Brief history of religion


When I admire the wonders of a sunset or the beauty of the moon, my soul expands in the worship of the creator.
~ Mahatma Gandhi

69

i would be as ignorant as the future
that forgives and forgets the past
as sublime as the dawn

that has looked down on towns
as the stars fade and the moon
is plucked by the ocean from the sky
I would be as ignorant as this planet

that dreads not but revolves around itself
these countries of profit and civil
unrest, fighting history, quarrels between gods

invented by men who would wield power
the kind of show that leads to a unified death
flame under flame, flower of the heaven-fold
obeying your will to die for a name

obedient to the scripture where my ancestors died
and i lived, because of cowardice and
because I wanted see another sunset, another dawn.

70

Tired of Tyranny


From the U.S. point of view, negotiations are, in effect, a way for Israel to continue its policies of systematically taking over whatever it wants in the West Bank, maintaining the brutal siege on Gaza, separating Gaza from the West Bank and, of course, occupying the Syrian Golan heights, all with full U.S. support.
~ Noam Chomsky

Background:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli%E2%80%93Palestinian_conflict

69

I at last conjure from the uniformity
some virgin vineyard celebration
of unity in diversity, ascending in ecstasy

across words chaotic and free
I peel like an orange sublime necessity
as if you gave me visions
of jackhammering poetry

and textural lobes of light
left for the seeking palms
of goosebumped aspirations

I at last do now know how
to smuggle divinity into this corrupt
world, so fugitive and temporary
where are then, the illuminating clues?

I who, cannot seem to make amends
with the cruelty of man
this egoistic animal building skyscrapers

talking about liberating enemies
when we are all made up of the same code
this childish tendency towards civil war
is the last thumb of snatched security

Israel, why do you still fight?
I cannot make amends with the
mistakes of history that are never healed

these barbaric tribes are now schoolyard
bully nations, proud with patriotism
I thought patriotism died long ago?
our collective blood is only as wise

as our leaders, rulers, militaries
the same patriarchal pre-kingdom castles
men, codenamed greed, envious

of the riches of the elite who control them
I will live at last in my hermit apartment
paying rent to this conscience
of necessity, that this free world
claims friendship among all the enslaved?

Photo Courtesy: http://statecrime.org/online_article/israels-war-crimes-in-gaza/

to my children’s children


The future influences the present just as much as the past.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

68

on the plateau of high-summer
we discover true signs of life
in the heart-beat of cicadas

in the sun among your sisters
in the heights of kites and populars
something is left there
among the gazing at the stars

walking the dawns of our
luxuriant wings, the creatures
we are still of stone and sling

still yearning for the green fields
tortured on the wheel of existence
we climb the decades like machines
only to enter another night

another Auschwitz, more human morbidity
but in elegy and idyll, there is
perhaps still some clear presence

of our innate goodness before
we are corrupted by the world
our souls still dreams possible mercies
still hovers and hangs over

elusive faiths, temples of art
myths of empowerment, elitism of free-will
not all of us maybe, certainly

only a lucky few, but that’s enough for me
we will still be measured
by descendants, like relics of ancestors
our mothers sacrificed for us but

rejoiced in life’s offering
the time of wisdom is nigh, our metamorphosis
where then, everyone is along

at the heart of the earth
ready to love the star-mangled hours
without contempt for the ruthlessness
of the universe, or the wickedness of man.

Photo courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Policko-471650926

at the steps of the exultant future


The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
~ Oscar Wilde

67

i exile myself in that which can
bear witness to all of humanity
i subdue the myths we tell ourselves

and find a utopia amid the ruins
it’s my occupation to dream
nor does human love achieve it
i’ve brought burial signs for extinctions

and i’ve drawn up the algorithms
these Madrigal apocalypses
the sunflower bends to the west

the rains calm the scarcity of hope
how many lifetimes have i lived through this?
the last play of light fades
on a dry belt of cloud ready to clasp

thunder itself, a fragrance of storms
i always loved the storms, spent hours in them
flooded myself with the hope to witness

cosmic events, rare fall of empires
revolutions of transhumanism
so i chose this moment to be born
here on the banks of futurity

i shall hold buds of nano-geraniums
as if they always existed
as if I am the same as who I once was

it’s the poetry of life that allows
us to love life more than ourselves…

Photography credits attributed to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/raven-is-to-blame-471721702

Variations of a beauty lover


The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.
~ Allen Ginsberg

66

I’ve made liquid nicknames for
the incomparable feelings of Earth
the peculiar surrealism of suffering

a dance of cycles and poverty in seasons
and prosperity in that experience of lack?
organic and passionate, thriving
in pure obscurity, that is the dilemma

there is no fame in doing what you love
only the pure satisfaction of being
connected to something larger than yourself

I’ve made friends with stars, books
as if I could plagiarize memories
like some ethical problem of the future
you tell me beauty is copyrighted?

I’ve charted universes in your eyes
thriving with an open soul for higher realms
of wisdom, disguised as a psalmist

I’ve seen the vital sources where destiny
Is drawn like a paradox of passion
I’ve seen the gracious gluttony
where we swallow our fate whole

only to arrive at a kind of handwriting
of who we were meant to be all along….
I’ll just keep living in that funeral free harmony

of inner renaissance, the piecemeal moments
of genius, where I am in perfect peace
with my creativity, fatherless, childless
but free, with a right to personal magic.

Art Credit to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/mermaid-tattoo-469620382

Spectrum Disorder


I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.
~ John Cage

65

In the penthouse of cool August
the trees have begun to whisper Autumn
the fragrance of anniversaries

an instinct to catapult meaning
into some creative form, some relationship
where the banter of everyday
might be fulfilled in a forfeit of identity

no matter how long the hiatus
these street lamps remember me
but the people I knew are gone

we’ve gone our separate ways
you used to laugh at my love of writing
but I still sweat at the writing desk, love
these clarinet-oxytocin dreams

where I learn to be merciful with myself
my precious psyche deserved better
my rhetoric of sweet-salts left

the flower of my being coming into view
an orchid of failed seductions
a white rose of broken-hearted
love that no longer requires human love

summer was meant for vengeance
and humanity was made for loss
but my timidity is satisfied by
a more divine neurochemical
than sappy serotonin or dull dopamine.

Photography courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fire-471797211

Angelic torso of a poem


I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
~ Pablo Neruda

63

I am the lotus on the menu
of soft and moist poems
that flow and swirl around the fireplace
by the window breeze, in rapture

for doctrine-dreams docile to divinity
the boundaries that have none
and peace that is washed on the nape

of your neck, the nouns-cherished like
flower breath, fragrance at your bottom-lip
hope heard like a photobomb
peach lyrics of vocal charm of forever

friends, spirits, pleas of narrative
that cuts to the heart of all experience
festival of physical discovery

in a maze of mantras, verging on light
the language of folds that covets songs
lyrics that is not spelled, silence that is not
empty, leaves in motion like verbal-dance

faith, in an avalanche of anticipation
that’s poetry, clean and with soft foundations
firm at the summit of her storm-blooms

perpetual attributes of sheltered stanzas
sweet as the taste of a lady’s geography
whose distance is as quick as summer
and whose memory lingers like youth

delicious to the mind, that drinks symbols
the hemline of all dress, words, clothes, books
the last formal invitation of literature.

DIVINE BROTHEL


Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
~ Virginia Woolf

64

in the brothel of dialogue
i am embraced by you
for a brief fleeting moment I am you

the nouns sway exultant
ready to hop out of your smiling mouth
like butterfly poetry of love
without condition, & unconditional

pieced by the light of a new world
specks utopic ascent and AI serendipity
what language makes possible

the fury that is quantum computing
enhancement, augmentation, transference
but how late is it always for love
the love that binds us, weighs us up

to lovely meridians, hypnosis, overmind
and eyes that melt with a thousand tears
for bliss that I hardly could imagine

in the brothel of relationship I am a freebie
for storms that stretch like diamond-oceans
ready to be made supplicant by the universe
in earnest gratitude of our entire being

we no longer know where our shore is
that path that was marked by divine poets
who brought silence like an oracle

to the dying world of politics
in the brothel of howling salvation
we make love to our humanity
unable to escape it, incapable to transform it

we suffer ourselves in our symbolism
the cadences and voices of centuries
waiting for the hour when our love echoes

in sunlit shadows of the orange blossoms
of destiny, like children of mars, sisters of summer
that could go on, if the earth ever was defeated.

Photo Courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/cinnamon-471665012

Poems to Utopia


Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.
~ Plutarch

59

I cannot mistake poems
For my children, they are
Applications for the ability
to feel completely alive!

And I know it, to compensate
for days when I can barely
be fully productive, why
I cannot often celebrate

Looking at alphabets in a new way
Wrinkled poems lost to notebooks
mandarin glyphs studied fullheartedly
i cannot marry art, though it’s not

for lack of trying, hoping after
orgasmic quotes, divine lullabies
whine in me, divine mouth
of foaming ink that devotes

so many of my hours, so much
of my time on this planet.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Sangklaburi-471314522

Hallelujah poetica


58

i have a rendezvous with rhyme
with only the lyrics of this orchestra
my cadence is only for rhythm
free-verse in its purest ingenuity

I ache for quarterly submissions
of my essential need to write
the autopilot poetica of my

last kaleidoscopic vision strange
a musical hopscotch of surrender
a mystical milking it of thirst

muse & fate here relaxes
for a final teasing and tasting
of the plump record of odes
and the promise of exhaustive cadence

that reaches humming pentameter
stares organic pink into utopia
requesting documentation from the stars

in how to be a poet, as legends burn
martyrs in their alien worlds
a last dynasty of awkward prayer-rituals.

Having a Kafka Moment


Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.
~ John Milton

57

i’ve been growing old slower
with all this beauty around me
my peers lately, have been chatting
about the power of gratitude

every revolution evaporates
so why bother, bureaucracy
prevails, politicians are corrupt

i’ve been growing old slower
since i started not doing politics
not being political, learning
to be productive in the spheres

that aren’t touched by the marketplace
i’ve learned not to lie, by staying silent
i no longer read advertisements

i no longer occupy my time with wanting things
i’ve been growing old slower
with a quiet beginning of understanding
the first wish to die has risen in me

like a bud that will flower
a medication from my own substance
i have the true feeling of myself

only when i give up happiness and unhappiness
there, the world will present itself
to you with its unmasking
like a child that only wants to play

i’ve been growing old more slowly
in theory where I abandon the second world
the idea that suffering is necessary

that pain is a natural argument of time
i’d rather read a book
that serves as an ax for
the frozen sea within me

and associate myself with human beings
that not only lure me into a self-observation
but allow me to laugh at myself better

or realize how pathetically scant
my self-knowledge is compared to say
the awareness that I am growing older
and care less for my youthful failures

by consequence of a natural decline in memory
it’s there, that evil is whatever distracts
me from whatever I consider my calling

at the time, did I mention that
i’ve been growing old more slowly
since I’ve surrounded myself with kind women?
it’s true, women are precisely

my favorite religion, i could hide
in their dogma for any number of years
feeling totally young in their emotions

find many hiding places listening
smiling to their relationship-antagonists.

Compassion-scape


Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude.
~ Denis Waitley

56

Let’s go dancing to the ceiling
with candles for our soul
let’s hide out amidst the fireworks
and wait for hypnotic words

so in awe of our time here
with an insistence on revolution
for the genuine rapport of living beings

Let’s go afrolick with the world
in countries and clans of sympathy
let’s appease the nomad within
strike a chord and bargain with elements

outside of our comfort zones
let’s go gawking beneath the stars
miracle-work on the front lines

unbridled like a spirit without melancholy
let’s become somebody else
change our name, our address, our friends
discover romance without shunning

deeper questions, write the screenplay
of the poetry of our human evolution
without fear, tonight is clear

i can’t afford a star anyway
but they say sunlight is free down here
a smirk for fate’s untapped paradise
a joke for these pioneering twitches

that do not end, but ascend, ripple and contend
that to describe a moment is impossible
joy has an essence of improvisation.

Last manuscript of an exiled Russian poet


Pick up a yardstick to measure your life against anyone else’s, and you’ve just picked up a stick and beaten up your own soul.
~ Ann Voskamp

55

And I cannot inherit back
my childhood from a photo-album
what I was, what i am

is transferred in silence
and most probably lost
like all living things
I accept the change of it all

that which expands, contracts
like a flock of birds in flight
I am at ease & I am alarmed

you hold your own hand in smiles
And I cannot do that, I’m not you
the pieces of my soul
Were already given to words

lost on words like a poet
writing after midnight
not destined the next morning

to remember what possessed him
not able to make up all the alphabets
that changed his life as the
seconds overtake me

I will be that irregular snowflake
as misunderstood as the
hands of the clock

the golden speck in sunlight
the stranger who smiled
at me, or with me, strangely.

i dreamed of a familiar stranger


Until one has loved an animal a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.
~ Anatole France

54

We’ve lived our lives and not
Seen each other, never met
we looked up at the same stars
felt the same things, tried

to give kindness to strangers
oh what an evening it is now
together in the same light
beneath the same lamp?

we were young and vigorous
for a time, and now both have
graying temples and diamond truths
to take from the particular obstacles

of our birth and fate, though
your exclamations stir my heart
with the spiritual truth of your wonder
and the honesty of your perception

we ask if we could have become good friends?
perhaps it as as though we were there
all along, from what direction did we come?
that such similar souls could have

not known each other, it seems unreal
in the rainy summer night, walking in the dew
with ten cups of things to talk about
tomorrow we will just be two spirits
in a boundless world of human affairs.

the media only tells us what they want us to know


“Me and all my friends
We’re all misunderstood
They say we stand for nothing and
There’s no way we ever could…”

~ John Mayer

53

fast is the century, the airplane crashes
tsunamis more common in their
execution, destiny enlightened
i watch for signs from the ocean

meteors, extinction events
plagues, global warming
governments muzzling scientists

democracy being wounded
by corporations taking over the media
I see it every day
this is what I witness

currencies cracking
fear in the marketplace
panic amid layoffs

fast is the century,
each month they tell me
it’s the warmest on record
i speak of eternity, but nobody listens

they are living the American dream
exploiting others for profit
Mexicans leave their children

inside the borders, so that
America might become a spanish place
it is happening, soon there will be no
‘us’ and ‘them’, the world is changing
And I’m waiting for the world to change.

let down your hair and be free


52

when one’s life is riding on a crest
there is no revelry
in excess, for the stuff of dreams

is what we were built for
waves of empty glasses
wine of forever lost friends
fortune for careless returning

i’ll slaughter time. for a second
april showers, distant silhouettes
time is but a dream, across skylines

there nothing i could find
north of the citadel, in the ripened hour
the setting sun tells it’s
time to depart, time for deserted gloom

to pass, like the celebrities of flowers
right on queue, the phoenixes have blown
away, like muse at the palace gardens

the aroma of the last guests has departed
it’s time for the autumn crane
to be romantic again & embrace surrealism.

Wine of Autumn Nights


51

with sparkling glasses that shine
i drink the moon light
through eyes like candlelight

who cares for darkness?
not the mountain or sky or i
the stars retire me to my bed
knowing my time to live, or die

i might find happiness
impossible awake, so easily
in my dreams, lying drunk

with spiritual jokes
on the shore of my last years
spring dreams flood my
lucid revealing storms

so i drink the autumn dew
and horizons merge in the
open-minded reign of blood

that waits in the bamboo lodge
for eternity to whistle
in the heart’s bright-moon content
in front of my window

the plum tree has it blossomed yet?
Did you see? these morning
showers are as a mountain stream

good omens to refresh all colors
I’ll see old friends beyond the Pass
Can I impose on you, one more glass?

Memories like chinese poems


A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.
~ Lao Tzu

50

homesick for something
I cannot name, for home
beyond all other homes?
I am alone in a foreign land

in love with foreigners
sick of the locals
I do not want to speak
or conform to the customs

of living, sowing, reaping
i search for the Tao
but cannot find it, it evades
my grasp, like the endlessly

awake stars, they do not sleep
for light is bled in rivers
of heaven, like poems
mild-mannered echoing down

the centuries, poorly translated
by tongues who no longer speak
with the ancients, the ragged fringe
to be a rare fellow lost among

the songs, i hear music on the lips
of the clouds, that do not dream
but draw, day after day
to bid each other a sad farewell

as neighbors, as friends, as heart-broken
children that have no place
but the wiping of eyes
the lingers at the fork in the road.

lineage of non-duality


Accustom yourself continually to make many acts of love, for they enkindle and melt the soul.
~ Saint Teresa of Avila

49

on the terrace of immortals
i am laughing at mortality
I climb straight to silence

where there is no ambiguity
my eyes are like jade cubes of ice
they smile into the wind
and tear at the rainy sun

through favor or disfavor
I pay no mind at all….
in poverty or solitude

through the dreams of living
be filled with uncertainty and doubt
i speak the original language
of waiting without thinking

of loving without seizing
taking a page out of Wu Cailan’s
indifference, i find the shinning moonlight

is whiter than long ago
what’s the use of contending?
with grief or disgrace?
to both I can aptly respond

only light resides in the
city of the mind, in the
distance of the heart

that knows no separation
between places, centuries, entities
we drift happily like the clouds
our lives turn like the leaves.

into the Tao


Never think there is anything impossible for the soul. It is the greatest heresy to think so. If there is sin, this is the only sin; to say that you are weak, or others are weak.

~ Swami Vivekananda

48

these are great trees
to walk below, temple breeze
on our back
at the edge of dusk
past dew into the greenest moss

we keep it clean
past the gate
into the great-dream

without expectation
we witness beauty
in forever new ways
wandering mountain monks
who have forgotten everything

but the candle and the meditation
the temple tree path
where we follow orange footsteps

into the sea, sequence of sunsets
autumn’s embrace of crystal ripples
on the lake that doesn’t move
ready for the white moon
to shine incandescent above everything

nothing can waver, time cannot bend
to our little will, not willing to return
we leave the world behind
to others who will learn
to leave the universe behind.

song of death


If you die you’re completely happy and your soul somewhere lives on. I’m not afraid of dying. Total peace after death, becoming someone else is the best hope I’ve got.
~ Kurt Cobain

47

The night, it is a path of stars
to which no visitor can wander
ankle-deep in the ocean

from forests to cities, to the sea
nobody can falter
though the night be deserted
though there be no shelter

i am not alone, i alone
can visit thee, in my
spirit’s secrecy

from my eternal spark
but i, am the one who holds you
i am not alone, this world
forgets its origins

all flesh is sad to see
but shone, or dark, or together
or alone, in solitary bliss

death the ticker loves the taker
who is the greatest lover
anti-mother who always remembers
i am not alone, let wind or salt
take me, dive me into final hours.

redeemer divinity sweet


Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
~ Walt Whitman

46

divinity is not a language
of the mind, but a gift
that resides in the heart

from the Universe to all
and a new music there
and a serene vision that excels
an undying faith that

loves inner beauty easily
and observes time’s children
with a kind of equality

divinity is not a skill
that can be used, or hoarded
it’s in the fields, and the air
its sphere is the light

that bathes all the stars
its atoms mix the purest joy
with all existence, behind the pain

an essential delight of experience
that no creatures can hide for long
of splendid origin, and new light
in hands of god, in kisses from the Earth

divinity leaves a trace and it says:
‘you’re saved, you called me,
you made me, body, life and soul’

time of revelation


Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.
~ Aristotle

45

Give me not translations
of what all the mystics sought
creation forgotten
creator only felt

attention turned inward
in love with the Beloved alone
don’t call it God
call it supreme nature

that everyone possesses
that can possess everyone
if they only knew
how to surrender to its

sum of perfection
to its righteous unity
give me not translations
of what the rishi or the saint

might have thought they had
creation found
creator born anew
o tender burn!

o burning caress!
that renders all debts paid
that makes karma holy
and time sacred

amen, whose splendor
is for living fire
warm and to enlighten
playful, to win my love!

soul never ceases


“What Is Love? I have met in the streets a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, the water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul”
― Victor Hugo

44

Incited by something internal
Love feeds the centuries
nothing but her attention

everything in her devotion
you believe you act for your self
but it guides you, incited by
the light of your soul that is

an evolutionary spark of quantum
intelligence, a psychic source of love
and also its food, beauty and intimacy

which never grows scarce
wisdom and good works
these are her instruments
harmony, gratitude, compassion, peace

so use them like small lamps
in your life, feed them with
attention, practice, active service

as a diamond fountain gushing forth
as divine roses, the sea of truth
your spirit prepares all obstacles.

rising into silence


43

i came upon God accidentally
like learning a new language
upon connection, i came

into the unknown and stayed
without knowing, rising
beyond the science of silence
i did not know where

the door was to leave or enter
this brilliant house
it’s a perfect realm of calm

and a deepest release into solitude
that is a peace, a stunned
and stammering quietude
i was given a narrow way

to enter fields of light
rising beyond all science
i carried my evolution

for inside the confines of experience
until I was dazed and liberated
revealing my own intimacy with God
in splendor of my five senses

my mind found a potter’s home
a carpentry of my soul’s workshop
to work with my hands

for something divine
and know creation intimately
like a poet who never sleeps
holiness is not a place or a person

it is a language, the unity
behind all thought, all will, all hope
this is knowledge, by unknowing

and solace, without fighting
this is a blazing height of all remedies
when knowing and doing is insufficient
and feeling surrenders in the dark

to the most holy Being and freedom
which can only be translated into
ecstatic feeling, that is God to me.

echoes from Assisi


42

heavenly spouse, that blesses all things
how you have loved me, that I am chaste
how you have touched me

that I am now pure
your power whose miracles
worked gratitude and forgiveness in me
Until your abundance became

fortified compassion in all my words
how your appearance in the world
jumps out at me now

in whose embrace I am caught
like a rapture from a divinity
leaning on me with strange music
arriving to my eyes like sparkling gems

in the blossoms of springtime
I see new lives and recognize their holiness
a sign of your holiness, everywhere

sacred in the bright humility
of a saint’s tongue or an angel’s smile
on a path of simple happiness
I have forgotten what I once sought

that was not you, most high
the pursuit of perfection is now
the seduction of Lords and Goddesses

each laughs to dissuade me from believing
that the secret of existence
could be so simple
I who once ran after you

hoping for but one whiff
of your fragrance of treasured bliss
now it is with me every day.

i held my breath for summers


41

Light chooses blue surf, pigeon-songs
we sailed until we found ourselves
far away in boats, sailing to nowhere

the ocean’s breeze had a lot to tell us
stabbing the pale skies for forever-afters
we lit our soul with ginger-tea
beneath canopies of star-lit nights
bare legs for the ends of July

beaches for the color of swelling tangerines
with kisses goodbye, but never enough
you were there too, those wispy weekends

full of melodies and cooper sunrise
Light chooses white sails, fragrances
curving like the shorelines, memories
of timelessness, or something beyond
the currents, after the blues, behind

veils, and the taste of your salts
my emotional body was left there
and my cheeks grow weary of so much light

as if sunburns could puncture through
soul mates that amounted to the memory
of women on the beach, bikinis of offering
the dusk hips and wet lips of another time…

40

Flutes of Light


39

we’ve retold the stories
of our lives like prehistory
so many times we forgot the white morning

or the gulls that drove us
to listen to traces of infinity
we become our own museums
sort of broken accounts of what

happened to us, a thousand photos later
we still can’t tell you the truth
about ourselves, that’s second-guessing

or the lack of objectivity with self
the sun leans low on the trees
of our youth, it passes faster
than you can name your old favorite songs

driving home, the moon draws close
we left our city lights, hoping
to become somebody we could respect

i love’ed you all day, all days
and felt the intimate street lights
bathe me against all my worries
which seem in retrospect, a bit petty

heat won’t leave the pavement
until night is almost over
and we’ll do it over all again

for the last freeway of summer
for leaving all the lights on
just to see you from the corner of my eyes.

38

Be Realistic, plan for Miracles


37

if you are feeling stuck
abandon what you do, be somebody else
embrace uncertainty for experience

pure experience without judgement
where Life again becomes
possible, freedom of will
self-determined, bitter-sweet

youthful, exuberant, spring-autumn
with the taste of rosebuds
dual, frankly crazy, appreciated

spin wildly into your next months
with both heart and exercise of choice
bravely, without regret or sentimental lingering
if you are feeling frightened

by who you have become, change
dare to enjoy the present like never before
retrace your steps, rediscover who you are

it’s never too late, you’ll find your
way again, where hopes lead you
challenge yourself to find bliss
don’t be afraid to experience, say “yes”

for experience is the heart of necessity
if you don’t rush after it
life will force you to meet her

life is not about possession
life is about tasting, doing, being, watching
moving, travelling, loving, thinking
dangerously even, for life passes you by

a place where happiness and sadness collide
forcefully, creatively, passionately
be the hero of your own story

find friendships that intrigue you
fall in love with hobbies that move you
read philosophers that challenge you
make music that haunts you

have sex like your mean it
listen to your being without judgement
that small voice who enjoys giving

live without condition, for destiny
always intended to work with you
not through you, fate completes you
your journey needs your enthusiasm.

36

whispering the unsung sex


35

the wild flowers know where it begins
a sweet resistance of eyes
that melts where love drips

behind the petals of hushed uncertainties
where our bodies flower for a while
intoxicated spirits meet like
dragonflies, with no hiding places

not found out by our passion’s wick
where burns a slow peace to drink
pleasure on the burning stove

of youth’s dripping with ecstasy
our hot and quickening breaths not meek
with heated tongues for blessing’s approval
where destiny might mesh

softness and hardness, begging for
a chance to be loved again
and kisses that stray from the lips

slow rhythms that mount for comfort
the comfort of the moment, in the dark
full of an insistent guide to gasp
the smiling of our bodies in a stroke

to dance in erotic foreign substance
this first time, to climax together and release
with an ease of laughter and the heart’s reply

that’s the taste of beloved skin
a secret reinforcement that started
when your dress came off like the crescent moon
only to sigh for and listen for signs of entry

to the perfect palace where all secrets
come and go, that first press of the star
of our sex, whispering a song so ancient

it stings, with thin resistance weak
too tired to ache, to loving to ignore
our bodies border fingertips of young love
the union of our spirits the fruit we make.