dolorum aetium

...i stopped in whole foods to look around.

the experience saddened me. it saddened me that i could not buy the foods in there. i didn’t have a kitchen to cook in. some of the simplest pleasures in life are right now beyond my means. it is unavoidable to look back into the past at what i once had and how i lived. it is unavoidable to regret the path i have been on and have lost so much. to have lost all the things i value at my own doing. this is what it amounts to.

there is this mixture of sadness and anger. the kind of anger that only i could truly know because it is my own and it is at me. there is no one else responsible for what i’ve done to myself. take away all that is not mine. what is left? i have my thoughts who are my friends and my lover and my enemy all in the same breath. i have products that my mind and heart and hands can created. i have memories that i create, in solitude and with others. how does one ascerain the value of such things?

the back of the bus

the back of the bus
it’s in the back of the bus

this is where all the important things happen
thoughts behind shattered windows

enlightenment above a piece of dried gum
even in this grime of the city

there are still bits of heart trying to live
life always finds a way

somtimes with a soul
sometimes on its own

attraction

the machine pulls at the earth
the way my tie pulls at my neck

both want something but can’t agree
on what is more valuable

the blood of the living
or the fossil of the dead

right brain please report to the info desk...

it is a most fascinating thing when you realize your creative process as you have been used to for a long time has somehow changed into something that is not quite recognizable. hmm...how did this happen?

it is still my brain, i think. but the process has somewhere along the line has gone through metamorphosis, i cannot quite articulate it to myself. this makes it a little difficult to see where i am in the process. i realize how schizo this sounds...

the analytical brain is being usurped by the intuitive brain perhaps. intuition is sometimes difficult to explain. so how do i replicate a process that is difficult to articulate? i should know this. it is as if i have changed the answer to the same question without telling myself. there is a sense that an outcome of the creative process through analysis and synthesis is not enough. there is an intangible factor missing.

the crush

what is the difference between
the crush and the falling?

a bump atop the skull
that leaves galaxies of stars

or an assault to your reality
that creates a whole new universe?  

buffalo grass

waves of silent green
flows beneath our gaze

sounds of the dakota breeze
shimmers through slivers of grass

moment sensed
moment kept

time and distance later
murmurs still pass through me

like intimate whispers
lingering in the mind's ears

untitled painting

today, i left the painting of the orange woman
the one you called the elf queen
to the care of our hairdresser, barbara

she recognized it as your favorite painting
i thought back and wondered
when had she seen it?
during one of our parties?
another time that i am not aware of?

perhaps

that painting has been an icon for us
in some sort of way
for a long time

now it faces a different space
now neither of us are in its possession
i will miss it
as perhaps you may have missed it,
missed her

circles

there is a band wrapped around that finger
made of silver
it holds a life in waiting

there is a band wrapped around this finger
the color of pale skin
shaded from sunlight

longing passed between two
are like points in space
forsaken by time

two places in time
two places in space
seeking common ground

yet a band is a band
and while it can be a circle
circles rarely have lines that coincide

so what is to come and what has been
is often incomplete volition

little moments

sunday at lieu quan temple.

little moments of surprise. i was walking across the courtyard during lunch and heard my name called. tabitha came to the temple ahead of me and i didn't know she was there. she had been inside sitting through the service and dharma discussion. she had acquainted a woman who had been speaking to her and giving her the quick run down on buddhism!

it was a nice surprise! we ate lunch together and hung out for a while before she left.

she is off to go snowboarding up in tahoe with friends. i related my first and only snowboarding experience. i told her not to do what i did. it's another story...

karma at work...

remnants

remnants of our past lie
beneath consciousness

when solstice and equinox pass,
they reveal themselves in

a manner that shifting dunes
present ancient ruins

stasis beneath sand,
away from light, air and the

heaven’s attention
preserve the integrity of souvenirs

like the unchanged nature of water
locked in glaciers

companion

fear travels with me
but we are companions

in this venture
i’ve nothing to lose

by laying down arms
of the fortress ‘round me

giving up all
that is not my own

and see what is left
inside the shell

then ask my companion
what she has found

naissance

the painless smile
she wears as a flower

bears its petals,
displays the softness

of a rose
hiding sharp thorns.

the notes of laughter
leaving her throat

waltzes across the room
like the river's mist
coming to shore.

one would not imagine
the sharpness in the irises

of her eyes nor
the cutting intentions
resting in her cause.

a glance in one direction,
a gaze at another's station
reveal the losses,

the cruelty that give birth
to the most unkind of
human intention.

memories from the south

amanda

amanda with the spirited smile
i see her eyes and face in the soul of another

her prance belies the fragile connection
between heart and spine, love and honesty

--

still is the southern night

dogwood leaves hold themselves
against the moonlight like memories

refusing to blur

the past doesn’t recede
as you would like

the future is not always
the face you want to see

--

remnants sometimes surface...

it is the name of a beetle

it's the name of a ladybug, "hippodamia convergens." it's the ladybug you usually see in the garden. they are out there looking for unsuspecting aphids. she asked, "why do you know that?" it is the usual question. but no matter. it is just fun to catch people off guard for fun sometimes. and besides she is a good sport. she is too cute, but a good sport nevertheless.

i can be so easily distracted by people like her. likeable people...what is up with them? sometimes i find myself giving people like that a hard time, i am not sure what that accomplishes. maybe it gives them a chance to tell me to stop it which would help keep me out of potential trouble.

ok i'm rambling. maybe it's because i'm afraid of what i might say to myself. and even more, i might believe it. shit. this has to stop. it's not the coffee really. i haven't had to much.

the year of the rooster

happy new year!

i have a cousin who was born in the year of the rooster. i believe he is as a rooster is believed to be: watchful, meticulous, grounded and persistent. he got the useful traits! i got the imagination and the dysfunction needed to create beautiful dreamlike pursuits always trying to be on the dime at dawn.

we grew up together. together, we were balanced as a duo. in adulthood, things change. sometimes it takes years to notice. and years more to make sense of it all. i suppose that is why we are giving the gift of humor, just as long as we don't apply it tastelessly.

today i'm going to a buddhist monastery in the hills of watsonville to celebrate the year of the rooster. it is a first for me, celebrating lunar new year at a monastery that is. in the lunar calendar, it is 4703. hmm...the western world is behind [grimace softening into smile but without sarcasm].

as of late, i've opened the doors and have let karma among a lot of other things in. something is happening, it is transformation i think. some emotional protective membrane covering my senses are shedding. everything outside of my skin, my closed reality is diferent. all looks different, tastes and smells different and feels and sounds different. and there is another sense that is fleeting and hard to describe but it is there. it is definitely there. if i let it, it speaks to me in its own way. and sometimes it feels like a brand new thing each time though i recognize it.

crossroad

at wit’s end
there are many strangers
with familiar stories

at wit’s end
others offer reason to continue
while my logic defies their cause

it’s not a crossroad
it’s not an alternative
the pictures are clear
and the drive is gone

at wit’s end
some hope to find peace
and some aren’t so hopeful

it’s not a place to rest
it’s not a place for refuge
at wit’s end
the dark and light come willingly

and linger on beyond
our ability to comprehend

manhattan beach

almost home again
strange place but somehow familiar
it’s either the faces or something in my chest

a feeling like the swell of the ocean
in a space the size of one’s fist

there is no fear of the ocean’s depth
it’s a place something could drift forever
and never quite touch bottom

but when on land and oh so close
to the deep blue’s sanctuary

one never asks why but dwells on how
it’s a pull to origins
the mechanics of reason are left on the sand

leagues

i drove miles
to put leagues

between

your station
and my being.

the time it
took me

to get away

was the time
that one lingers
without regret

ranting in verse

laisse moi

leave me
leave me to these thoughts where one shouldn’t follow

this is not a medium for sentiment
not a place for a flat tire of the heart
no one will come to fix you

it is a moment of extreme
not a place to dredge up the once long ago
not a moment to feel the places where you have been

don’t say what you’d like
don’t do what might be normal, for you
this is the place where you find the green sign

don’t think of exit as a matter of leaving
it is just another opening
but this time it is on your own accord

make the best of what you can’t see
your history only haunts you when you are enemies
so lay your knife and open your heart
you only get to be this vulnerable once

betweens

between the last
words spoken

and the now
a space lingers

it's empty canvas
awaiting an image

a dotted line
without signature

between the cornea
and the retina

there are images
fleetingly held

emotional gems
in color

a projected thought
awaiting a screen

in the space of a moment
urgency waits

what the eyes see
the heart learns

what the heart feels
paints the canvas

leaving forever
pigment engrained

for all the in betweens
of past and present

in americus

because i could not find sleep
after talking to you, a glancing of
words that might be thought conversation

i rose to make tea eggs
in the silence
of the southern night

and it made me think of a hike we took
that summer day, the time we walked up
that mountain ridge,

warmed by the sun

my skin remembers how its surface
was cooled when we descended into
the path along the creek,

breathing in
the changed smell of the air
as we passed among redwoods that thrived

in that most unlikely place
we entered a valley of coolness
surrounded by golden,

baked hills strewn with oaks

we could not have known
then as we know now
that we had found

the nature of our path but as yet unaware