Friday, November 28, 2014

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.










Thursday, November 27, 2014

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.










Monday, November 24, 2014

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.









Saturday, November 22, 2014

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.














Friday, November 21, 2014

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.





Tuesday, November 18, 2014

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.

Friday, November 14, 2014

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.
























































Wednesday, November 12, 2014





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.





Sunday, November 9, 2014

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.


Saturday, November 8, 2014

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. 






Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Shangri Lha (for John Fahey)

It’s not that we don’t
get old here, rather, 
we know what to do 
with our lives.


Tuesday, November 4, 2014

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.