To Meaning

We smoked tea on the shore and saw the sentience
Of irascible tomorrows, where eternity became
Our golden souls. There was no you or me, but
An emptiness of Him because everything is bliss.

Stop. Sit. Listen to the womb of your being
Pull you back to the cave and away from your
Light thought. You can’t go home because
Home is where paintings are judged by ear.

There is no lyricism now, only the ghost of –
Miles Davis playing with eternity on his eyelids,
and that was just “atoms of dust,” becoming what
everything is, so listen to some Jazz and fill your night.

And be sure to inhale the ethereal flower of passionate hearts
but don’t let the burden of working youth crush you under
Chiffoniers built by dullards for Jesus and golf. I imagined you said,
Under the purple sky: "Shiva without Shakti is Shava." And so it is.

Seeking a non-linear exposition where experience coalesces
With thought. There’s a position that inertia can be cosmically
Interlocked with volition. And so it is. The golden ecstasy
Of meeting and being to a point of transcendent realization.

Be kind. Be true. Do what you want. Even in your dreams,
Lest the sky cracks to golden rings eroding senseless mysteries
Of earth bound blood. Embrace delirious pearl intelligence
And freedom of thought. It is guaranteed life in the void.

A wise man once said – after he drank fifty beers at the
Imperial Café, passed out wrapped around the loo, was shit and
Pissed upon by forty people until he was caked in human excrement –
“What difference does it make after all? --
anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven,
for what's heaven? What's earth? All in the mind.”

I call it eternity, brother. What do you call it?

A Winter Poem

In a strange bedroom,
Sliding off the straps of her dress,
His spirit is an open novel
With a tattered bookmark
Lift it to your kiss

The position of our bodies,
Laying in contemplation,
Ah! The song of a silver morning!
- And pine trees jovial in their husks

- And a chestnut horse in New Hampshire
Sugar cubes of our sweet, desperate touches
How the brown yellow straws peer through!

- And the angle of our bodies…

I wrote this poem in the hope you’d
– stirring spices of lust –
Understand completely

You know how the snow can fall madly?
That’s how I feel sometimes
- And the moon shivering in January

As he stares out the window
And laughs gently, deep inside himself

A Confession

I took your last beer
Please forgive me
I came home late,
But wasn’t tired

I finished my book
You were sleeping
You’ll be up soon
Without your beer

The book was entitled,
‘The Sun Also Rises’
The beer was so cold
And wonderfully bitter

True Story

our souls swam over too many cigarettes and we discussed angelic particulars.

“you think somebody somewhere is worrying over the price of gas?”

“it may be expensive.”

“yeah.”

He told me about the William Carlos Williams poem he read a dozen times in a row. I
DUG it. I told him about the far too earnest conversation I had with some chick in a Chicago jazz lounge regarding the current state of liberalism in America and about how we couldn’t go swimming at Venice Beach. It was too polluted. You have to drive up to Malibu, apparently?

It wasn’t too long ago Marty showed up at my place in a suit, London Fog Classic, with a bird on his shoulder and a gun in his pocket. I’m 6’3’’ and he towers over me. He doesn’t blend in. He was delivering gingerbread houses. He said he stayed up all night making them and his car was chock full of the gingerbread houses. The bird’s name was Paco Sanchez. All day long the bird would say “Paul Pierce, don’t play in the house.” “Paul Pierce, don’t play in the house.” They were both out of their minds. A little kid named Bob crushed Paco Sanchez in a door jam. It was a tragic death. My brother accepted the gingerbread house.

Marty went to drop off another gingerbread house. He broke into O’Malley’s apt. early in the morning to drop it off. O’Malley pulled a gun on him. All Marty wanted to do was give him a gingerbread house surprise.

We drove by the sad lights of the carnival yesterday. Marty was playing Johnny Cash. I got lost in the night sky. It was a Zweig moment.



Marty’s moving to Wisconsin on Friday… I'm back at my place now, and I need to go to bed.