The T-Shirts Are Here!!!

More than a month’s gone by. I was tired of

checking on them. Never got a message,
or if I did I threw it out. But there
they were when I walked into Zimmerman’s

this morning, the seven v-necked t-shirts
in a fat brown bag on top of a stack
of bags! Zimmerman took my credit card—
seventy-eight dollars—eleven bucks

unit cost. So I’m wearing a Large now,
and I’m as pleased as punch! Thanks to the friend
who counseled v-neck! And the heather-blue
worked out great too! Comfortable shirts, with

refusetheabuse.com by the left
tit. Not too snug around the love handles.

My Secret Life 3

Wilhelm Meister and Pierre both joined the

Masons. The heavenly halls. The strange man
who meets you in the carriage house. You have
to change your way of living, stop riding

on the knife’s edge between anxiety
and lust. Find a useful occupation
for yourself—other than singing songs and
writing poems, I mean. You did that once,

you remember, many years ago. You
read The Imitation of Christ—tiny
pocket copy. St. Thomas advised you
to shun company and seek solitude—

huge relief, since you always beat yourself
up for wanting to be alone those days!

Jonesing for Paradise

When things get hair-raising,

it means you’re about to break a bead
to bring about salvation-salivation

I had a job at a Phillips Sixty-Six station
when I was just nineteen.
Things got hair-raising

for me. Others too. I sprayed gasoline
all over one guy. He didn’t need
that shit, but he commended me unto salvation.

I had to learn how to change tires,
how to break the bond
between the rubber and the rim. It was hair-raising

as hell—my boss started calling me Barney,
because I reminded him of Don Knotts—
dog-slobber salivation

running down my chin—like the soapy flim
I slopped on the wheels to help break the bead.
Things got hair-raising!—
moving me ever closer to salivation-salvation.

I Ching 5, Waiting

9 6 9 9 9 9

Superfluity of syllables!
Keep your mouth shut for once!
Walk around the neighborhood! Work on
your garden! Eat and drink well if you
can! Sing songs! Contribute to modest
projects modestly! Don’t watch TV!

Jonah

Light calmly shining from the soul
(from outside consciousness?),
making the wounded whole.

Souls of the wounded dim as coal,
sheathed in wretchedness—
no light escapes from a black hole.

Walking through the world
that way—no balm in Gilead—
wounded, never whole.

To discover how the years roll
toward enlightened bliss,
take a walk outside the whale!

I’ll have to loose control,
join the other trillion lights,
cracked, wounded souls—

your soul, my soul, souls of all,
glowing in a fusion kiss—
light shining (calmly?) from the soul—
wounded made whole.

Deciding to Go Indoors

Sitting out in the splatter.

It’s cold out here.
If I go inside now, will it matter

to the authenticity of my blather?
Might I see a deer
if I sit patiently out here in the splatter?

Out here, my ears can be clobbered
directly by the chatter of the birds,
so if I went inside now it WOULD matter

to the engagement of my palaver—even though I left my glasses
inside, so I can’t see clearly.
I can HEAR, though—the birds, the drizzly splatter—

presences that shatter
my conscious awareness—making it appear
it really DOES matter

which side of the wall I’m sitting on—wool-gathering
the world together—
sitting out in the splatter,
letting the cold wind decide what matters.

I Ching 27, Nourishment

9 6 6 6 6 9

We must look at what we are seeking
to nourish. We must look
at those whom we desire
to nourish. We must think
a proper aliment.
We must look at our own nourishment.

Dear Diary

Trying to remember what I ate,
and looking at my lovely feet.
Waiting for what I’m waiting for.

But why do I have to obfuscate
when the rhyme is crystal clear?
Trying to remember what I ate,

I recall pork and peas on my plate,
and I ate oatmeal twice, now I think
of it, as I’m waiting for what I’m waiting for—

“my date
“with death, those
“seeds I ate,”

Euridice herself sings to my lute.
I make sure she takes the lead.
So what am I waiting for,

with the thrush sending its sweet
warbling around me in my catbird seat—
trying to remember what I ate.
The dear knows what I’m waiting for.

Heart Latin

Remembering language games from way back in my childhood,

if-say ou-yay ease-play.
I could speak Pig Latin, but I couldn’t understand it.

Challenging times demand that
I recall the ange-stray anguages-lay
that I mumbled way back in my faint-voiced childhood.

I think my words were understood
only by my friend Virigin-i-a.
We shared a secret language, but I couldn’t understand it.

Her brother Steve in the neighborhood
once oldme-tay Virginia was sweet on me.
Remembering such love felt way back in my childhood,

Steve’s words still strike me like a thunderbolt,
but Steve’s and Virginia’s amily-fay soon moved awayway.
I felt deep sadness, but I didn’t understand it.

So now I sing my elegy-Hosannas
about a love that never can xsist-xsay,
remembering language games from way back in my childhood,
trying to speak Heart Latin, but who could understand it?

I Ching 24, Returning

6 6 6 6 6 9

Thunder crack barely heard.
Sun latest to arrive.
Streets blockaded—no one
walks between neighborhoods.
The parties rage on, while
centuries of disaster commence.

I Ching 8, Attachment

6 9 6 6 6 6

In a false position—
pretending to care about what I
don’t—for private reasons.
I remove the nets. I
let the animals go
away if they want to.

Corn Whiskey

Walt Koken couldn’t get much sound

when he tried to play Tommy Jarrell’s
fiddle. “You have to mash down,”

said Tommy, who played up into the 1980’s around
Galax, Virginia. He’d sit on an oak barrel,
say, or on a folding chair in the parking lot, and the sound

of his playing wafted far beyond
his home in Carroll
County. Because he mashed down

with his bowing hand,
pressing out tunes like karo
syrup—that Round Peak sound

the copper kettle of the love I've found
(short of heaven, hearing the harvest rumble),
mashing down,

trying to bend
Ulysses' bow
not getting the sound,
no matter how hard I mash down.

Trying to Be a Mensch

If I don’t look at my phone,
I’ll have encounters in the world.
All aloof and alone.

My, how tall we’ve grown!
And by "tall," I mean "old."
But if I don’t look at my phone,

I’ll remain in the contact zone,
and I’ll meet other little boys and girls.
All aloof and alone.

Trudging like an ant through time,
I found myself at a fiddle festival.
I only used my phone

to catch old-time fiddle tunes—
especially ones played by Earl
White, who was neither aloof nor alone.

My favorite was Old Cumberland,
more than a little crooked and squirrely—
now recorded on my phone.
All aloof and alone. 

I Ching 45, Gathering

6, 9, 9, 6, 6, 6

Earth is plain and docile,
but when marshes are diverted to
high cairns, pressures, so established, let
us channel their waters.
But what if saboteurs
blow the water towers?

http://baharna.com/iching/legge/000110.htm

Religion Is Common Sense

In a common sense way

we feel ourselves to be

unique entities. 

Common sense tells us that our mind
is separate from our body 

and our mind could continue on

without a body. 

For common sense, it is hard to see

how the world could even exist

without our unique consciousness

to guarantee it.

Against common sense, it seems likely

that we are mostly similar to others,

both other people and other animals,

that our mind is the same as our body,

and that our unique consciousness

will end when our body dies.

Against common sense,

we feel pretty certain

that the world will continue on OK

when we are gone.

But if we are not unique,

if our consciousness does not belong to us

any more than the world itself does,

then we may know through a sense

more common yet

that each of us is a part

of a greater life.

We should identify ourselves with that life
and be content

that our separated,
unique, existence

will soon end.

I Ching 62, Small Exceeding

6, 6, 9, 9, 6, 6

Oh, the cuckoo ... don’t she
warble as she flies? Does
she sing without human ... feeling, a
foreign song? Notes ascending to God,
too high for snakes. Poor bird,
does anyone hear her?

Those Everlasting T-Shirts

So far I’ve been pretty bashful about
my refusetheabuse project. I would use
the hashtag in Facebook, but not really
sure what it does. Plus, the six t-shirts are

late, because the v-necks never came in
for some odd reason, and now it’s been two
weeks. The old guy I was working with got
sick, too—store closed because of illness—so

I sort of gave up hope; but I went in
today, and a younger guy explained it
all to me, got my email address, and
promised to send me a mock-up. “Sounds good,”

I said. So I’m sure there will be t-shirts
and I’ll put a picture on the website.

I Ching 53, Gradual Advance

9, 9, 6, 9, 6, 6

Swan resting on the rocks. Romeo
who never had to die for love. Wings
tucked, neck high, bill waving—
enormous pile of cotton batting.
“Mute” swan? Don’t we wish! Hoarse-
voiced like that white bird, Death.

My Secret Life 2

Went the the Farmer’s Market and fiddled,

sitting down low in the back of my friend’s
merchandize booth. Terrible posture, but
I wanted to watch folks as they walked by.

Played “Soldier’s Joy” as my third or fourth tune.
Played “Mississippi Sawyer,” “Forkéd Deer,”
“Dry and Dusty,” “Whiskey Before Breakfast”;
and some other tunes—that “Unfortunate

Dog” song, about dog ate a rye straw, dog
ate a minner, dog ate a catfish big
enough for dinner. Played for twenty or
thirty minutes as people stepped up to

get their coffee. Dog ate a fiddle-bow.
Little boy digging with his grubbing hoe.

I Ching 35, Advancing

6, 6, 6, 9, 6, 9

Aunt Helen’s garden plot.
Boys don’t care about flowers.
A boy has his own flower,
and carries his baseball bat to school.
Look at him at the plate,
spreading seeds like a dandelion!

I Ching 4, Inexperience

9, 6, 6, 6, 9, 6

Mountains. Two sitting by burbling stream.

Darkness. Can’t go farther.
Pot in the Borkum bag.
Hugging each other for
warmth. Abandoned dog howling on the
far side of the canyon.

I Ching 38, Division

9, 6, 9, 6, 9, 9

Under these circumstances, don’t try to accomplish too much.

Some soldiers stole Fabricio’s horse.
Plains of Waterloo. All
this commotion because of one guy!—
Napoleon, that is,
a very muddy pig indeed! Fat
too! All of his soldiers are now ghosts.

My Secret Life

Kind of a silly day so far today.
Went to the Y but got confused about
the time of the Tabata class—12 Noon,
not 12:45 as I thought it said

on the board. Well, I  think I was misled.
So I did yoga by myself for half
an hour, then joined Tabata when I saw
it was happening. Tried to lift and hop,

and then I left the Y and thought I’d walk
East on University until I
came to any restaurant where I felt like
having lunch—all the way to Homi at

Victoria, where I ate a plate of
cheese enchiladas in chile verde.

Following - I Ching 17

6, 9, 9, 6, 6, 9

Thunder under water?
Presumably the water vibrates.
The fish get a pleasurable thrill.
No invisible nets.
No guppy-devouring
angel fish in the aquarium.

#refusetheabuse

Dispersion - I Ching 59

9, 9, 6, 6, 9, 6

Much has gone wrong recently. Give up.
Allow the flotsam to drift away.
Retain things of value,
but if you lose something
assume it wasn’t worth keeping. Let
the blood on your wounds dry.

Abundance - I Ching 55

6, 6, 9, 9, 6, 9

You can screen out the light
to see constellations
of stars in heaven, like the Big Bear.
You can screen out enough light that one
tiny star blinks through, clear
as the brightly shining Sun at noon.

Yas!

Reclining Atlas,
feet tucked nice.
Yas! man.

Always restless—
at the devil's service—
idle Atlas.

But not known to be reckless,
and living on rice,
mostly—massaman

curry at An’s,
medium spicy;
after Dr. Atlas’s

yoga practice—
strong flow with Jess-
ica leading the class—

them smiling in the mirror glass.
Finished—Shavasan-
a, supine Atlas.
Yas! man.

Zhōu Wén Wáng

Found out the t-shirts will probably be
ready today. So I’m going over
all my disastrous relationships in
my head. And thinking about the end times.

We’re all making recordings and web sites
or bringing new lives into the world both
figuratively and literally.
Thirty-two hundred years ago, King Wén

arranged the 64 HEXAGRAMS, while
imprisoned by the tyrant, Shāng Zhōu Wáng—
who tricked his enemies into posting
pictures of his abominable face.

Zhōu Wén Wáng composed the Book of Changes
to negotiate Shāng Zhōu Wáng’s abuse.

Well Said, Old Mole

I’ll dive down like a mole

when a dog comes to call.
It is well with my soul.

A mole is slippery like a wet football,
a slog through the snow,
so I’ll dive down like a mole

to where joy presses through
to a lowlier stool.
It is well with my soul.

Worms crawl here too,
but I’ve got diamonds on the soles
of my shoes, and I’ll kick like a mule

until I’ve put myself in thrall
to the One who harrowed hell and paid the toll.
It is well with my soul.

Both shattered and whole,
weevil and bole,
I’ll dive down like a mole.
It is well with my soul.

Last Roundup

I may have less than a minute to write this poem.

A poem CAN be short.
How far have my cattle roamed?

But my poem can’t be shorter than the time
it takes to round up those
tired, snuffy dogies. You know, I don’t want to say “poem”

every other verse, but what choice does the form
give me, since the fort
has been attacked by roaming

bands of cattle rustlers who don’t blink at sin?
Their pricks are tucked behind their saddle horns
as they ride into my poem

with pistols blazing, ready to begin
the mayhem, that actually becomes a kind of porn
shoot. That’s how far my cattle’ve roamed

while my silly rhymes
were mumbling in the corn.
I may have less than a minute to write this poem.
Only my cattle know where they have roamed.

NIGHT, Paul Celan

Gravel and scree. And a shard thud, light

as an hour’s comfort.

Exchange of eyes, wrong-timed, final:
a picture,

chiseled on
the retina –

stigma of eternity.

Thinkable:
up there, on the rails of the world,
starlike,
the red of two mouths.

Hearable (before morning): a stone
that made another its target.

Refuse the Abuse 2

Near Fairview and Selby, saw a man on

the corner waving a LIAR sign, on
the reverse side that Medusa face, snakes
for hair, worms in the eyeballs. I crossed the

street and said to the man, “I have something
“to say to you, my friend. Don’t you think that
"if you just waved LIAR without the face
"everyone would know you meant him?—lying

"is that guy’s element, it works for him.
"When you display his vicious face, you do
"his bidding. Don’t you see how abusive
"it is?—children see it, women, people

"who are abused in their lives every day!
"What entitles you to provoke this grief?"

SPEAK, YOU ALSO, Paul Celan

You speak too,

speak last,
say your piece.

Speak –

but don’t split no from yes.
And give your speech this meaning:
give it the shadows.

Give it shadows enough,
give it as many
as you know have been dealt between
midnight and noon and midnight.

Look around:
Look, how lively it is around here—

where death is! Lively!
They speak true, who speak shadows.

But now the place where you stand is shrinking:
Where will you go now, denuded by shadows?
Climb. Grope upwards.
You grow thinner, harder to recognize, finer.
Finer: a thread
on which it wants to be lowered – the star:
so that it can float down,
down to where it sees itself shining: in the swell
of wandering words.

The Song of the Shirt

            Stitch! stitch! stitch!

            In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
            And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
            She sang the song of the shirt. Thomas Hood

I walked by the fish hatchery
with a poem in my clout
pressed out with bold stitch witchery.

It purports to be a masterpiece,
but it’s a shout-
out to Itchy and Scratchy,

at large in the fish hatchery.
They’ve both put fish in their PANTS, for crying out
loud—call it fish bitchery!

And wouldn’t you know, the Latter-Day
Saints, who are all about
God and who work in the fish hatchery,

sent a letter back to me,
giving me quite a lot to pout
about, I’ll say, from the standpoint of iron-on embroidery?

They told me, “Get past your reluctancy!”
They told me, “Go catch a trout
“that’s swimming out there in the fish hatchery,
“lured by your dangling-ass kitschery!”