Odessa

Odessa is a state of mind. Crossroad of 
civilizations.... Turkish coffee and hookahs...
Mahjong and chess  played by ancient men
with time left and nothing  better to do...
harbor hoots and toots of barges and fog
horns...you can see laborers with their
burdens  from the cafe table...women in
dresses, saris, jodhpurs...men in long robes,
leather coats and fedoras, linen suits and
Panama hats...nobody taking anything for
granted...you're here, but you want to be
somewhere else...catch 22...mystery 

because the streets aren't laid out in a grid...

you never know what's going to be around the 

corner...a tuval throat singer, a snake charmer, 

a boy that promises he can get you anything

you want, women with baskets on their heads, 

the whole scene out of place and time, as if 

someone took a sample  from everywhere and 

every era and put them here just to see what 

would happen.

It's a rave without the music and drugs...people 

grooving without a grid, a template, a uniformity 

to judge yourself against.. a whiff of Burning Man 

that's been going on for thousands of years...
every generation has to rediscover the truth, even
if it means reading a book... that's why oral
traditions were/are still the best way to transmit
knowledge and wisdom: because oral traditions
are able to communicate not merely concepts,
but actual experience. So, in Odessa, you're not
just looking at a Matrix inhabited by simulacra of
habitual patterns, but, rather, awake beings
navigating a living stew of creativity and change.
No artificial flavoring. It's good because it's real,
even if it's a little screwy...it's got a beat; you can
dance to it. 

The fishermen are bringing in their catch...a 
man wheels a cart full of pots and pans down
the street, tinkling and clattering its own
ambience...a mandolin player comes by, does
a few numbers, gets a few coins....grandpa comes
into the cafe with his grandson...the boy is wearing
lederhosen, carries a pop gun....they're both
smiling... the proprietor brings them drinks...must
be their usuals...looks like grandpa has expresso,
the boy sarsaparilla...a policeman and two  men
wearing fezzes come in, look around seriously,
and leave...I order another aperitif. The afternoon
feels as if it will go on forever.

Cleaning Day

The floor of my apartment is burnt umber tile 

dotted with flowers…when it’s clean, and I 

look down, I’m happy. I just cleaned it today, 

listening to Spirit 1968, doing my rota at the

commune in Topanga Canyon. Big old ranch

style house big front porch with swings and 

rockers…outside sunshine and birdsong…

inside music echoes smoke wafts bodies 

move or stay still digging it all a couple of

spoiled dogs African Grey in a cage on the

porch somebody playing a banjo in the 

distance down by the creek…

The Sixties were haunted because we 

realized time had pulled a fast one on us

changing the country with suburbs and

t.v.s and lawns…goodby neighborhoods

community so we went back with farms

and communes acid tests Merry 

Pranksters eternal hippie ballrooms 

goofing off in bus stations and all night 

diners…it worked for a while.

Laurel Canyon shambience..the general 

store used to sell LSD…now, it just has

postcards..the homeless have given 

bums a bad name….America keeps

dreaming…”woke” a one word 

oxymoron…there’s always another bus 

…until the last one.

Jazz

familiar dark interior late afternoon

a few regulars stationed at the bar 

or table

a couple at the bar, she, a hat and

handbag, he, a suit and tie, 

nervous, waiting for something crucial

slow jazz recorded music

sun going down grey shadows growing

the edge between two worlds

(let alone the world and time I write this in)

life measured in inches of drink

(at least, it’s a standard you can count on)

each person that enters a new page of script

a cosmic event nevermind the dark matter

an extra shadow that seemed like a third man

the place was haunted out loud with souls

dripping their lives, the sawdust leaking out,

nervous laughter, shuffling, silence, 

waiting for it’s time for what’s next.

Baloney Sandwich

Fuck Godot…I’ll be happy

when I’m eating my next

baloney sandwich.

I know it’s only baloney,

but it fills my belly, just like 

the MSM fills my mind.

Whatever you grow up eating

is usually a favorite food for life.

No wonder people’s minds are

so stuck in the lies of decades.

Fathead

I’m a lazy bastard, I’ll give myself that.

Even that statement proves

everything is poetry.

Fried astronaut stares out the window

on his ranch in Montana.

He thinks:

“I haven’t seen everything, 

but I’ve seen enough.”

Luminous fundamentalist believer

batteries not included.

Human bulletin fanatic 

always wound up too tight,

a clock with not enough time.

The DMT gnomes have learned 

a new way to say “Hooray!”

You could meet them.

Art is magic is psychedelic experience

is unfiltered life is “Buenos Dias!” is

the start the finish 

and everything in between.

Didgeridoo

Didgeridoo didgeridon't

didgerican't didgeriwon't

Do what you do, Didgeri,

feel free 

to do or not to do

It's all the same to me.

It's all the same to me;

complicating matters to make

sense of it all just more of the

same nonsense like last time

you thought "this time!"

You can't make sense of the music,

knowing where to camp for the night,

spontaneous outflowing of art,

why you feel like having pizza.

It's all the same water of the ocean

flow of emotion

flow of the celuloid of time

you can't pin it down

corral 

domesticate 

control

change it fundamentally.

The best you can do

is enjoy the ride.

there's something else...

something I forgot to tell you…

something I realized the other day…

something I noticed

when nobody else was looking…

there were some words I heard

besides the bird, though everybody

knows, the bird is the word…

it’s hard to remember what you’ve

forbidden yourself…hard to forget

you don’t want to remember…

there was another one walking 

with them, a third man…when I 

brought it up later they said there 

was no third man…

noir…ombre…diamonds far away

in the dark…silence…

as if nobody,

even you,

knows you’re there.