There Is Nowhere To Go From Here

I mean, if you are really there,

don’t you think you might realize

that that means that there is nowhere

else to go?

We are here, but, at the same time,

we’re all looking for here…isn’t that

strange?

No, I’m sorry, it’s a sickness that 

most humans have now.

Why? If you look at you life, you

can answer that question better

than any answer I could concoct.

Are you here? When do you ever

feel that? If you are here, you are 

reading this now. Does that help?

I don’t think it does. Because, the

moment you stop reading this,

you’re gone.

Love Poem To No One In Particular

You are on the other side

of some world, and, even,

unknown, so, how could this

be personal or threatening?

I have loved…we all have.

When it first happens, it’s 

amazing…like when you first

learned to tie your shoe, eat

solid food.

It’s a bit more complicated

than a simple function of life…

but it maybe a conclusion of

those simplicities….you know,

you build the erector set so your

parents will give you a cookie or

something….well, love is a big

cookie…a natural cookie, a 

cookie it’s hard not to eat. That’s

why it’s not wise to fuck with nature…..

Oops!

Poetry Stand

I think I’ll open a poetry stand

on a corner, in a city…no use

on a rural road…farmers don’t

read poetry, as a rule. 

“Hot, fresh poems! 

Writ on the spot!

Get yer inspiration here!”

It hasn’t happened yet

in the history of the world,

so, I don’t like my chances.

People do tend to gather

around soap boxes, though.

Poems would be hard to cost…

If you charge too little, no one

will take them seriously, like life.

If you charge too much, you will

be accused of Scientology.

Fewer people make a living 

writing poetry than with any 

other art…there’s a reason 

for this. Poetry has probably

helped more people than 

therapy. But, the residuals 

suck.

Poetry is notorious for telling

the truth. 

No wonder it isn’t as sought 

after as lemonade.

Living And Dying At The Same Time

That’s where I am now, or, at least,

that’s how I feel.

Take an Inventory…..

1. Writing more clearly than ever  (subjective)

2. Body breaking down at an increasing rate  (objective)

There are two types of people…

…those that like to divide things 

into two types, and, those that don’t.

One could say the whole duality thing is

a big misunderstanding…in fact,

many do.

Me and other…

Us and them….

My body and 

everything else….

That’s what Adam

tasted when he bit

the fruit of knowledge,

from which came the

guilt of separation…

…and all the churches.

It’s not that you’re stupid, Honnies,

babies, it’s that YOU’RE TOO DAMNED

SMART to even grok that what you need

to do is look at what’s exactly in front of you.

to look at what’s exactly in front of you, 

because, first you have to look…

only then can you see….when you see

you cannot conceptualize reality...

Got me?

Whatdd'ya Got?

Sunshine on my soldier

sudden enlightenment

what is enlightenment?

remembering that you

never forgot…

Right now music, smoke

and drink of various kinds.

A little bit of precious time…

I’m not sure if it’s precious 

for me, or, you. I just know

it’s not My Precious.

When you take the vow of

until death do you part, that’s

taking a vow with time. 

In that case, it’s not space,

nor formality, not form.

only death can part.

Yeah, I got a lot…too much 

for your mirror…like a riddle

that shows you the truth in the

form of a poem.

My Grand Pa (for Daniel)

My grandfather worked at the La Salle Hotel 

in Chicago, one of the great hotels in the world

of it’s era. He was a barber, a skilled professional.

He was an alcoholic, and my dad would give him

a couple of bucks each day to have a couple of 

beers.  Well, I realized he must have been a great 

story teller, because he usually came home pretty

drunk. I’m sure the locals bought him beer to keep 

him talking. This makes sense, because a barber 

at a fine hotel like the one where he worked would

have had to, of necessity, been good with the gab…
it’s sort of a barber cliche….you don’t want a jittery

customer in the chair when you’re shaving him with

a straight razor. We never talked much when I was
a  kid. He told a few bad jokes over and over. But
I might have gotten the stray story telling gene from
him. I certainly got the drunk one.  One afternoon,
he came home blasted..(remember, he was in his
eighties)… It was hard as hell to pry that drunken
bastard into his room…I was, maybe fourteen.

Thanksgiving Day 2014

The holiday of Manifest Destiny…

Americans were thankful they had

a whole continent in front of them

to conquer….now, they’re thankful

they think they still control the world.

The world I grew up in was built on

myths…the myth of freedom, 

the myth of endless resources,

Santa Claus,

God, 

equality,
a balanced budget,

democracy.

Reality is beginning to seep

through cracks in the illusion….

trusting in people to believe

is not strong enough anymore

to hide the truth….hence, drugs

and brainwashing. anything to

keep people from knowing

what’s going on.

Happy Holiday.

Singularity

Where humans hit the road...

Where the whatever hits the fan….

Where the truth dispels the darkness…

Where you find out suddenly who 

you are or not…

When you take the job or lose it.

When your life looks good and turns

out shit.

When your life looks shit and turns

out good.

Even in concentration camps they

created music.

If you lose your heart, you lose

your mind….in fact, some peoples

equate the heart with mind.

Have a heart or, lose your mind?

It begins to make sense in the 

swirl of dance floors.

In dark alleys you realize

you never thought you’d 

find yourself.

When you look in your pocket

and a note says “No coca today.”

When you realize you are famous

or, a failure…whatever Big Bang

just happened

is just a singularity

to the next moment.

Coup Du Jour

A Coup du Jour,

A Little Deuce Coup.

A mouse that roared

in front of me between 

me and my retreat shrine,

trying to scare me because

I was so still.

A blow to the ego every 

time you turn around…

which is why Buddha said

“Life sucks!”  (that’s a 

paraphrase…)

I could translate this into 

Mexican surreality…(oh,

Sartre, you’re so smartre)

The blow of seeing color 

outside my bedroom window

as I lie there, hoping I don’t

have to get up again.

It’s a deuce coup, 

a two edged sword

that cuts a blow

both ways. Manjushri’s

(name dropper!)

dare.

You marry into the pain

you grew up with.

Because nothing had a 

sense of humor, the

Big Bang happened.

Hopefully, they won’t

crucify the next person

that says

“You got this all wrong.”

At the end of the well

traveled path, there

are no forks….

to conclude the end of the

last beginning, just to get

back to nowhere,

the epiphenomina of a 

cigarette is smoke and ash…

the artifact is the butt.

It’s all about surface tension…

social meniscus…

keeping up with the memes.

But, then, you would have to 

be there.

The Perfect American Food Is Pizza

Pizza is the only food your mouth 

insists you eat.

Marijuana is being legalized 

in the USA because of pizza.

Thomas Paine said

“Give me pizza or give me death.”

You can’t understand if

you’re not American.

The rapture for most Americans

is opening the box of a large

pepperoni at kickoff.

It’s perfect because it’s hot, spicy,

sweet, crunchy, juicy, chewy,

like the heart of your enemy…

even the crust doesn’t stand
a chance.

Going On As Usual

Like

everything around you

in spite of traffic accidents

in spite of the usual inconveniences

in spite of the usual tragedies.

In spite of all the world tragedies…

everything around you…you see it

now as usual.

You won’t be surprised anymore,

even when it happens in front of you.

I Have This Whole Week

To be myself…

To just relax…

Sit on the steps,

drink coffee, watch

people, smoke cigarettes,

watch while nothing happens.

A whole week…that’s a lot

of time to know..or, just space

out unaware while the time goes

on.

Oh, yes, I will contribute to the

time and space I find myself in.

I never could help myself like

all the Ubus I discovered were

my friends.

Yes, I have this whole week to

tear everything down…I’m not

afraid, but, I’m afraid it’s not 

enough…it’s never enough.

That we cherish time is our

weakness.

Burma Shave Poems

The clouds are moving

in the sky…whether your 

car is moving or not…

why ask why?            

Burma Shave

I’ve seen you on this road before…

welcome back again!

Are you going around in circles….

or, is it that you just never have been?

Burma Shave

A smooth face,

fast car, fresh tar,

goal somewhere afar,

a dream come true for who?

Burma Shave

Poem For Arn

Yes, now, in the right

night time, when it’s 

least expected…

I haven’t even the music

yet…not set up, as we

usually find ourselves.

We’ve been on a journey

and embark on another one

that no one has told us about

yet.

At this time we are supposed

to know where we are going….

that’s what a life time is for.

I mean, what was all that 

struggle when young except

to find a way out?

Of what is another question.

Free Range Poetry (a day long poem)

The song has always been sung

freely, made up on the spot of joy.

You can teach someone to put two

words together, but you can’t tell

them what comes next. Art comes

out of an unregulated place, a place

so secret no one knows where it is.

If that were not the case, corporations 

would capitalize our spirit.

Art is the mirror of phenomena.

You can deceive yourself and others,

but you can’t alter reality.

The academic clucks, cooped up

in ivory chicken farms know the 

words but not the meaning.

Training is one thing, life is another.

The great thing for me is this moment

of time, this temporary freedom, space

is cool…I’m just a listener…now I have

time to hear.

Everyday I wake into space instead of

job. That in itself is joy. I have a routine

in space, because I still feel a bit German,

but, it’s boiled down to coffee, cigarettes,

and crossword on the steps of the cafe.

This is a day long poem, a new idea,

writing one poem all day long, clicking

in when it happens…grooving in the 

space of gap.

Update

Two hours into most of the rest of the

day, the sweet spot, marrow of my heart

and mind…let’s see….

One poem, one day….listening to my son

in law’s radio program…e mailing him while

he’s doing the show…it’s the best way I’ve

gotten to know him.

My teacher taught the moment…that’s all

he was pointing to. A moment could be a 

day, a life…it all depends on how you look

at it. My life now is momentary, partially

because my memory is slim, man…It’s

hard to know if it’s even there.

Halfway to the start of being gone 

today…you can’t start halfway

unless you are already in the middle

of things, in media res, where we all

find ourselves, if we ever do.

I already took a shower…don’t have

to worry today about falling down drunk

there…it’s a thing. I can move on,

movelessly, in my place, treading space.

Radio show over, on my own as always

here, wherever….there, that’s it…oops

it’s not….throw the bait into the river…

you never know what comes out.

If you don’t stop,

it goes on….who can you blame?

who can you thank for that matter?

It just goes on, it just  continues.

Why are you not curious?

A day long poem…

isn’t always this way?

couldn’t it always should

have been?

Why do poems stop?

Because they’ve reached

their conclusion of one facet

of life….but the real poem

never ends. Yes, it’s not over….

It’s never over….fuck the goals.

Yes, a whole day of whatever…

your life and mine go on like

like eggs in their shells

waiting to hatch….if you decide

to wait.

Me?  I’m of German genes…I go

on…in spite of reality…you can know

this if you look at history. The Germans

went on…took over Europe, tried for

the world, the Americans were better

positioned and didn’t hesitate to take

the mantle of dominance in spite of the

good intentions which their civilization

epitomized.

It’s a long poem…talk about the world.

It goes on because it’s all day.

Talk about the rest of it.

I don’t edit, the day, or anything else…

it seems to be that I go on like everything.

Sure, truncate experience…. what does 

that give you? A skewed view…well, best

of luck. 

Yes, it’s still the day, i can write on…

maybe I’ll take some time and go away

then come back, write again..ah, but that

is what I always do..they call it poems.

I’m tired of continuing this, which is why

I always stop. You know, end a poem…

I mean, once you’ve vomited your heart

into anything, you have to catch your breath.

But, this is day long…can you remember

any one day in your life? I can’t any more, 

which is why I’m trying to write this.

I could go on…how many people we have

wanted to shut up have said this? All of them.

But, you are only reading…a lost art.

Yes, it’s a whole day, so, I’ll go get more of

whatever it is, take a break… will you excuse

me? Do you have a choice? Do I care?

Is this a poem, a rant, a life, a story, a theory?

Stay tuned, or, keep reading because  you have

already made your choice.

Day long…I haven’t gotten there yet, or, even,

out the door…if you’re reading this, you’re with

me, in fact, you’re too damned close.

Day long….like a foot long hotdog, kielbasa,

what you eat when you are really hungry.

Where am I  going? Nowhere because I’m 

here…all day.

It does go on al day…even art. Where you

start or stop are arbitrary, in fact, you can’t

pin yourself in any way, even though you’d

like to and hope for the best.

Yes, it’s still the day, it still goes on. I could

pin it down, make a map, show you the ins

and the outs, but, you’d still have to do it 

yourself, so,it wouldn’t help. 

I knew this guy…did a meditation retreat…

was seen running through the woods,

slapping the trees singing  “Ta ra ra

BOOM de aye!”

I’ll wait ’till the sun looks like it’s going

down to end this poem. Or else, I won’t.

Well, at least, not yet….no, now…my 

life, my time is on a short leash.

Plumbing in Colorado

I was a plumber for thirty years, in Boston,

Columbia, South Carolina, Portland Oregon, 

and Colorado.  I put plumbing in meditation 

centers in Vermont, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, 

and Colorado.  This story is about one project

in Colorado. I was involved with the Buddhist

organization, Vajradhatu, for many years. For

many of those years, the organization would

put on a three month meditation program,

called Vajradhatu Seminary The program 

was held at a variety of ski resorts and hotels 

in the USA and Canada. In 1985, the head of

the organization, Chogyam Trungpa, Tibetan

meditation master, decided he wanted to have 

the program on land the organization owned.

The place where he wanted it to happen, known

at the time as Rocky Mountain Dharma Center,

in Red Feather Lakes , Colorado. At that time,

the facilities of the center consisted of a four 

seater out house, a small shower room, and 

a kitchen with a small stove and one sink.

For the program, we had to build two shower

buildings, a toilet building, and a commercial

kitchen…we had ten weeks. All of Trungpa’s 

advisors begged him to not attempt the project.

He went around them to the director of Rocky

Mountain Dharma Center and told the director, 

Nick, to start the work. I was in the grapevine,

so, I knew the project was happening. I had just

obtained my Master Plumber’s license at that,

so, I called Nick and volunteered to take on the

plumbing. I thought about it for a while one 

afternoon at my house in Boulder. At the 

moment I made the decision to take on the job, 

in front of me, in the sky, I visioned the Buddhas,

bodhisattvas, dakinis and dharma protectors

on clouds, giving me a round of applause.

It was slow going at first. I roped the only other

Buddhist plumber in Boulder, Tom, into taking

on the job with me. He was by far the better 

plumber. I slogged along by myself for a while

until Tom could join me in Red Feather. The day

he arrived, we celebrated madly by driving,

totally drunk, down the Poudre Canyon, me

pissing out the open truck door as we weaved

down the canyon. We worked ten hour days for

ten weeks, only taking three days off. We drank

sake ever night.  No major obstacles happened,

except for one. The Buddhist contractor who was

doing the carpentry wasn’t keeping up…if I didn’t

light a fire under him, we’d never finish in time. He

was a darling of the community…I certainly wasn’t.

I laid into him at a coordinating meeting one time,

and that did the trick. After that, he never hired

us when Tom and I started our own business later

in Boulder.

We finished the work the night before the inspector

came to sign off on our work….I think we finished

about  two in the morning. Tom and I had theme

music for the project…Ry Cooter’s “Chicken Skin 

Music”  I remember sitting in my truck the afternoon

after we had passed, drunk,  listening to “The
Bourgeois  Blues”  and crying. The next day four
hundred and fifty people arrived for the program.

Time Machine

Lost the care to will

running out of time…

no, time is running

out of me…I’m not 

running any more…

barely moving….

I don’t find life as

moving as before…

flat as a blowout

if you ask me.

Entropy got me more

than the Matrix….

you can keep the time,

but where it started is

arbitrary…when it stops,

it’s as if nothing ever

happened, like the juke

box ran out of quarters.

It seems like forever 

because you got up 

every day so far, and

can’t remember the

time before you did.
It all goes off like
clockwork.

C.C.L. (couldn't care less)

Writhe around in your 

self apocalypse, 

Twitter tar baby, 

Tweetle Dumb,

cannibalize your 

cannonized
self image to

extinction.

Twitter to distraction

to replace God, the

thing you believed in

when you had time 

because you

were too stupid to

figure it out for 

yourselves.

Evening Song

The crickets and frogs, cicadas,

distant music, barking of dogs

poured over the silence like gravy…

refrigerator hum reminder of

civilization, what I spawned from,

yet escaped to a somewhat distant

previous time, to Tepoztlan, fading

rapidly now like old celluloid. 

The aroma of my toilet reminds me

of Chicago train stations when  I 

was young….(olfactory memories

are rare these days… fresh bread 

aside). Bells now…I don’t know what

the late ones (or, any, really ) mean.

I remember in a tent with my brother,

next to  our house, hearing the same

insect sounds…sneaking back into the

house when our parents were asleep

to watch horror movies on  T.V.. It feels

like most around me here in town

are asleep now. A lone distant single note

shout of a bread seller. 

Shangri Lha (for John Fahey)

It’s not that we don’t

get old here, rather, 

we know what to do 

with our lives.

Just A Thought.

Entity is being concentrated into a
perceptual package. Unless one
understands that the universe itself
is alive, albeit in an unconcentrated
way, one cannot understand

where  poetry comes from. The
universe itself is a brain storm.