Same One

Gaze in­tently into the blaz­ing heart of joy
and you will per­ceive my bliss­ful Mother,
ma­trix of all phe­nom­ena. Ramprasad Sen, Kali / Why Disappear into Formless Trance?

The goldfinches are back, or others like them. Elizabeth Bishop, North Haven

Chipmunk on the back-porch stair
(after it had raided the bird feeder)—
same one that was here last year?

Chipmunk, you have such soft, sleek fur!
chipmunk, you’re such a hearty eater!
chipmunk on the back-porch stair.

Chipmunk, where’s your Winter lair?
I believe that you’re a heavy sleeper,
chipmunk that was here last year

awake this new bright morning fair—
peepers sending from the lake their repeating
inextricable wail, heard from the back-porch stair

by the chipmunk and me—our four ears
full of the sound of Mother Reality,
same as the sound that will play next year

when chipmunks, frogs, and humans are no more
(but where there’s a song there will be singers)—
chipmunk on the back-porch stair,
same one that was here last year.

Claustrofobia Celeste

I feel trapped by my poetry.
Shouldn’t a poem be
a portal to eternity?

Eternity’s no trap, agree?
I guess we’ll have to wait and see,
but I won’t need to write poetry

anymore when I’m up in Glory,
right?—weary
no more, because the Eternity

Man came and set me free
to climb the cherry tree
or chop it down—there’s poetry

for you! I’ll probably
leap with alacrity,
happy at last in the lap of eternity—

master of the mystery.
Here I lie where I longed to be,
writing poetry
in my dear little walk-up in eternity.

Resentment Sheep

Let’s not and say we did!

That way, no one can say we didn’t.
We’ll work on something else instead.

Should we bake a loaf of bread
or cook a pan of apple puddin’?
OK, let’s not and say we did!

We always keep our plans well-hid,
and if we fail, we say Good riddance!
and concoct other plans instead.

For example, we might write the Aeneid,
even though Virgil already wrote it.
Please don’t and say you did!

screams the voice of Dido from the dead.
Your poetry has no passion in it.
Write a political blog instead!

Your best plan's to go to bed.
OK, we’ll do that in a minute.
We won’t sleep, but we’ll say we did.
We’ll count resentment sheep instead.

I Ching 35, Advancing

6 6 6 9 6 9

Fiery sun heating up
the dewey earth. From its
home in the rocky scarp,
a yellow-bellied marmot whistles,
Go away! leave me be!
Lone golden eagle soaring above.

Clarissa Harlowe

Your soul is good and true!
Everything you love is beautiful and right!
But somehow everything turns poisonous for you.

You put complete reliance on loveless people who
insist on being with you day and night—
your soul so good and true

that the winged worm can't spoil the rosebud you,
no matter how desperately you have to fight.
But it all turned poisonous for you,

and you’re in society’s dungeon too,
because, for once, you had to scratch and bite—
your soul so good and true

that God will justify you no matter what you do,
irreproachable, but dyed
in the bloody crimes of others, poisoning your life for you.

You’re always the one whom the black shoe
fits, love—the one whose name they wrote
under the photograph of so good and true
a soul as you are, baby, and poisoned your life for you!

Sin Cojones

dos carnes, dos huevos, dos panqueques, y un brindis

Sitting at the Coffee Bean,
ordering the Magnificent 7 Senior Breakfast,
feeling like Steve McQueen—

not the prettiest sight you’ve ever seen,
but pretty to myself,
preening at the Coffee Bean.

Jake Barnes loved a pretty epicene.
Jake Barnes would not have been embarrassed
to be played by Steve McQueen,

McQueen a pretty masculine
guy himself, but he couldn’t put away the rioja
like Jake Barnes could, sitting with his sweet colleen,

Lady Brett—the noble one—
after she fucked
her bully boy to give him back his bean-

ie hat—his torero-sombrero, I mean.
Beautiful, noble Brett 
Ashley, remembered in the Coffee Bean,
by Yours truly, Steve McQueen!

Thinking About Entering the Beautiful Corpse Contest

Touting my remains—

I’m too bashful to do that.
It goes against my grain.

Making daisy chains
is what I’m all about,
mostly. Touting my remains

ain’t something that distains
the white radiance of eternity for me, Bob!
It goes against my grain

to wrangle, wring and drain
all the tears out of a sob—
the grief remains

and gives me Oh, such pain!
Nah, I’ll keep the dead cat under my hat
I don’t touch the grain

these days, confine myself to wine.
Hell, it’s been years since I’ve touched even that.
Anyhow, I hope they’ll bury my remains,
not pickle them—Waa!—in brine!

Prayer

Is it wrong to share my meditations

even though I had no altruistic motive
when I wrote them?

My meditations aren’t predations;
they have an almost-votive
motive, do my meditations!

trying to follow whatever indications
make themselves evident in the cloth
of my life, when I write them.

Meditation after mediation, with scant intermission—
near to drowning in the froth
of time, my meditations!

My efforts rather lack sophistication,
but without it they can better dive
into the grave of “I wrote them!”

I’ll have to find remediation.
Then I’ll be looking straight at the truth.
It is what it is to share my meditations.
But I won’t quote them!

Mind Control (Zombie Apocalypse)

People get inside your head.

You imagine they control you with their minds.
They make you wish you were dead.

People get inside your heart,
carrying Don’t step on me! signs.
But they mess plenty with your head—

eat your brains, that is, because zombies must be fed.
But they wouldn’t treat you so unkind
if, for just one time, you could take dead

aim at loving your own self best—you’re the smart
person who invented their cruel games,
you know. People got inside your head,

so it became convenient for you to load
those folks with everything your heart has to cry
about, and now you can’t wish them dead,

because they’re providing the daily bread
of all your pain and suffering—
cherished and endured inside your head.
Don’t you wish you were dead?

Singing

When I’m singing I feel fine,

because I’m not alone in my own time warp.
Serve the biscuits! Pour the wine!

Never sure where to draw the line—
trying to play a song in C#-
minor—but I'm singing, so I feel fine.

Remembering smelling the pine-
y air of solitude—strumming on my harp—
baking the biscuits, brewing the wine.

Sure, I don’t want to be unkind
to myself or others, but we need to burp
the baby now! 'cause when it's cooing I feel fine

and I can be part of the light that shines
on hill and dale when the lark
sings at heaven’s gate and Phoebus ‘gins

arise o'er our little cabin home.
Almost thinking to outsmart
death itself when I sing and I feel fine,
serving the biscuits, pouring the wine!

I Ching 33, Retiring

6 6 9 9 9 9

Fox tail vanishing. Too
wiley to be snared in
a yellow-oxe hide thong. Too cagey
to be owned by customary things.
We admire a fox for running clear
of all entanglements. Noble fox!

Remembering Who I Am

I am a child of Earth and Sky.

Anxiety is just screaming at myself.
Do I have to be punished like this?
Can’t I just take an oblivion pill?

I feel like a sexy little fille.
(Do I take a risk by saying this?—
See, there I go, screaming at myself!)

I’ll put my boxed ears on the shelf
and be deaf to the cat-calls and hisses.
That’s taking an oblivion pill,

but, in truth, I’ll be past all help
till I receive my Savior’s kiss,
taking away my need to scream at myself.

Fair enough, then! I’ll resort to stealth,
quietly drifting into eternal bliss.
Yes, I’m taking an oblivion pill,

but I only do it for my mental health—
forgetting contained in anamnesis—
impossible if I’m screaming at myself.
Give me a remembering pill!

I Ching 44, Encountering (a boar)

6 9 9 9 9 9

The worst pig got loose, ate
all the prize ribbons, then assaulted
the Dairy Barn and rolled in Princess
Kay of the Milky Way—beautiful
butter sculpture. Now devouring the
crop art. That pig’s too greasy to catch!

I Ching 32, Continuing (or, rather, SMASH THE PATRIARCHY!)

6 6 9 9 9 6

Male dominant, female
submissive. An unstable
situation. Male provides guidance
from standpoint of perfect cluelessness.
Female may think she ought to obey.
How very, very sad!

Sotto Voce

Deciding not to do the open mic this evening

Soft voice
for addressing the day.
Not making the choice

may be just the device
I need to help me convey
something definite with my voice!

I was nonplussed,
couldn’t know my way
or foresee what choice

we’d make, what advice
I’d take when I drove down to play
my violin and share its voice

in my friend’s merchandize
booth, making a little noise—
an owl-voiced

screech—unto the Lord, I'll say!
We rejoiced, and agreed to a delay—
making the choice
to prolong our voice.