividing lines
speak to mind

a new wild voice
not one in memory
almost like a seagull
in coyote staccato
beyond dna entrusted archetypes

heighten experience
lowering experience
consort or saddhu
any experience
will do

doesn’t make
the moment empty
the moment is

reflecting on

the experience itself
touches dna
mystic third rail
there’s no archetype


the time
to speak in
is fast

the moment
without reflection
beyond archetype
the great unknown

deja vu
is stuck between
an archetype
and distant

you may remember rome
more power to you
but experience itself is how
that archetype
got milk in a day

it’s not so much
being mindful
as being

see the moment
beyond all archetype
now phantom
the noumenal

arjuna doesn’t
just arise
arjuna will
for krishna

by knowing
the great unknown
now knows
the great unknown

to know now
i need to know
what isn’t now
this is the clown
of creation

there is a window
i see the window
the window is open
there’s an open window
i am the opening

Friday, June 12, 2015

straw frogs

first there were peepers
now there are tree frogs
around the time
of crickets come

every movement takes
about fourteen billion years
if you really
wish to believe

a religion
may be
by its glorious

full moon tao

guilt or
being mindful
there's your yin
and yang
of all religions

i've never not been living
i've never been dead
i'm not guilty saying
i don't know
the difference

you're probably
at the corner of love
and I
you’re probably
within spec

my latest death
poem is
that Evolution see
there is no

i've been trying to eat
less words
and finally learning
who to copy
never mind this writing

the word
becomes the primal scroll
then it's printing the copies
later is the reading and at last is

Thursday, June 11, 2015

the grass hut

thank you
tree frogs
yin yang noise
for my grass

god is
the foundation of empire
while mind is
the foundation of dreaming

is what
the empire
as truth

truth is
and homeless
in the speech of

truth is
seeing there appears
to be two
as the world believes
in one

the act of knowing
there’s the john of revelation
mona lisa now

when the movie
leaves the screen
to walk within your world
it’s basically

my generation
the first generation
to see illusion
from behind
because wizardry of tv

the closer you
get to the end
the more I see
there’s no

we die
when the slow clock of intent
meets the fast clock of transformation
someplace other than

listen to the tree frogs
alternating stars and zeroes
ever since the big one
it’s either something
or the other

the difference
between freud and jung
is yin and yang

i will go
as long as i feel
like going

speak your truth
as if it frees
or kills you

all these words
aren’t the
of the
the grass hut