Archive | October, 2014


31 Oct

stars over portage

oh, this life.

what of it?

There is no consequence

to all the business of it all:



dress codes (unspoken but felt)

food stuck in our grinning teeth.

I am



rubbing out mysterious muscle twinges


fluorescent lights

in this world’s pulsing

mcdonalds walmarts

everywhere and nowhere


spouting taste in music

watching the

working out of our packaging

of  interests and style

haircuts and witticisms

posted to our brand.


all is naught.

We are engaged in

the longest ever

staring contest

with the bottom slime

of a kombucha brew.

I am hoping to see

that there is



to go but up.

Zooming out a bit more,

we will see there is not up

or down.

We are

reaching out for the wall

to steady our swirling confusion –

yikes –

no wall

no hands

no more.

I don’t know how

we keep on playing such

serious life games.

How do we go on

getting out of bed

putting on

our clothes,

talking about tomorrow?

Ignore me,

I’m in an achy,



I’ve swum


laps in

the molasses

of my waste.

Just wait

perhaps soon after

I towel off,

I look up and

the stars remind

me to forget.



the one writing this post is so annoying

21 Oct

for s:

oh, do tell

of losing the self?

even for just a moment,

losing it

drops the muscles in my face;

makes me forget my name.

if i’m not a consistent thang

then why don’t i wash down the drain?

why do my cells keep hugging and clinging,

to the one they think they are?

why does my phone ring?

why do i still wear clothes?

can non dual get me out of taxes

out of traffic

out of laundry?

no reason

not to drift away,

but it does only

seem fair

that I I I I  can get off.

are you with me?


you birds must share your flying,

you rhinos, your horns;

the siren (hear it, here it!)

rushing to the accident

calling us all

to flow together in one soup

to fill the belly,

for there’s a

the wHole in the bottom of the sea –

when I am no longer me.

the sauna

14 Oct

Not sure why,

but I am compelled to cook this body.

As my skin pinks, I feel

my thoughts leaving –

squeezed out in beads of sweat.

I hear the racquetball bouncing so loud off the walls

that I think the sounds I hear

may be coming from the walls of my cranium,

being played like an instrument.

I am a hollowed-out gong,

listening to the ricochet off spine vibrating

low to high notes of emptiness.

The glue that holds it all together has melted

and a heel bone is floating free.

A recurring conversation is heard

(by whose ears?)

in the women’s locker room outside,

between a motherless girl and a worker.

They are searching everywhere for the small girl’s mother, Mary.

Mary may be in the pool – they leave to go see.

Mary is not in the pool.

Mary may be in the spin class – they leave again

and return.

Mary may be in the sauna.

I feel their eyes as they peer through the glass door at me:

Are you Mary?

No. I say.  I am not Mary.

Are you this girl’s mother?

No. I say, as the girl stares in my face

as if she is wondering if I may be Mary, if I may be her mother,


Could the sauna be a high-tech machine

from the future?

In you go as you,

out you come as another?

Am I only half-baked into my new form?

I feel unsure.

I could be Mary after all.

Who is now sitting in this little, hot box?

They leave again to go search.

For Mary.

A woman appears in the glass,

fiddling with the heat button.

Catching sight of me,

she beams – white teeth, bright eyes;

she goes

to the mirror to fix her hair.

I feel this face still beaming back at her long after she has left.

Soon this body moves to leave;

where does the will to move begin?

I am sure in this moment that the body moves

and the mind follows, like a dog following its master

and not the other way around.

What life am I returning to?

Stepping from the heat,

as the girl and I are reunited,

my thoughts are full of ice cream

and balloons, and she shall

tell me where we live.

High Holy Day

4 Oct




A body temple

in the woods.

A name  inscribed

in the book

of breezes,

a student of mystery,

only that I wonder

about the sound

of buzzard’s wing feathers

as I surprise him in repose –

that, and I wonder too

about the color of his head

so red,

mirror of

his last meal:




Question for the ages:

how does an alligator hold on

in a current,

his eyes and snout only

above the tide

to take in air,

to surprise his prey?

Need I study anything else?

Sun, moon, hermetic mysteries,

numbers, spirits, places to travel.

I’ve cut my connections with

my sewing sheers,

and set myself adrift

in unknowing,

everywhere there is no seat on the pew.

Who is leading this service?

The minion of trees

are gathered

and versed in the most ancient of prayers

whispered today,

the holies of holy

where their leaves mark

the start of sky.


alligator in the tidal creek

Alligator holding still, can you see him?

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