it's ok to cry

burn it out,
busted down and bloody, 
sore and beat,
breathe deep the musty air,
into your insomniac-tired lungs,
grab hold of some metal,
and set fire to your body,
dance with the pain,
dig down deep into the darkness,
feel the sadness twist and kick,
stickin' and movin'
pushin' and throwin'
don't listen to the screaming voices of the early morning, 
the middle of the day,
the late night,
it's just Makyo,
work it out,
exorcise it,
minute to minute,
this daily meditation,
of beating back the bad Self.

it wants to keep you hurt,
and apathetic,
so you remain nothing,
drowning in drama,
unrealized,
concealed,
inauthentic,
it's the source of your problems,

monks call this the "ox,"
so you need to tame it,
it's going to be hard, 
everyday,
it's a mean ox,
so it's ok to cry,
but don't let the ox win.

where does an old blog go?

where does an old blog go?
an old blog hangs like an old sign,
outside an empty hotel,
full of empty rooms,
squeaking in the rusty, dusty wind,
an empty house,
like an empty heart,
it used to be a busy place,
full of ideas,
creative hands,
dancing footsteps and music,
lines and verses,
rhymes and curses,
traversed like a busy highway,
coming and going, 
connecting and separating,
closing and opening,
to an unpredictable world,
of panic and peace,
health and disease,
promises of salvation,
then the hidden fees,

a old blog is a punch,
a kiss,
a push, 
a pull,
a build up and a tear down,

a place to take a thought,
write it down,
throw some words around it,
because you like the sound,

an old blog is a journey that need not go far,
an old blog is a drink in a late night bar, 
it's what's left when I subtract,
the way I want things to be,
from the way they are,
an old blog is the light from a dying star.

18th hole

a swipe from death,
a fly on the wall,
we never know what's coming,
or what we're waiting for at all,

the mercury goes up,
the rain comes down,
sometimes I sleep so deeply,
I sleep right through the sound,
of the aching world within,
and the void that surrounds,

I can see the pain in a friend's eyes,
and I know that everything, good or bad, eventually dies,
as sure as rivers dry up,
and rivers rise,

as sure as the Self is the universe,
the universe is a thought,
a product of,
a muscle pumping blood,
to grey matter behind the eyes,

as sure as I'm walking in the dark to the 18th hole,
at the end of the night,
surrounded by fireflies.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
inspired by M.J.S. aka. The Cattail Creek Kid








"And I thought you beat the inevitability of death, to death, just a little bit."
- The Tragically Hip (Inevitability of Death)

the dissolution of what we worked so hard for

carry a profound down-ness,

like a burlap bag,

through the sprawling urban townships,

resilient with a leather-like toughness,

makes it hard to shake the weight of struggle,

hanging about in the shadows,

so I'll sit on a bench,

in the summer sun,

try to forget,

try to distract,

get my mind off the constant gravity,

and mess,

it's dangerous when I put my pride away,

fall asleep,

too tired to defend myself,

that's the moment when the lion goes for the neck of the gazelle,

that's the moment when the world goes for the neck,

I'm helped by vanity,

driven by vanity,

to find meaning,

a creature deserving of meaning?

desiring of meaning?

why do you get meaning?

who said you get to have things mean something?

I could have died in the Cu Chi tunnels in 'Nam,

I'm no better,

this profound down-ness,

woven like burlap,

but with the strength of leather,

makes my stomach hurt,

and makes my eyes burn,

hidden behind charm and clean clothes,

to be carried,

with the strength of my vanity,

this God-given desire to be God,

to ultimately fall short,

but that I tried,

using my full fledged vanity,

to survive the profound pull of the all natural down-ness.

perish! they yell

perish! they yell,

perish in the flames of hell!,

the flames of burning tires,

over potholed roads,

warehouses of food and furniture,

warehouses of machines,

processing food and furniture,

processing reality through machines,

to be struck at,

only by a sword,

a lonely sword,

a poet's sword,

a sword sheathed between mean streets,

more like lost streets,

dead ends and strict one-ways,

a sword forged from pre-linguistic experience,

captured by trans-analytical awareness,

trying to wrap language around the sirens,

the chopper growl,

the parking lot chatter,

the 3am howls of homeless hearts,

looking for rest in a quiet park,

a bowl of soup,

a clean bed,

a drink,

a hit,

a feeling of peace,

that work-a-day peace,

or the work-a-day illusion of peace,

the work-a-days will be up soon,

running and punching,

through weeks,

months and years,

Christmases and Birthdays,

sipping super-juice on green grass,

planning the next moment,

the soul gets lost,

lost in the alleys,

hidden in the steam of a busy dish pit,

buried in the piles of garbage,

but it breathes,

endlessly,

timelessly,

beyond ego and emptiness,

beyond being and nothingness,

still available,

reachable,

just asleep,

quieted,

perched with the pigeons,

on the balcony,

on the edge of the mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the rope

how can I find light,
when it gets so dark?
how can I find warmth,
when it gets so cold?
I can cry down deep in a hole,
I can just sit here and cry down deep in a hole,
where crazy cunts and conniving pricks have control,
as they puppeteer this coked-up carnival,
and it's sycophantic vitriol,
and cookie cutter conformists fight to fit the mold,
or,
when it's get really dark,
and it gets really cold,
I can reach to meet The Self,
the broken vessel,
from which divinity shines through like gold,
and I can scour the heart for a ray of hope,
I focus the mind,
and use all my body,
to pull the tattered soul,
up the rope.

hubcaps and flying saucers

a hubcap discarded,
popped off a rim (maybe a old Crown Vic? an Impala? a Park Avenue?) 
and left balancing on the curb,
overlooked,
unseen,
put out of mind,
like an oil covered bird,
like a barrel of oil into the river,
like 5 million barrels into the ocean,
I try not to think about it,
this debt,
we owe,
a physical debt,
this psychic debt,
this debt of the soul,
instead I'll wish a hubcap a flying saucer,
I could get in,
and fly off,
the burning world behind me,
burn away the corporate terrorists,
give the extremists their peace,
the apocalypse they always wanted,
the one they keep trying to bring on,
the one in their hearts,
the forever blood feuds,
the black and white,
the pre-negotiative mind,
that doesn't sleep,
but must shout it's opinion because no one listens,
so I stop in,
I throw them back,
(am I too old to be throwing them back?)
and then leave and keep walking,
and smell that fresh rain smell,
and watch the street lights shimmer,
and watch a record store owner pull the metal gate across and close for the night,*
and keep wishing a hubcap was a flying saucer.










--------------------------------------------------------------
*permissibly stolen from a late night text by a cousin of mine who sends me some gems.


 

drive-thru haikus 2

I was thinking
earth, one planet of many
fridge clicks on

gotta work tomorrow
gluten-free beers taste good
stay up awhile

a small secret
I really want your mother
is that wrong?

so many dreams
am I awake or sleeping?
dive in deep

the Glengarry Games
the chance will come again
we'll be there

tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow
are we ever right here?
wind whips up 

stratospheric

been working,
haven't been out to see the incredible things,
locked away,
paying bills,
working,
forgot all about the incredible things,
stuck in rooms,
nested in bigger rooms,
working,
neglecting all the incredible things,
getting so I wanna cry,
getting so I wanna die,
getting so I wanna tear my teeth out,
so I make a plan to break out and see the incredible things,
but I get roped in,
get held back,
working,
this is how the system tries to get me to give up on the incredible things,
carve a small hole,
take your spot,
put your incredible ideas in a box,
you don't want the incredible things,
lower the risk,
keep it neat,
amongst the numbers and orderly feet,
beyond the cage,
you could drown in a sea of risk,
but you might live,
for a good long while,
you could be strong,
you could build,
you could hear the music,
and you might remember,
that you could change,
and see everything as an incredible thing.





"Isn't that wild?"
-The Great Buck Howard

all things (part 1)

all things can be a wise counsel,
a distant buzzing of traffic,
or the whistling wind,
voices in the hallway,
or footsteps on the stairs,
those spinning thoughts,
those drugged up dreams,
the loneliness in an old man's scream,
the dirty streets and it's torn down, rusted out, broken hearted machines,
mystics and Zennists,
natural scientists and alchemists,
Wiccans and atheists,
Taoists and book shop occultists,
yogis and wanderers,
rebels and musicians,
gym rats and drunks,
painters and runners,
boxers and writers,
photogs, sex maniacs and bar room brawlers,
jail house tats, and snitchy little rats,
smoke cigarettes as they shovel the last of the snow,
frantically carving away the last of the ice,
to thaw the paradigm,
to end all paradigms,
the paradigm of no paradigm. 

soft and warm

the grey sky is shattered,
birthing the virgin rains of spring's first light,
as the rounded, full western bellies,
who think they have worked hard enough,
converting, 
subverting,
sit slovenly,
sucking up against the table,
eating hard and fast,
yapping about the tooth and nail wars,
the tooth and nail fight,
they eat quickly,
they can hear the wolves scratching at the door,
they can feel the waves lashing the shore,
but what do they know?

my mind slips back,
white sunshine blasts through the green fields of my younger days,
when I had resigned myself to a simple path,
that quickly gave way to imminent confusion and struggle,

holy knowledge is not the product of scripture,
but rather experience,
like the calloused fists of old fighters,
the worn frets of a Stratocaster,
the dog-eared pages of a poet's notebook,

the crooked path of the Dharma,
moves to the fatigued, wise and worn,
from the soft and warm.









 

by their fruit

a mother and child at the bus stop,
a man looks at his watch and adjusts his coat,
a man pushes a cart full of bags of collected cans,
a raven is perched on top of a street light,
a boy paints a landscape,
a girl is hounded by bullies,
snow melts to water,
costumed actors count votes for the person to be deified,
votes come in for the human to be deified,
a man lies with the sickness,
a woman undergoes the treatment,
chemicals course through a child's veins,
a trial by fire,
a ritual of purification,
heads bow outside the sepulcher,
the censer swings,
the prayer wheel spins,
objective gods,
subjective gods,
I reflect on the idea,
that brought me to the action,
that brought me to the fruit of my labour,
form and emptiness,
emptiness and form,
the good,
the beautiful,
the true,
but the lies lie at the bottom of the mountain,
where we must begin,
where we must try to help one another,
where we must try to help Sisyphus too.

your blind strength

burning faces of the weak and weary,
the drugged up and drunk,
the chronically alone and wandering,
the homeless, the poor, the luckless,
the vagrants and reprobates,
the twisted and insane,
are laced with frozen shit, ice and dirt,
chucked by the miserable wind,
but your blind strength gets you through,
your genetic gift to the human race,
your mind is a machine,
your body a vessel of beautiful form,
lean muscle and boundless energy,
your motivating speeches,
an underhanded and undermining criticism of the weak, the failed, the frightened,
who flock to you for guidance and protection,
and take shelter at your feet,
you lucky duck,
an eternal birthday party just for you,
every day is your day,
as you watch ignorantly from the tower of your confidence,

but woe unto the shifting wind,
the rumbling storm,
nature's movements about to change your destiny,
and twist your proud song out of tune,
feel your slipping hope,
the fast bleeding of your success,
and sycophantic grandeur,
the unraveling of your contingent legacy,
the universe will knock your smiling ass in the dirt,
and you will feel the limiting chains of the weak who have lived mostly under your feet,
but who have adapted to the steady pain,
and who now will be the guide of your crumpled, pathetic soul.