Fresh Start

You can always start over

‘til it’s over.

Today can be the day it all comes together,

why the señorita is singing as she walks,

what the old grumps in the coffee house

are discussing,

why it feels good to have a new book, 

fresh paper to write on.

The little things add up to the Big Picture.

That’s why Eliot wrote:

“Oh, do not ask ‘what is it?’

Let us go and pay our visit.”

“For once, then, something.” Frost

For once seeing something without description,

The Teeth Mother Naked At Last,

the aforementioned seniorita,

the next guapo caballero,

it’s all ordinary magic.

It’s a big world,

it’s a small world,

it’s an unfathomable universe

though some have actually seen it.

Since the mind doesn’t die and we have forever,

might as well could start enjoying the ride.

It’s happening now, within you and without you.

It’s wabi-sabi natural perfection throughout 

the Whole Megillah, are some words.

Sooner or later it’s your turn,

whether you like it or not.

Life could be a dance,

or you could live it as if someone has a contract 

out on you.

That’s a pretty heavy line to end on.

Good thing it doesn’t have to end.

In The Maze

It’s amazing when you’re in it,

you can’t really see it.

It takes an aerial view,

a panoramic perspective to have

any idea.

We’ve been in it our whole lives.

Few have gotten out in one piece.

I’ve seen the pattern my whole life.

Sometimes I’m in it, 

sometimes I’m not.

How can that be?

It depends on what you see.

When you examine it closely,

it’s not really there,

even though it always seems to be;

smoke and mirrors in the funhouse.

Outside of the maze is the real world,

the trees and the greenery and so on,

Arthur C. Clark: “The City And The Stars.”

a beautiful world without borders that has

never not been there.

I’m looking at it now, 

the only time it’s available,

outside our so important pipe dreams.

If there were no problems, no solutions 

would be possible.

The mind needs to play/the play of the mind

in order to evolve.

A couch potato is not going anywhere.

It’s doubtful he knows where he is.

“I’m Sorry.” Patsy Cline

It is sad.

It’s also wonderful we could have a clue

at all.

Telephone Poem

Hello?

Who is this?

Isn't that the ultimate question?

When you answer the phone,

shouldn't your question be

"Who is that?" or, "What is that?"

I'm asking.

What is that is more interesting.

Who is a complicated abstract mess,

wouldn't you agree?

I could tell you my whole life story,

and still you would have no idea of

why I was standing in front of you.

I didn't get your name...all I hear

is some heavy breathing...you must

be someone from my wife's side of 

the family.

Who Knows?

My friend was pissed because I used emojis.

He thought they exhibit a decline in intellect.

What can I say?

My intellect isn't what it used to be.

As long as no bugers are hanging from my nose,

I'm doing pretty well for me.

What's new?

December third might be an interesting day.

Most people I know are nervous with anticipation,

though none of us know what is going to happen.

Lots of ideas floating around, more so because 

of the uncertainty.

I live in a country no one pays much attention to.

It's not like the big three: The U.S.A., China and

Russia, in the middle of tamasha, World War three.

I get to be anonymous in obscurity, lucky me.

Fame has ruined lots of lives: Kerouac, Malcolm 

Lowry, Sixties rock stars, the list goes on.

I'm a small fish in a little pond, or is it an aquarium?

I wouldn't mind if I was a pet.

I just wish the aliens would take better care of me.

Classless Society

That's what the Socialists want.

(Socialism is always Communism Lite).

If you look at the Socialists in America,

you see how they practice their beliefs.

They have no class.

Their aesthetic is purple hair,

faces full of metal,

tattoos everywhere.

Not the kind of people I would want 

to be seen with in public.

They wouldn't like me either.

I'm a normal, well adjusted citizen,

not only interested in making a display.

I do wear colorful clothes, 

not a sandwich board proclaiming 

the end of the world, solely an invite 

for interested, descriminating strangers.

I'm an actor, a poet, that's why I do it.

I don't wonder about their motives, I know.

They have no idea what they're doing,

lost in the maze of misunderstanding,

trapped in the soap opera of delusion,

wasting their lives in meaningless,

trivial behavior. 

a sign of the dark age

we all find ourselves in.

Note on the kerfuffle at SNL

Don't look at me.

You couldn't possibly comprehend,

understand or fathom me.

I am perfect and have no pain.

Your eyes have no right to see.

The Three Types Of Suffering

Hey, I'm a Buddhist... what do you expect?

The suffering of conditioned existence.

The suffering of change.

The suffering of suffering (the pain of pain).

Most people don't know the pain of conditioned 

existence.

For them it's like an eyelash in the eye.

For a Buddhist, it's like having a piece of wood 

on the eye... we're professionals.

Lucky us.

The pain of change is easily illustrated.

You get what you want, then you lose it.

Pain of pain is that on top of pain is more pain.

For example, on top of the fact I'm running out 

of money, I have no electricity and the modem 

got fried.

I won't dwell on the subject.

It's just good to know reality 

so you won't be surprised when it happens.

Don't shoot the messenger.

That would be painful.

Coda for Jack

I kept thinking of Jack all day.

I wanted to...he was in my mind

and I wanted to keep him there.

Two things happed yesterday, 

before I heard about Jack, were

different.

One was that I cleaned my kitchen,

a rarity.

I'm pretty wabi-sabi about my life.

I don't mind a little filth, since I was 

a plumber, and it never bothered me.

When I woke and saw the kitchen clean,

I thought of Jack.

The other was an old stone wall across

from where I habitually sit, have coffee,

and write, fell down.

It had wanted to do that for a long time.

The phenomenal world is poetry.

Jack's life is poetry.

Usually, I'm the one that writes the poem.

In these instances, Jack wrote one for me.

Odds And Ends

What are the chances (odds) that we’ll end up

where we want to be?

Only your actuary knows for sure.

Can mathematics tell us where we want/need

to go?

Can it tell us how we’ll feel when we get there,

that it’s actually what we wanted?

Would we even know?

There’s always uncertainty because nothing

is ever cut and dry.

The only thing we can be sure of is change.

If there was a goal, and we reached it, what then?

Set more goals?

That’s the futility of: “It’s turtles, all the way down.”

If you wait, immovable in one spot, 

the world will come around…

there’s a pretty good chance, not that we’ll reach 

our destination, but that, at least,

another bus will come, or that, unexpectedly,

we’ll discover ourselves where we should be.

The Passing Of My Friend, Jack Convery

I met Jack in Vermont at Trungpa’s meditation

center, worked with him years later at Gampo 

Abbey in Nova Scotia, spent a few weeks with

him in Kyoto at his tea house/dojo, where he

taught chado, as a ranking teacher of the 

Urasenke tea school. Jack was a man of great

heart and authenticity. He was an embodiment 

of the Shambhala aesthetic of first thought, best

thought, natural basic goodness and clarity.

Ode For Jack

When I got to Kyoto, you honored me with a feast,

and the Maiko, apprentice geisha, who danced for

us in a way so that you could sense hundreds

of years embedded in the display, ancientness 

present in the moment, the tears and joys of a 

civilization condensed into movement that was

simple yet conveyed genuine vastness and wisdom.

It was your world I found myself in those days,

your Shambhala household of ordinary magic,

which it undeniably was, vivid, splendid and yet

mundane, as if every day could be heaven on earth.

That’s what I saw and knew when I was there, the

true meaning of being a warrior, not to conquer or

control, simply to be open and brave enough

to see things as they are and act accordingly with

kindness knowing we are all together in this 

floating world we share for an ephemeral spark

of time.

The Best Poem Ever Written

So much truth has been lost in antiquity,

obscured by the degenerate time we are in.

To give some context, one could think of the

best poem ever written like that joke that

Monty Python portrayed as been lethal, and

was broadcast to the enemy to defeat them.

There are references to the poem throughout 

ancient literature and commentary. There was

said to be a copy of the poem in the library of 

Alexandria. Rumor has it that that was the real

reason the library was burned to the ground.

People appreciate poetry because they find

images, ideas, perspectives about life in them

that ring true to them…it might be just one line,

one image that resonates in their being, but

even such a small connection is sometimes 

enough to change one’s view of life in a profound 

way.

The best poem ever written, as far as what we know 

about it, was much more powerful. It’s said that it

had been held as a tight secret in Tibetan monasteries,

and in certain Jain and Hindu temples. Only those

that had advanced on their paths even had a chance

to be allowed to read it. 

We know some things about it through testimony.

It’s said that few people could read it all the way 

through. The first part of the poem, from what we 

know, is like running a verbal gauntlet, by which

one’s ego, all of one’s ideas and opinions about 

the nature of reality, were stripped away shockingly 

and uncompromisingly. That part of the poem was

hard enough to read. The second part of the poem

described reality as it truly is. The effect of reading

that part of the poem is illustrated by a story:

Padmasambhava, who brought Buddhism to Tibet,

had a consort named Yeshe Sogyal. They were both

recognized as enlightened beings. Yeshe Sogyal

asked Padmasambhava to show her the nature of

the universe, the vast array of world systems and

dimensions. He said: “I’ll only show you a part of

it.” He did so, and the experience for her was such

that she fainted. The effect of reading the second 

part of the poem in question was said to be equally 

intense.

You can see why the poem was hidden from most

people, even most practitioners of the various schools.

The possibility that the poem even ever existed in

these places is in doubt. There’s more proof that Jesus

traveled to India and became a yogic adept than there

is for the poem’s existence. 

There have been a few intrepid scholar adventurers 

that spent years searching for the poem. Some of them

claim to have found a line or two hidden in obscure,

ancient texts. Those that have and talked about it agree 

on one point: those that think they know reality or believe 

in this or that explanation of it are lost.

Disco

The dance floor,

the killing floor,

it’s all a dance of life and death.

My name is Dancer of Patience…

is that an oxymoron?

Never the less, I continue in the

linear timeline, other dimensions 

obscured by the limits of perception.

I’m governed by the vehicle I inhabit.

At least, I get to see in color.

I have the wherewithal to follow a path

to awakening, however much I’ve succeeded 

in seeing the world clearly.

How’s about you?

I wonder what they do with their lives.

I’ve seen some of them walking down the street.

The ones I know say hello, the others might smile

or nod…after all, this is Mexico.

People are friendly if one is not an Ugly American.

America is ugly right now…I’m glad I’m not there 

to share the chaos and ambiguity.

Change is the bane of the sheeple.

Wake up, it’s time to die, and be reborn into

a Golden Age?

Impossible to see right now because of the fog of war.

So I continue, precariously walking a tightrope until

the end of my days.

Plenty of people to thank, no one to blame.

I got where I am because of the help of others.

Don’t we all?

I was smart enough to not get caught in the traps of men,

a major victory, but it didn’t leave me much wiggle room.

There’s no rest in life, whether you’re good or wicked.

Things happen, one after the other, until the end.

I haven’t worked a job for over twenty years.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t been busy…unfortunately,

there’s no money in writing poetry…it’s my auto-da-fe.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina, it’s a waste of tears.

It’s getting better all the time.

I hope I’m finished before the finish line.

If not, there’s still the continuity of the discontinuity,

if you can make heads or tails of that.

My way of thinking is not original.

It comes from what all the masters said already.

I’m just repeating what I’ve learned from them to be true.

So, children, I hope you find your way through the morass

to a sunny day, sitting on the sidewalk.

I would welcome you sitting next to me.

I have a friend to laugh with about the foolishness 

of a world that doesn’t see.

Soon it may, and, at first, the repercussions won’t be pretty.

I may not live to see a newer, kinder world…that’s ok with me.

Moses didn’t get to the Promised Land, not that I’m a prophet.

I’m a mere Polonius, waiting for the stab through the arras.

Frankly, the whole thing is a pain in the ass, with occasional 

colorful balloons of delight. I’m what you call a cheap date.

I’m only continuing to sing in my chains, like the sea.

Tendrel

Actions have consequences.

Is that too hard to understand?

Good actions have good consequences,

bad actions the opposite.

It's true on a quantum level, since 

the mind doesn't die.

"What goes around comes around",

you've heard it all before.

The truth is not a mystery.

"500,000 halos outshined the mud

and history. We washed and drank

in God's tears of joy. And for once,

and for everyone, the truth was not 

still a mystery." Jimi Hendrix 

Karma is the momentum of our 

actions carried throughout our lives.

We can change our karma by

changing our actions;

going to rehab 

learning to meditate

getting that degree

reconciling with an enemy.

We're only trapped in karma 

if we cannot see.

In order to see, we have to look.

Aye, there's the rub.

Blinders are for horses.

We can do better than that.

The world is waiting for us 

to wake up.

We get all the prompts we need 

from nature 

from accidents that aren't 

accidental

from all the poets and visionaries 

from a child's smile.

The world is our lover.

Don't be shy.

What’s Up Monkey Boys?

Humans have possibilities,

being born as an animal not so much.

In fact, as a human, one can get enlightened.

Animals, not so much.

As a human, one can be obsessed by many things.

In that way, they are not much different from animals.

Just something to ponder

on your bus ride

on your coffee break

when you’re stuck in traffic 

just before you fall asleep.

Just something I sometimes think about,

having studied Buddhism for many years,

it’s become part of me, the way I see.

What do you see besides what the little voices 

in your head tell about you what’s going on?

Cool and cloudy today…I brought my umbrella 

but there were only a few drops from the buildings.

There’s no magic in words, incantations, but there

is in music and poetry, sound in general, in the

bluster of the politician, not in the speech, in authentic 

presence, if you’ve ever seen such a thing.

There’s magic in the way people walk down the street.

There’s magic in the man slumped in a doorway, 

clutching a bag with a bottle, half awake.

There’s magic in the stray dogs chilling in the market.

You have to know what to look for, or, at least,

how to look.

Look out is good advice.

Written To Gagaku

The day starts as any other…

leaves on the maple trees blaze red

a while longer.

A courier will arrive today

with a message from the West.

There will be storms later.

A spinach empanada, a delicacy 

I bought in the shop in town,

and a potato cake will be breakfast.

I wonder if my friend, Chado Master,

is having tea in his dojo now?

I’m delighted to think of him.

Waiting/not waiting for the flower girl,

the Executioner, the dog’s bark in the backyard,

the maple leaves starting to fall.

I wonder, is it time to watch

Apocalypse Now again?

Yes.

Fortunate Son

It ain't me.

I ain't the way they wanted 

me to be.

Fortunate in having a human body

to figure it out for myself.

It all depends on how you see it.

The poets and writers showed me 

that nobody else knew either,

that joy of life is all you got 

sometimes if you were lucky,

and all the shit that happens 

trying to get there.

I didn't fall for the Carny's spiel.

I never trusted the politician's 

frozen smile.

I only trust the sun and the rain,

children's bright faces in the dawn,

meditation that leads me on the path,

the wisdom lineage to which I aspire.

Things get very clear when you're 

cornered, not lost in myriad possiblies 

of a world that really doesn't care.

I never gave myself to that,

to a dream,

to a Xanadu I couldn't reach.

As for you, I have no advice, except 

figure it out for yourself, or, let 

someone tell you what it is, are

your options.

Good luck with that, and, 

as encouragement,

know that many have found the way.

I'm fortunate that I'm living and not

in pain, that I've learned and keep 

learning, that I can still laugh until 

my stomach hurts, that I've helped

more than I've harmed. Maudlin, 

maybe, but, who's counting?

The Road Less Traveled

I took the road less traveled...

one of many such roads.

I didn't know where I was going,

I just knew where I didn't want to be.

I was as successful as many... 

not so much... but at least I was free.

Now I am an unknown man in a

foreign country, precisely where I

want to be...

I didn't realize that for years.

You never know, but if you're open 

to the world you might find out.

Lead with your senses, not the little 

voices in your head.

If you pay heed to all the garbage

that's out there, you'll never get 

anywhere.

If Musk had listened to his doubters 

he wouldn't be a trillionaire.

If Buddha had opened a shop in the 

market instead of sitting under the tree.

he wouldn't have become enlightened.

If I had gone to Law School as my father 

wanted, I would have shot myself in the 

head by now.

It's possible to see the future, or, at least,

the possible timelines.

One has to trust oneself.

One has to know that one has the perfect 

tool between one's ears.

A good Craftsman never blames his tools.

Within You And Without You

 Breathing connects our inner experience

to the outer world. What we call “me” is

the fluid movement between the two.

It occurs quickly, expeditiously enough

to seem continuously real, like a movie.

Life goes on within you as the interface

of sense perceptions, including the mind

itself, with what the mind perceives, the

mind as the creator/interfacer/interpreter,

and without you/“there is no you, there is

only That.” (Yoda?)

Life drinks and goes home.

Taking Stock

I can pee normally for the first time

in a year…I can see without cataracts…

the power of the little thoughts in my

head that caused me to brake my car

unexpectedly is gone…I can walk I 

can walk I can walk…my budget seems 

to be working like a tightrope walker…

if I don’t move too much people don’t 

notice me/I’m like a faded poster for

a circus adding a splash of color to the

street…a mimeless street magician of

ordinary magic/it’s the least I can do.

“Is it time for my close up?”

You never know these days…it keeps

things interesting…hurricanes, meteors,

earthquakes, parties with too loud music…

forgive me if I change the subject…subjects

are like buses or the weather… if you don’t 

like it, wait a while…they said the same 

about Genghis Khan, the eighteenth century,

the Great Depression, life for (word)’s sake…

they had orchestras in the concentration camps.

that turned dark quick…I said you never know…

maybe you should write a song about it…if you

don’t the world will write it for you…write the

script of your life you’ll follow like a bit player…

don’t be like that…or go ahead the choice is yours…

Ahem…

Senile Epiphanies

Might as well could be…

you don’t know unless you try…

meanwhile back at the universe

the earth was still a little blue pebble…

spinning ‘round with all the lovely people

spinning around in their lives and their graves…

“turning and turning in the widening gyre

the falcon cannot hear the falconer. “ Yeats

I’m only musing my misgivings at having been

born in the first place…feel me?

so while I’m still here anyway might as well 

could let more words find the light of day 

before a nightmare takes the reins/could happen

after all, the Book of Revelations, Baba Yanga,

Edgar Cayce, Nostradamus, William Cooper,

John Lear, Phil Schneider, Buddha, Jesus can’t 

all be wrong…d’ya think?

It’s not like you can’t see lots of (word) happening

all over the world, suddenly, some new crisis every day.

Luckily, I just look out the window at the clouds and all

concerns melt away, always conscious that the situation 

could change, drastically, at any moment…which makes

this particular day of moments so appreciated…dig?

Who am I talking to, again?

I know people read me from all over the world…

I know none of them…like I’m speaking to

an intelligent void…that might be the closest

a Buddhist would come to describing God, 

just to make the believers feel a little better,

of course.

Good Day Sunshine, Paul was a shallow romantic

compared to John, but this song, driven by Paul’s 

bass, is cosmic in an Everyman way…just say’n.

English Music Hall Buffoonery romanticism…

Paul…only the good die young?

I must not be that good…no Mansion on the sea,

although, my cool digs are a Palace not of my

imagination, it all depends on how you look at it,

how you see it.

From that p.o.v., being a plumber and getting used

to being in filth, hands on, or for that matter, having 

my tender mind subject to the insanity of my family,

all, at this point, are like the old Christmas tree 

ornaments we would unbox each year and remember.

Music one has loved in the past retains the memory

of experiences, times in one’s life on an almost cellular 

level. “There are many levels. Yours is under the stage

coach that leaves at high noon….be under it.”

“If I didn’t have dark humor, I wouldn’t have humor at all.”

Ahem, yes, stages, levels, all the world is full of stages…

I’ve been on some of them…interesting being in front of

people looking at you trying to seem to them something

you want them to see…something not quite you, or even

More than you, like a preacher in Arkansas…

But, I digress.

(Intermission)

The actor in me wears colorful clothes.

The teacher in me is pretty dormant.

The plumber in me is retired.

The writer in me? 

You tell me.

Life goes on, in many ways, as is said…

If you can see beauty, you are so lucky,

perhaps fortunate is a better word….

if you can’t, you’re really missing something…

you’re missing something essential for true life…

…driving in Vermont at night with two teenagers

first time out of New York City, they were terrified

of the trees looming over the road…

don’t be like them.

Yep, back around 1967, me, now, the drugs help…

I’m not ashamed…know why?

…the little kids here aren’t afraid of me…

…showers twice already today quite nice

atmospheric conditions in and out of the abode

“so far so good” said the man falling out of the

ten story building when he reached the fifth floor.

“I read the news today, oh boy.”

…lucky lighter still lights a cigarette, no questions…

Abby Road will be the next selection…wouldn’t you?

In media res…in the middle of things…it always starts

in the middle…ends, but it’s still in the middle…there’s 

no real beginning or ending…Gnostic or Not-Nic, one

can use one’s senses to see through all the mysteries…

just say’n….by the way, he never hit the sidewalk.

Hurry Up, Please, I’m Dying

“Why, then ile fit you!”

Heronymo’s mad again.

High juking my way down the street,

withering all the way, through

the market, I wipe my mouth

with my hand.

“It’s not going to make that much

difference, you’ll still look that way.”

At least, the bananas were almost 

perfect, for a change 

I hear Antarctica is the place to go

this time of year.

No more for me, thank you,

I’ve seen enough, I’m stuffed.

I’ll just enjoy the storm coming in,

the necessary consumables, 

the music to my ears, 

a comfortable seat,

the air on my skin,

my head in the clouds,

up the donkey of the universe,

peeking from behind a mask,

in imperfect harmony with

everything, a piece of flotsam

hurrying downstream to the source,

that which is without beginning or end,

if you can understand those words,

you’d be home by now.

“Clever little Runyon. You’ll never

be happy.”

“That’s a little harsh, Harry…can’t you

get another job?”

“I gave your mom a job, Runyon, and

she gave me one, savvy?”

“Look through any window, Harry,

what do you see?”

“I see a universe in a drop of water.”

“Have you ever heard a Who?”

“I’ve seen some of them.”

“I didn’t know you spoke French.”

“ Oui, I do.”

Postscript:

“Clever girl.”