I Started with a Beer

I started with a beer,
then made a list of what
I was gonna do.

I made a call
to someone wounded
by the guy who
I replaced,
and made good
with kind words.

The guy I replaced had begun
by making himself a beard
with various kinds of tape:
Scotch tape, masking tape, duct tape,
electrical tape, packing tape, surgical tape,
gaffers tape, painters tape, insulation tape,
recording tape with a sticky bottom.

I was amazed.

Then the guy I replaced 
went to town
and began to tear down
all that he could,
one tantrum at a time.

To Make

 To make something perfect 
 with precision and care;
 
 To be someone perfect
 integrating flaws in such that
 they have value,
 rather than being impediments;
 
 To be part of something vital
 and grand,
 with contributions
 of intelligence
 and expertise.
 
 This is what it is - 
 to fit into the grand design
 of this universe, our human tribe;
 
 this aspiration towards unity,
 performed with grace and humility
 
 is what may be
 our greatest hope. 

In This Age

In this age of refracted reality
the magic pull of certain vagaries of truthiness
ensnarl, swirling flames and celestial gloom,
the state of permanent sleeplessness
hypnotized into confusion and wonder.

Not too scared, never outside your comfort zone,
a life of nothing more than sensation,
the bewitching bond of desire,
and a terrifying romantic nightmare,
conjure up worlds, present and beyond,
arresting speculations of unmitigated folly.

Lethargy and decisiveness of every single attenuated moment –
metal, bone, blood, ash,
fragments that  lack context,
relentlessly empty and ugly,
long centuries of ghosts woken from their sleep.

All that you have done compressed in the ocean
of sympathetic imagination.

It’s All in Her Eyes

It’s all in her eyes;

those blazing, wild eyes,
unbridled, impulsive,
seeing ten steps ahead
of her actions,
perpetual zap
through an endless
tunnel of thrill;

shearing through days,
no looking back,
unstoppable as a
rampaging herd;

with the charismatic force
of unimagined ecstasy,
that blurs
better judgement,

as she careens
in all directions
towards  the consequences
of the damned.

I Get Paid in Hugs

“I get paid in hugs.”

A tidbit I caught from the radio
before taking out the garbage.

It lingered, like an unwanted smell,
while I schlepped the trash barrel, recycling
bin and bundled newspapers to the curb.

Not the same way as
“Does a dog have the Buddha nature?

or
“The world is all that is the case.”

or
“Ineluctable modality of the visible:
at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.”

The hug payment afterimage remained
like a pebble in my shoe;
an irritant without apparent purpose.

The phone rang inside,
the dogs barked,
Bernie delivered the newspaper, and
my wife stuck her head out the window
reminding me to empty  the ashcan,

and I lost whatever was there a moment ago.

Not For Sure…

Not for sure I’m quite here yet,
spending time,
wasting time,
time seduced
by fireworks and frills,
lost,
nowhere;
distraction not being a place,
a detour, yes,
a movement smooth and effortless,
away from place and a time notched in meaning.

Too bad,
oh too bad this gong of presence is muffled
in imagined past, and future projection,
fueled by unctuous schemes and urgencies’ insistent barbs;
unanchored and drifting,
in the current of lost,
the waves of losing:
celebrations,
illuminations,
tactile evidence grounding presence in the world.

Waving the tattered flag of surrender,
a half-hearted life of neglect,
of discernment of porous beliefs,
of connections barren and uncultivated,
sometimes careless, often clueless
to the ever-changing interdependence,
registering spikes of false confidence,
convinced that
when things go south
it isn’t necessarily you.