Friday, July 25, 2014

Heaven was Blue

[today, the gods are laughing forever after]

because a thousand blessings are failing spectacularly.
if pure bliss was enough to write about
I don't know--
the heart is a foolish child.
what crap is the soul digesting
while humming gospel music
reminding a sinner
that angels are plowing the rye 
alongside us
offering prayers of forgiveness
Death tickles as it touches
has its own ideas of what looks best
in what shades of grey.

Image: NYC with Jeff, from

Thursday, July 24, 2014


We are but shadows
moving lightly, fleetingly
over the surface.
Noticed by some, barely seen,
they look again and we’re gone.

 —Michael Boiano


The Sayings of Twilight Jesus

Twilight was walking his dog, thinking. It was a sunny day in the mountains when he was kidnapped by angels. They sat him down in a meadow and calmed him down telling him Hindu stories. What suddenly became clear to him was the destruction of the world was the world. The end of the world was already present in every detail of the world.

"Perhaps that's how it works. But I feel no evil here. I'm a passer-by preferring to go barefoot. My scar is just beneath the surface of my words. I'll laugh myself well until I feel absolute acceptance and unconditional love, like a mother's love for her newborn child. Lord, overflow me so I can walk on this polluted water. 

Image: Mary Ellen Mark

Wednesday, July 23, 2014


The sun scorches. The plane flies low
throwing a shadow in the form of a large cross rushing forward on the ground.
A man is crouching in the field at something.
The shadow comes.
For a fraction of a second he is in the middle of the cross.

I have seen the cross that hangs under cool church vaults.
Sometimes it’s like a snapshot
of something in violent movement.

— Tomas Tranströmer, from ‘In the Open’, 

yet he was unafraid

everything is fine
at first
suddenly everything changes
I see
a face in the window
at night 
sad grey eyes
hidden hands

I'm on a train called
traveling at a high rate of speed
toward some place
where a new world begins

Image: Boy With Root Hands, Arthur Tress

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


"It is not about the spirit.
The spirit dances, comes and goes. But the soul
is nailed to us like lentils and fatty bacon lodged
under the ribs. What lasted is what the soul ate."

— Jack Gilbert, from “The Spirit and the Soul,” The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992 (Alfred A. Knopf, 1995)


the bees have all returned
When light falls in our brains
Intoxicating the Grace of a Dream
This world is finally tender
War starves itself to death
We will not forget us.
Creator of the Heart
where is the love?
298 blown apart on Flight 17
The sky will be called God
the most sacred thing
We will not forget our little poems
The creator of heaven
Inside, that is, what we're made of
And the lights of heaven shine
What a hot mess
When light falls in our brains
This is the path we must take
Intoxicating the Grace of a Dream

Image: Lennon lives, he really does... kn.

Monday, July 21, 2014


Humanizing Anew

Sometimes we are the crow on the line
and flap to the beat of the beautiful trifles
of the everyday
tired of surrender to what we are not
we are inhabited by
warm afternoons
golden ripening apricots
naps under thundering skies
the ecstatic brink
the green pond in the jungle
the burned way
even Monet
in the garden of lilies
at the foot
of the Japanese Bridge
sometimes came to paint
but then only lingered
Image: Man Crane, Sergey Sonin & Elena Samorodova

Sunday, July 20, 2014


"A man is a god in ruins."

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, from “Nature” 

One day 

to live inside the sacred unconscious,
one morning drift into the end before the end,
a soft rain, a cosmic whisper, an arc of peace,
that purifies and washes shame,
wild rose dreams and my hometown anywhere in the world

not word of rockets whooshing into the air.

Image: Earle Hudnall Jr., "Lady with Pup," 1990

Saturday, July 19, 2014


"… deep inside you was a frantic longing to be something or someone other than you are. It is the greatest scourge a man can suffer, and the most painful. Life becomes bearable only when one has come to terms with who one is, both in one’s own eyes and in the eyes of the world."

— Marai Sandor 

There Is a Space

a man sits in a room writing
and nothing happens
outside three crows eat Wendy's 
and not his struggles

his poem a nowhere a nothing  
and here on some nights he can't sleep
the chatter of birds brings first light
and me so thirsty of you

nothing but questions
and the magic of heaven to cure
a childhood full of saints
and a god hiding in the bushes at night

truly the Lord knows the crumbling at my edges
I write well in the teeth of flames

Image: John Petrenko, Art from the Border