in the drop my thought swirls about smaller than a worms breath the wetness of the dew in the spires of hell my brow sweats to know what’s coming knocking at the door tidal wave of destiny doomed to clear in agony all debt i’ve left behind in the oceans of mars where the fog of disbelief punishes the chiefs of the snowy altitudes dharma electricity pulses on the Nile and the Ganges will build factories in the tsunami states
Poetry
that one eye of God
peering from the years of worn
child love fills up the aura
God has looked upon me
tiny giant’s hands that have built
epochs and eras of mad love
for life in free range cages
i now come face to face with me
with a perfect mirror and my
fears and crazy inexpressible
love with madness of fever
i at long lost have been
answered
in one single
blink
July 4, 1981
in the grocery cart you find the frogs down by the river
bending in the light to where
the Pacific Bell poles rot at the bottom
in the creek where all the vagrants pee
it’s not lady like to see those things
but i guess i can learn faster to just look
lucidity in their feet as the cops roll bye quietly
looking at the river grounds
“shut up shut up shut up!” the mantra of the
prophetic invisibles fighting to stay in the
black hole
by the river Frog-town groans and the little fire fluffs
spark here and there like in Gustav’s serpents
but Chavez’ Ravine bullies the twilight with a salute to
the liberation on the fourth
and we are all out of innings
by the tower
harmony clashes
pounding through the drums of fate
floating messages
on the wings of lonesome doves
pennies for the angels’ breath
trepidation
blazing to the highest heavens
but how can i measure
i’m ill equipped
i am not God
touching my way on the ground
just like one that lived before
the Psalms were written
i do not know how to swim
out of water
Mohawk street is not the same
the houses are familiar
in the vagueness of my name
teacup roses are all now full of moss
the churches are different
than when i was knee long high
i cried out as silently as i could
is the world changing
or am i
picnic 1975
so he said don’t look up
little darling or your pistachio
eyes will turn to coal
so i said no they won’t
but i did not believe my words
although against logic
i looked up anyway
so can you see stars and lines
or dark dark bubbles on the car
doors my little darling
your eyes are red
no i said so i can keep
looking unbeknown to him
i really wanted to burn
my eyes out to stop the future
from charging me
so listen my petite
devil i cannot let you
look up anymore
so place this hat upon your
head and know that God is always
above you
i know i am beneath
but can i have an orange
oh no no i want a pickle
with pastrami instead
i could not see but i lied
anyway
so you think you’re
hungry? we have food
in the car follow me
but don’t look up and if you’re
good we can roll down the
hill together
the wind at 6 a.m.
i guess now i have to haul
ass on my own. my dog, my tree,
my home, my life. all put away,
in the chambers of my heart.
damn it woman. how can it go on?
i chase your scent, the ring in your
sound. the laugh in the rain, the pound
in your heart. and there i stand.
though broken i am not. i never said anything
to this thought. but you who made me whole,
when i said i could no more. you made me move.
in a direction in front of me.
the wind walks on rice paper. no trail of
you i see. footsteps in the river of
forgiveness washing me free, today and forever.
this is what you left for me.
as i sit alone in this bed of
my own humanity. i feel your touch of love
and there is a 6 a.m. in every hour. you are
in the sun, the moon, the stars, the fog.
you are in the laughter of my
sons and the tenderness of my daughters.
your steel of spirit in the doves on
city cables. in the potted sage.
put me in my proper place,
when you receive me in His kingdom.
until then coffee and cigs;
6 a.m. in life unrepentant.
-to Jane and Hank-
the pebble
i keep the pebble in the hand
as a testament
to the revolt of feelings.
mere electrical currents
in the brain.
sometimes the pebble is placed down.
its weight can crush if the
heart is flighty with thoughts
and fancies void of substance.
as the pebble is looked at, it stares
back. forever with no smile
or frown or indication
other than it is a creation
of God.
borrowed from the universe
the pebble does not need me
as much as i need it.
The Way Pollack Paints Hope
Thank you for
showing up at the venue from where the gambler tosses all they have
onto a table set on a busy street.
Thank you for putting on display a beating heart pulsing with angel’s fingers
on that dirty boulevard.
The rose now a beloved queen to a lost traveling soul aches for a few moments
of respite before the end.
Thank you for tossing laughter as a hopeful crowd tosses rice at the bride’s
feet when the rain will inevitably wash the marble clean.
Thank you for spinning from the air a gentle reminder that all is salvageable.
bowing out
the electricity is shut
and gone forever.
the eyelid dried out;
no more light will filter.
and the laughter lost
in a cave far down from here.
time was not enough dowry
to change the unchangeable.
i must be content with
having failed.
i, with no wealth of any
particular blue bloodline
could not offer you
anything other than
what God saw fit.
in the chasm
of the voices, it does
not really matter.
don’t employ any foreboding
on dejected smiles.
words less spoken 