| I Would have Gone |
[Oct. 14th, 2009|02:37 pm] |
Food! Refrigerator packed,
stomach full,
eyes and nose full, and all is
full in a time of plenty in the Sierra Nevada
feet of California on a
six acre farm
in a trailer under beautiful live oaks
where I am listening to swinging
music waiting to calm down.
And I’ve got emptiness!
Working away enough to
forget and dreaming
sweetly enough when not
to forego the chakras’ desires
up the core and
all the way up and through my
third eye blind forehead.
My beard grows.
There’s needs besides these
foods we plant so hard on the
farm and needs outside these
people that
we call our Mecca
and outside this bright moon and
undiminished starshine sky.
Of course, the sun shines.
And all other stars are unnoticeable
behind a big static blue,
but then when no stars are tangible,
I’d rather settle for some eyes.
I’ve got hunger.
Energy past that which
is sweated on the fields digging long
rows of potatoes and planting
winter crops and hauling wheelbarrows.
My love is lacking as never it has
all the last seven years, and that
is not the bitch of it.
I’m doing fabulously on most fronts with
work to keep a mind healthy and
libido at bay, having cash to save for
dreams tender sweet.
Impermanence…
I don’t know, and I don’t mind,
smiling to that unknown
and all waxed enlightenments.
Yet I am hungry!
Tonight, after eating well,
I have time to be hungry
having worked the morning and
napped the afternoon and dreamed
then …. hmmmmmm.
Suppose I could have used a good biking
or should have taken a longer
walk.
I could’ve bitten the dogs.
I’m not tired in the least and
that’s when I get in trouble.
Too wound up to read and too
straight to drink and too patient to
cheat and too lonely to socialize…
I would’ve flown with the birds
this evening and sung.
I would’ve gone running barefoot
down deer paths in the back land
leaping over barbed wire,
or swam the irrigation ditches
with the brook trout.
I would’ve melted the sun into
the horizon with my gaze.
And I would’ve moaned loudly
in the faces of all the stars while
climbing impossible trees.
But instead I was hungry,
sitting there into nothing
with my full and hairy belly. |
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| Bread |
[Sep. 29th, 2009|06:10 pm] |
It's colder today.
I make bread
with no machine.
sourdough,
salt,
sugar,
flour,
coconut oil,
Beat 100 strokes
with a wooden spoon,
add flour,
knead in
quarter turns
for a few minutes,
let rise under a
damp towel
in the oven by heat of
pilot light only...
Knead, shape,
place on buttered pan
let rise again...
Score an X on top
and bake at 350.
Paint on an eggwash
for a shined, crisp crust.
In the meantime I
lay outside in
the hammock with a
mason jar full of
hot, earl grey.
A Calliope hummingbird
putters in
perching above my head and
lets out a few proud,
ratchety squeaks after her
long day sipping from flowers.
She does this every evening.
Soon,
I will have warm bread.
The trailer will be cozy-
heated by the oven. |
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| Canyon Live Oak |
[Sep. 29th, 2009|05:50 pm] |
Moss covered, majestic trunks
pouring upwards branching
canopy of olive and lime
filtering golden rays of sun-
holy dome of stained glass
sounded by choirs of sparrows.
Tree.
So patient for rain,
content with cloudless
blues and starry darks.
Content sharing roots
with granite masses.
The decades memorized
by layers of ingrained growth.
Building rich soil
by shedding evergreen
into rich duff over granite
where worms do work.
Resting place of migrating
finches and acorn woodpeckers,
rufous hummingbirds,
and scrub jays …
horned owl hunting the screetch.
Sound of million
quant leaves rustling
in currents of air-
the sound of peace. |
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| Valley Oak |
[Sep. 4th, 2009|10:15 pm] |
Heavy acorns randomly
bounce off the trailer
like small, steel bearings
sometimes waking me
from dreams. |
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| I Taste You |
[Jul. 6th, 2009|06:22 pm] |
Despite this divide
and the opaqueness
of future
I am holding
your calves
kissing your knees,
running my hands over
your smooth
valleys,
hills and moss like
a landed sailor
discovering
a lush continent.
The whole breadth of
this country
parts us, yet
I am tasting
your mouth
with bottomless appetite,
cradling your head
and singing gently
behind your ear.
I see you
toiling beneath humid, grey
skies of Maine while
shirtless, I drink deeply
under hard California sun.
Our hands calloused.
Our feet stained with soil.
Our flesh lean from
working the land.
We work in fields.
We harvest together,
and I see your form
each time it bends.
My firefly,
if you remember me
as you lie down at night,
then neither of us
sleeps alone.
I taste you
from afar,
and our dreams know
nothing of this distance. |
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| Toad and Snake |
[Jun. 13th, 2009|05:35 pm] |
Farmer Allen flagged a
spade foot’s burrow
to avoid tractor tilling under
the humble toad's soul.
This orange, curious flag
I passed many times
before this previous
day’s noon when
a motion near the banner
led my vision
to where one massive toad
wore thy high
a garter snake of equally
impressive size .
Reptile and amphibian
locked slowly and strongly
in a battle of niether’s gain-
each pull, push and roll
for one
a fantastic, lasting meal
or the other
its dearest, shiny eyed life.
Those horrible gestures
commenced in length
and held me by spell ‘til
snake laboriously managed
to drag big toad to the
narrow, dark isles of
nearby straw bales
where the struggle ensued
in the privacy of shadows.
And I continued working
in the hazy, quiet afternoon…
What became of the wrestling?
Did peaceful toad manage free?
Did clever serpent slay her hunger?
These ponderings consumed me
through dusk and into the moonrise
till morning’s light and birds
awoke me.
I heard the gruff ghost
of Bodhidharma speak:
“Struggles of nature
often ensue in the shadows.
Your questions
are not necessary” |
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| Worlds in the Rose Hedge |
[Jun. 13th, 2009|05:34 pm] |
Stems of thorns and
leaves of gloss.
Dark red, mating weevil beetles.
Pale,
plump,
green aphids.
Voracious ladybug larva like
little Gila monster.
Elegantly stalked eggs
of
the lacewing.
One fancy yellow rose with
no sweet smell.
Plain, pink rose with the smell
of lady angels. |
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| There are so Many Corns |
[Mar. 3rd, 2009|09:50 pm] |
There are so many
corns.
Black, blue, pink,
white and green,
purple sheen and red.
Oh, and
there is yellow.
3ft, 2ft, 6ft, 10ft,
short ears, fat ears,
thin ears, long ears.
There are so many
corns.
Sharp teeth,
large, little,
straight, dull
or crooked,
even
checkered teeth.
Sweet, bitter,
fresh or dry-
grinding,
poaching, grilling.
There is smutty corn
for the saute.
Oh, and the yellow
a stubborn status quo.
But, there is so
much corn...
to kick the GMO. |
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| Sierra Nevada Smelling |
[Feb. 15th, 2009|11:13 pm] |
The valleys
in the mountains
near old, gold-mining towns
are vast and abandoned.
Valleys where cold air
flows at night
and shadows linger when
early sunbeams
break over the ridges. |
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| Chiroptera Somnio |
[Feb. 8th, 2009|11:53 pm] |
Tonight I sip the
last hemlock needle
tea which still
brewed flavorful
with an aroma that
brings me back to
the winter solitude
of over a year ago
where I made a desolate
camp and harvested
these blessed needles.
I lay in a hammock.
The hibernating
bats in the wood
walls of the a A-framed
room sometimes squeak
and chatter as if
waking from dreams that
only hibernating bats
can dream.
My cup of tea. |
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| Losing |
[Jan. 29th, 2009|06:54 pm] |
I have tasted a sweetness
that is pleasant to my tongue,
and so much so that it
sent my eyes to closing.
I have felt a supple texture
with my hands, arms and cheeks
which is as bread made for my body.
I have experienced
a heat inside my chest
that burned as crumpled paper
with orange and crackling flames
consuming my loudest muscle.
I have heard a song that
led me to the rocks while
sailing the endless ocean.
And tonight,
I close my eyes and hands
to see and feel faint embers.
Washed ashore and waking,
I hear a song no more,
and I hunger for the bread. |
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| Free Flow |
[Jan. 25th, 2009|08:59 am] |
The morning is cold.
Single digit nights this week.
A few faithful orange coals
to start a roaring blaze in
the gothic, old wood stove
that heats this French house
which stands alone on LaGrave Avenue.
Takes a while to raise the mercury,
takes a minute to heat the skillet
for tortillas and eggs.
Slight aroma of woodsmoke pervades
the stories of this home.
It is radical here, but it
don't feel radical;
feels calm in the bilingual,
politically sensitive atmosphere
where we sit down for dinners
and breakfast, drinking tea
from Zapatista mugs and
taking turns sweeping the kitchen,
and we remind each other of
this afternoon's war protest or
environmental conference.
Shelves dusty with old books on
sustainability, the Middle East,
famous women of Latin America,
poetry, philosophy and vegan recipes.
House and walls graced by
the art of residents' own crafting,
and planted in the fertile yard,
are naked cherry trees that
will bloom white in spring
before the lilac
releases its famous vernal scent;
the trees care not about
the concrete city all around.
There is a large cluttered sun room
needing attention before
beginning seedlings next month.
The garden plot awaits its
forthcoming splendor
while asleep frozen under snow.
Roof leaks will need patching
and the house wants new paint.
No worrying about these chores now.
People rise for breakfast as
the wood stove pours the warmth.
A slight aroma of woodsmoke
pervading many winters of this house. |
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| Spent |
[Dec. 13th, 2008|02:32 pm] |
I've spent myself in optimism,
poured my mind into
believing in the existence of
a healthy community with
open-hearts and a natural
warmth and desire for
understanding one another,
building and welcoming
each other in the midst of
time's various tribulations.
I've poured my
thoughts into believing that
friendships can be
richer than blood
and that relationships can
flourish into colorful
and diverse gardens.
Believing that unconditional love
firmly embraces
each individual in their own
narrow, winding journey
through the plains and bogs of life.
Optimistic that through meditation,
one can hear the soft,
whispering speech of the heart
following blindly in faith,
knowing that with patience
and humility every being has
a place that can be found
through internal direction.
I have spent myself in thoughts
that all of love's faces
are kind, sweet and gentle,
that love takes ground
over bitterness, pain, jealousy,
despair and impatience.
I have poured these thoughts into
a community that now eludes myself.
I put myself into a mass of
lovely people who's doors
are now closed.
I have poured too much
and I have spent myself,
and the result is exhaustion.
I might well be leaving in
due time to seek a new life,
yet, already I feel gone.
Perhaps, I will rest for a while
and when awake,
I will spend thoughts believing
in more simple things. |
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| I long for the rich life |
[Dec. 8th, 2008|01:21 pm] |
I long for the rich life.
Where there is foxtail millet
for the birds,
where the water is pure and safe,
where the soil is nurtured
and living and giving, and
the food is fresh picked
and prepared with pride.
I long for kale and collards,
of unpasteurized milk and
wild honey straight from
the hives of the bees.
Where the red-tailed hawk roosts,
and where the result of work
is food and shelter and good sleep.
Where the house is cleaned
with baking soda and vinegar
and straw brooms.
Where orange, licking campfires
are the weekend's entertainment.
Where the stars outshine streetlights.
I long for the rich life
where clothes are hung to dry
in the sun and breeze.
The rich life of sweat and dirt
and mended clothing
and seed saving.
I have tasted this life,
and it is sweet and good,
and it is the only wealth
that I can understand
besides the wealth of
a compassionate heart
and a true love's touch.
It is symbiotic health
with the earth and soul.
It is the honest life of
reaping and sowing for more. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 8th, 2008|01:08 pm] |
A pale yellow room
at an old, scuffed up desk
and I am typing. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 14th, 2008|07:09 pm] |
Black cow
on green hill
under grey sky. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 5th, 2008|09:20 pm] |
Small crunching noise,
a mouse is under the bed
making it's home. |
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| Bombshell |
[Nov. 4th, 2008|11:35 am] |
Oh, the pleasures
and strife of heat.
Earthquake, meadowlark and lava-
the twisting turmoil laced with
smells of sandalwood and sweet grass,
Oh, sunset eyes and wincing from
rose thorns.
A bitter candy of sharp moans,
the soft crawl of insides.
The blessing of fingertips.
A horrible ache.
Consuming gravity and
grinding lock of taught tendons-
head over heels into
fresh mixed warmth.
All the beach sand and water.
Heat so innocent yet utterly cruel
on all its sides and curves.
I have been pierced through
and wounded.
I have also injured.
There are people face down.
This is a hot zone.
I see little variance from
this heat and war.
Oh, the hopes and flags.
I crawl on steadfast
feeling horribly high
in the mud under the wire.
It is a dazzling battle.
There will be scars with stories
to painful to tell.
There are heavy purple hearts. |
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| Will Share Praise |
[Oct. 19th, 2008|08:25 pm] |
Any sort of what pulls an
everybodyisalostsoulanyhow along
with stronger, smiling life-lust
is what sure damn thing
is ought to be praised
by us whom
may otherwise be doomed
to fix our own soggy bottomed windows
on the side of our own
hand built houses
facing the chasm voids of end,
sorrily fleeing from gorgeous world
as if cyanide capsules be eternal aspirin
and granite on grass
be same as apple pie in the sky,
as if god were elsewhere.
What fools I'd say who
treat not what is as sacred
but what is not as so,
except I know
it's same as what pulls 'em along
and gets 'em by smiling.
So I anyhow praise what
with anyone comes,
who shares the breath I breathe
in an in and out move,
breathing in and out
breathing in and out
breathe in, breathe out. |
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| bloodbeats |
[Oct. 15th, 2008|09:30 pm] |
Used to get excited
to the point of
hammering nails in boards
with the pulse of my fingertips
and get scared 'cuase i'd
look down and see
my shirt beating,
worried that people would
notice my
pre-cardiac arrest
brought on by
youth, anxiety, too much coffee,
too much world,
the beauty and
all it mixed lethal.
Sure enough, once
a doll French girl who spoke
no English laughed and
said what i only understood
by her placing fingers
on my neck and
feeling them bounced by
the flow of my youngblood.
Too overwhelmed and
overcome by her language
and naked beauty
to make love--
Would've popped in nucleus meltdown.
What a French girl would do
with a dead 18 yr old
American in her bed?
So i gently ate her,
and as her hips rose,
as she came in my mouth,
the pulse of her vagina
on my lips
calmed me down
and slowed my beat.
Quit drinking coffee,
gotten older,
made peace with beauty,
calmed my mind.
Heart seldom rattles
the ribcage any longer
like the old animal that
wanted out.
Also curbed my sugar habit
and quit drinking sodas. |
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