Wednesday, July 30, 2014


That boy:
A soul dropped into time and space
Like a living land rover
To explore a foreign soil
Called home.
Only problem was --
Houston cut all communication,
Erased all memory of life 
Before the launch, 
Making him part of the experiment.
He and a whole crop of data collectors
Born across a nation’s breadth
Combed the landscape like ants
Gathering and becoming
The minutia of a million memories.

That man:
Vaguely sensing he is something living
Within a dying vessel
And somehow conscious
That the data has not been harvested in vain,
Has an ET moment that it is nearing time to return.
How many dots must he connect to see
That the game played is not the reality?
If he looks up a second, an insect stunned with insight,
To grasp even a hint of his mission and purpose,
Does he acquire some trace of dignity?
Is he set free of his limitations?
Does his anesthetized brain
Come alive like an electrical grid
That lights every small event he has gathered 
Into this thing called “his life?”
Does he at death place his offering
Fully aware before the One who sent him?

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Dead Still

The Dead-Still Moment
As the Clouds Gather
Waiting for Thunder
To Punctuate 
That space 
The Void 
And Avoided
Where opposing charges
Of good and evil
Mark the land we dwell,
And we, pretending ignorance,
Make of heaven
A living hell. 


"Her father died today."
A line of reality 
Dropped like lead
In the radioactive field
Of chatting as usual -- 
A mix of Happy Days 
And Leave it to Beaver
Poisoned by a dose of Death.

Friday, July 25, 2014


No one gave me the traffic report
For the freeway of of the open heart. 
Shouldn’t I have been warned
Of the clogged routes caused by
Collisions of dreams and reality?
Shouldn’t I have been told at birth
That driving on the autobahn of need
Was certain disaster?
Shouldn’t I have been warned go
Slower, not faster?
Shouldn’t I have been cautioned
Just a little
That wounds are like blown tires
Sending you into uncontrolled spins
Crashing you into oncoming traffic,
Hurting you and them, leaving you there
Standing and exposed to other motorists
Who learn by your hapless example?

Then, low and behold
Glory be to God, and 
All sorts of “amens” to whatever is up there!
Sometimes, on a clear Spring Sunday morning,
There’s a wide open lane,
And you’re sitting in a Porsche 918 Spyder convertible
Feeling just slightly less than a million dollars,
And you floor it,
Just to learn she’s with another guy tonight.


The squalor, and the unending hour
Are there, and nowhere:
A concrete broken heart and the infinite song 
That consoles the heart.
We are all that way.
Glorious, triumphant, immaculate
And . . .
Ignimonious, corrupted.
Art is this way:
Redeemed and redeeming
Of the squalid moment unending.
My dearest loves have been this way:
Beautiful, fresh, perfect as Easter lilies
Growing from the deserted lots
Of overgrown weeds, polluted air, and drab buildings,
Alive like gemstones
Filled with light
Filtered through the smog.  
So with God
Who places us in these corrupted shells
To break forth in unending beauty.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Daytime Gal

Got me a daytime gal.
Daytime wild
Brown eyes set me in flight. 
White smile sets me right.
Got me a daytime gal
My sweet daytime delight.  

But at end of day
Baby slips away
My daytime beauty 
Turns nighttime wild
Turns Devil’s child
Turns down and dirty.

Which eyes see?
Which insanity
Will she please?
Of night or day?
To Pray or Slay?
To Love or Decay?

Kiss me with lies
Miss me with sighs
Resist, just try!
Persist I cry!
Burn me alive,
I’ll still survive.

So create me
So destroy me
Crush the good
Praise the Night
Curse the Day.
But please, stay.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


In the chasm of the cold
Where hopes sink as sediment,
To shape the geology of our losses
You move like a warm current
Bearing seeds seeking crevices.

You are the dawn upon the headstones
You are the mocker of epitaphs 
You are the eternal formless source
Of every uncorrupted life.  

You are the triumphant “yes” of the newborn.
Adorned in glory as woman, fierce in manhood
Reclined as yin, Rising as yang,
Creating worlds at the very edge of day and night.

Ancient of worlds, Cold Endless Emptiness,
Raiser of the Dead and Maker of the Dead,
Crusher of small bones, Creator of Cancers 
Author of Light, Gentle Emperor of All Worlds

Un-nameable One, One beyond “good” or “evil”
You are Being and Non-Being.
You are our first and last heartbeat
Until to You, the One No-thing we return.